“We have openings on Saturday, the fourth; Sunday, the fifth; Friday, October tenth; and Saturday, the eleventh. I’m looking at weekends, of course. If you want a nontraditional day, we have plenty of those open, as well.”
“I think Saturday, October fourth.”
“It’s a done deal. Did Maurice tell you about our policies?”
“For all of the details, I will have you speak with Kathleen, my assistant. She handles all of that stuff for me. But I wanted to talk with you personally about planning the wedding—all of the girlie odds and ends. Can we meet for lunch this week?”
“I have tomorrow free,” I say. I am already searching my closet for an appropriate outfit to wear with a superstar. “I know a great place in Midtown.”
Again, I hear Baker’s laugh. “Oh, I can’t go out to eat. We wouldn’t get a thing done. Come down to the farm. It will be much quieter.”
I feel so stupid. Of course, Baker Land can’t just pull up a table at the local pizza joint. Reporters and photographers would flood the place, disturbing my new gal pal and begging to know my name. Baker interrupts my daydream of local stardom and says Kathleen will call with directions within the hour. We hang up, and I hit the speed dial to connect with Iris.
* * *
The next day, I call Avery again. He picks up and I start talking fast, hoping he is not too mad at me for being so flaky.
“Avery? I am really sorry for yesterday. We came back from such a wonderful week and I really flipped out. I don’t know why, but I apologize.”
Avery’s voice is oddly flat. “I think you need to figure out what’s going on in your head. Every time I bring up the future, you get a little weird.”
“I was fine when we were on the island, you know.”
“Sure. When you were in your element, helping Jessica and Kevin get married, or when you and I were having a romantic time strolling on the beach, you were happy.”
“I’m happy!” I say a little too loudly.
Avery sighs into the phone. “Macie, do you not want this? Do you not want to get married to me?”
“Of course I do, honey. I just am having a hard time adjusting, I guess.”
“And it’s hard on me, always waiting for the next blow up,” Avery says. “I think I should give you a few days to be alone and really figure out what’s going on.”
I think this over, glancing down at my ring. It might be the mature thing to do. The last thing I want to do is drive Avery away with my mood swings. We hang up after I promise to think about what’s bothering me, and I sit down on the couch. My mind is going a million miles a second and I just can’t sit still.
I decide to stroll down Highland and hit my favorite coffee shop for a latte. I have two hours before I need to get on the road to visit with Baker. I have selected one of the sundresses that Avery bought, and I will wear my dressiest sandals. With a leather briefcase and simple, silver jewelry, I should look professional but also stylish. At least, that’s what I tell myself.
I pick a corner table and doodle on a piece of scrap paper. I know the wedding planning part by heart, but I want to think of things Maurice has probably never dealt with like paparazzi, helicopters, and security teams. We will need to hire out a firm that specializes in events for the rich and famous. My guess is that Baker wants a truly southern wedding, so she came to Maurice. The other details can be worked out with various vendors.
Without Maurice’s guidance, I should be scared, but I’m not. I can’t explain it. Even though I am meeting with one of the country’s most famous people today, Baker Land is still a woman who wants a meaningful, pretty wedding. I understand that. A meaningful, pretty wedding is what I have wanted for the last year or so.
My mind rolls back to what Iris said yesterday. Sighing, I turn over my little piece of paper. If I can plan a celebrity wedding, I can make a dumb list for Iris. I cap and recap the pen, thinking.
This is what I write:
What Scares Me About Planning My Wedding
by Macie Fuller
Then I sit there, tapping my pen against the leg of the table. I sip some latte and then sip some more. I stir the contents of my paper cup. What is it that Iris said? I replay yesterday’s conversation in my head. She said that my fears mask something deeper. What it is, I do not know. But I promised I would do this little exercise, and Avery’s waiting on me to get my act together, so here goes:
Picking a date—Once I do that, everything gets set in motion
Buying a home—We have to work out where we live and how much money it will take. Also, once you buy a home, you have to fill it with things!
Planning a wedding—I do this for a living. Will it be special?
Having a new family like the Lelands—They are so different!
I stare at the list, trying to think of something else to write down that might magically explain all of my twisted-up feelings. Before I know it, the latte has turned cold and it is time to head back to my apartment, dress, and travel south to Baker’s farm. I am eager to meet her, nervous, and excited. In the back of my mind, I think of Avery. I want to tell him all about this meeting, but I know he is more interested in what is going on in my head, not celebrity brides.
I drive south on I-85. The diamond on my left hand winks in the morning light, reflecting its own little patch of sparkle. I force myself to look squarely at the cars and trucks on either side of the car. Think of Baker’s wedding, I tell myself. Plan her day and worry about yours later. Luckily, the traffic is heavy and I have to drive carefully. There is little time to think of anything else.
This morning I dialed up all the brides we have on the books. I made the calls under the guise of “checking the status of your special day,” but in reality I was covering for Maurice. Just in case we had any mad brides out there, I wanted to go ahead and face the fire. Only two women told me they had left messages for Maurice that he did not return. I apologized, mentioned a summer flu, and everything was forgiven. After that little bit of playacting, I called Maurice’s cell phone to tell him what I did. I also informed his voice-mail box that I was meeting with Baker Land and I would take care of everything until he was, um, back in the swing of things.
Using a tiny compass Avery gave me a while ago along with Kathleen’s directions, I find the farm after only two wrong turns. I am delighted to be out of the city. The roads are only two lanes instead of six, and everywhere I look I see sheep, horses, and cattle. Baker’s farm appears to have all three, plus four or five dogs that rush out to greet me once the main gate opens.
In every direction, pastures stretch almost to the horizon, offset by sturdy black fences. I pull to a stop before an old farmhouse that has been renovated and expanded. Huge pots of geraniums flank the front door. The dogs circle around, curious and friendly. Walking toward the front door, I breathe deeply. The air just smells better out here.
Kathleen turns out to be an efficient, superserious assistant who is in her late forties. I can tell that I will have to be on my best behavior around her. Trying to break the ice, I ask Kathleen how she came to work for Baker, but I get nowhere. “I’m from L.A.” is her terse reply.
Kathleen holds court in a large office in a converted stable near the main house. I am surprised that Baker is nowhere to be seen in the well-lighted room decorated in soothing khaki and crisp white. When I mention this to Kathleen, a thin smile floats across her face. She closes a file drawer with an exact movement.
“Ms. Baker cannot be bothered with the myriad of details required for planning a wedding. You will work strictly with me.”
“Oh, I thought Baker wanted to meet with me over lunch to go through the wedding design. You know, girl to girl.”
“However nice that might sound to you, ah, Macie, a woman of Ms. Land’s talent and demand cannot be bothered with having lunch with anyone who wants to.”
“No, you have it wrong. Baker asked me to have lunch with her.”
“That may be true, but we must always ass
ume that Ms. Land does not know every last booking on her schedule. We must look out for her,” Kathleen says. “Now, join me over here at the table. We must get going on these plans.”
Perhaps it is because I have had a week off at the beach and I have gotten lazy, but I resent having to work under these conditions. My brides might be beastly, spoiled, or just plain misguided, but they are my brides. I work with them—not their assistants—and any combination of fiancés, sisters, and mothers. Kathleen is shaping up to give everyone a run for their money.
Within a short thirty minutes she informs me that the wedding will be at the farm, the tents and other privacy screens have already been ordered, the caterer will fly in three weeks early, and security measures are in the works. I am not to talk to the media. A stack of nondisclosure documents is shoved into my hands.
I start to feel very small, sitting there in my sundress. The list of wedding ideas for Baker sits unread in my bag. I really don’t know how I can be of any use. I am about to tell Kathleen this when the door opens. Baker Land, movie star, strides in the door giving me her famous smile.
“I am so glad you are still here! I was forever with an appointment. I am so sorry. Have you eaten? ’Cause I am starving,” Baker says. Instead of shaking my outstretched hand, she hugs me. Startled, I hug her right back, noticing that she is shorter than I would have guessed.
“Baker, dear, Macie and I were just finishing up. I know you have that one o’clock with Zip Henderson. We don’t want to make him wait.”
Baker gives Kathleen a look. “Zip will keep. If he really wants me for his next film, a few minutes won’t hurt. I want to plan my wedding.”
The squishy feeling in my stomach starts to leave. This is what I know: a girl who is excited about the day she walks down the aisle.
Kathleen’s face softens just a bit. “I’ll go and get something for you both to eat.” She leaves us alone.
I look at Baker, who sits in the ladder-back chair next to me. Her famous face wears a touch of mascara. Her long hair is captured in a plain ponytail holder, and she sports a worn pair of jeans and a red T-shirt. A ring with the largest diamond I have ever seen rests on her left hand.
“Kathleen can be a little overwhelming,” Baker says. “I hope she didn’t run you over.”
“Well, I was starting to wonder why you needed a wedding planner,” I say, smiling. I like this movie star already. “All of the major details seem to be decided.”
“That’s exactly why you are needed, Macie. I want someone to shop with, someone to look at place settings with. I don’t care about security and all of that. I want to do the girlie things.” Baker jumps up and walks around the office. A large, erasable white board behind her is covered in writing. The words “Press Tour for ‘Love Sunny-Side Up’” are scrawled across the top.
“If I leave it up to Kathleen, she’ll have my dress ordered before I know it. My manager would rather I not get married because it takes me out of circulation for two weeks. The director of my next film wants me in Milan the day after I say ‘I do.’” Baker trains her eyes on me. “I just need someone on my side who will let me enjoy the fun of getting married. I don’t want a bloated Hollywood wedding. I want something simple and very elegant.”
I tell Baker that I am the wedding planner for her. She looks so happy, I feet embarrassed. By the time Kathleen returns with vegetable sandwiches and yogurt smoothies, we have made plans to fly in a couture designer from New York who has promised to make Baker’s wedding gown. After that task is crossed off, we’ll select crystal and china. Apparently, movie stars want a china pattern just like the rest of us girls.
The familiar rhythms of wedding planning start to come back to me as I take notes in my folder labeled “Land, Baker.” I still cannot believe I am helping this celebrity get married. It seems impossible, but here I am.
“So, when is your date, Macie?” Baker asks me. She takes a long sip of her smoothie and nods toward my left hand.
“Ah, well, I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
Blushing, I think of how to change the subject. But Baker Land is used to getting her way and I don’t think she will budge. “We just got engaged last week,” I finally squeak out.
“Congratulations! That is so fabulous,” Baker says. “I’ll bet you will have the best wedding. You know all the secrets.”
I think about that for a minute. Do I know all the wedding secrets? I can tape down errant breasts with duct tape, sober up a drunken groom with Mexican hot chocolate, arrange peonies like a pro, and pinch a size-twelve gown down to a four with the help of a few well-placed plastic clamps.
“Yeah, I guess I have learned a few things,” I say, not mentioning my one tragic flaw: When it comes right down to it, I don’t really seem to know how to pull off my own wedding. Iris’s list haunts me like a bad horror movie. I see the words scrolling across my forehead. I am such a phony. Baker can probably see right through me.
Right after high school, when most of my classmates marched off to dorm rooms and undeclared majors, I took a job as a knife saleswoman. After about four days of classes about the product, I was set free to unleash the magic of Turbo Knives. It was supposed to be fairly easy: Call on those stay-at-home moms who had made the mistake of noting on a survey they were interested in possibly purchasing a new knife set.
I quickly found out that knives are something people forget about until they need to whip up a four-course meal for the boss and his wife, which for these housewives, consigned to sweat suits covered in jelly and Cheerios, was never. I had doors slammed in my face, lies told badly to get me off the porch, and just plain indifference delivered almost every day.
I think I was the most unsuccessful saleswoman in Turbo Knives’s history. I left that job and never took a sales job again. Sitting in Baker Land’s office, I finally piece it together. I was a lousy knife seller because people could see through me like I was plastic wrap. I did not believe in the product—I did not even like it. I never cooked, so I wasn’t exactly a friend of knives. Besides, the Turbo Knives were kind of cheap and flimsy.
Maybe Baker sees through my false happiness. She has checked me over for honesty and found me lacking. This wedding planner sure doesn’t look like she’s in love. In fact, I think she’s going to barf on my crisp sisal rug. Her face is flushed and she has a clammy sheen to her skin. How sad. They sent someone who is a bad, bad fiancée. I should have never called Maurice.
“Macie, are you listening?” Baker looks annoyed. “I was saying that we should get one of the big magazines to cover my wedding. But only one. They’ll call it an ‘exclusive,’ like the mag is great friends with me or something. Let me tell you: They are not friends and don’t ever think that they will be.”
“Okay,” I say, trying to snap out of my weird mood. “Magazines bad.”
Baker looks thoughtful and reaches for a strawberry on her plate. “No, not always. That’s where it gets confusing. When they put you on a list, you know, like the most famous or most handsome, then you adore them. Most of the time, though, I just deal with it. Publicity comes with the job.”
I think, for ten million dollars a movie, I could put up with a lot. Shaking my head, I gather up my folders. I want to be gone before Kathleen comes back. If I play my cards right, I can be back on the highway in twenty minutes. Too late, the door opens and Kathleen walks into the room.
“Baker, you have a fitting for your charity-ball gown after your meeting with Zip, who is still waiting. If there are any things to tie up, I am sure Macie and I can take care of it.” Kathleen’s eyes rest on me as if I am an unsavory leftover.
Baker stands and stretches. “Macie, I’ll see you later on this week. And I’ll tell Kathleen about our plans so she cuts you some slack.”
I smile weakly, knowing that people like Kathleen love power, even more than they love keeping their well-paid jobs baby-sitting celebrities. This is going to be a long journey to the altar. Baker may say she wa
nts one thing, but I will have to get around Ms. K.
Sure enough, as soon as Baker leaves the office, Kathleen peers down at me. “Baker is to be managed like one would handle a rare, priceless piece of art glass. One bump too hard and there will be irreparable damage to her reputation and her value.”
I nod, not knowing what else to do. Kathleen then gives me a crash course in Baker’s box-office worth, and the difference between good press and bad press. I end up with more notes and a bad headache.
Finally, Kathleen tires of hearing her voice and I excuse myself. Luckily, I have Baker’s private cell phone number, so I will contact her later about our plans. On the walk to the car, I think of every bride whom I have worked with and come to the conclusion that Kathleen is the perfect combination of them all. She is demanding, exacting, unreasonable, drunk with power, rude, unfriendly, and conniving. I could go on with the list, but something stops me. My mind switches tracks, back and forth from Kathleen to the list I made for Iris.
Kathleen is not the bride in this situation. If I really think about it, Baker is the bride. But Kathleen is taking on the role of the brides whom I am used to working with and so I have lumped her into the bride category. I like Baker. I don’t want her to be the bad guy, to be one of my bad brides. Maybe she won’t turn out like all the rest.
I have tossed more brides without knowing the answer to the eternal question: How does a ring turn certain women mean and spiteful? I have not figured out the answer, I just know that I desperately do not want to wake up as one of them.
I start the car, turn on the air-conditioning and laugh out loud. The answer is almost too simple. I need to call Iris or Avery. It took me a visit with a celebrity and her guard-dog assistant to recognize what was staring me in the face. Behind the white lace of a wedding, around the corner from the flowers, and before musicians ever set up to play, I have discovered what scares me the most is becoming that which I have learned to despise and fear. I am afraid—of all things in this crazy world—of being a bride.
Toss the Bride Page 18