12
The Child Bride
When I was a little girl, I had a favorite doll with long, blond hair that poked up out of her head. A round wheel on the doll’s back turned the blond hair in and out, making a dolly with short or long hair at the whim of her owner. I spent hours yanking her hair out, brushing it, and then turning the plastic wheel to roll the hair back up into her head. Had my parents given me more construction toys, I probably would have built bridges with Legos and engineered planes from balsa wood. Instead, I can imagine possible hairstyles from all sorts of angles, both long and short. Sometimes, with a sigh, I realize there was probably more I could have learned along life’s path.
Kimmie sits in the hairdresser’s chair, chirping like a happy, excited schoolgirl. Then I remember, Kimmie is a happy, excited schoolgirl. Today, I feel like I have zoomed into the future and found myself the owner of my very own real dolly. Kimmie’s hair is the same color of my old plaything. The only detail missing is the plastic knob jutting from her back. I lean forward from my chair near Kimmie’s to peer at the back of the girl’s pink tank top. With the weird week I have been having, a knob might not be out of the question.
“So, up or down? What do you think?” Kimmie asks, dramatically lowering her hair with one hand and then scrunching it up and piling it on top of her head. “Macie, Macie, help me fix my hair,” she sings in a whiny voice. For a fleeting moment I think of my old doll and how I could yank her hair out without fear of punishment.
“What I think is that we have taken far too much of Leif’s time,” I say sternly, nodding to the exhausted stylist. He shoots me a look of thanks, drops his brush, and hightails it into the back room.
“Where is he going?” Kimmie asks, clearly put out that Leif does not get the chance to try a tenth hairstyle on her shimmering blond locks. “I haven’t selected my ’do yet.”
“I think numbers three and seven were lovely,” I say, collecting my files and Kimmie’s veil. “Do you want to see the digital pictures again to help you decide?”
“Nope, I’ll think about it later,” the bride says, and swings out of her chair.
I hurry to keep up with her lanky frame. Kimmie has the body of the lacrosse champion that she is and the energy of a kindergartner. I have to work to keep pace with this eighteen-year-old. Our working hours are limited to afternoons, once she is dismissed from her private high school, but before homework begins.
Normally, I would be against tossing such a young bride. It seems odd, or worse, unseemly. Last time I checked, Maurice was not into marrying off the young chickies. But Kimmie’s father is a family friend of Evelyn’s, so Maurice is trying to make everyone happy in the hopes of scoring points with his estranged wife. He told me so a few days ago.
Maurice called me up—the first time I had heard from him in person since the Elise scandal—and asked for a meeting. For the past ten days, he has lain low, leaving voice mails with instructions or brides’ phone numbers. For our meeting, he suggested the coffee shop near my apartment, a definite step down for Maurice. The only other time he went there, he informed me it was dirty (he used the word “squalid”) and that the coffee beans were roasted far too long.
Upon entering the coffee shop, I spied Maurice in a rear booth, his back to the door. He was actually wearing sunglasses inside. Poor Maurice, I thought. He was hiding out in plain sight.
“Hey, Maurice.”
“Macie.” He stood and offered the bench seat in the booth as if it were a gilded armchair in a Buckhead mansion. That’s Maurice—always loads of style.
“How are you doing? I mean, I’m not trying to pry, but I know things have been rough for you.”
Maurice lowered his shades and looked down at his espresso. “They have, but it’s my own fault. I’m trying to take responsibility for what I did. Evelyn says that’s the first thing I have to do to win her back.”
I try to picture tiny, composed Evelyn lecturing Maurice, maybe with a few self-help books by her side like Loving When Hating Feels Good and Bad Husbands, Better Wives. Everyone has a different relationship, of course, but taking back a cheating spouse? I don’t think I could do it.
“Of course, it’s still early and she could always change her mind,” Maurice said. “I wouldn’t blame her. And we’ll have to find a top-notch counselor. But I want to save our marriage. Unfortunately, I think Evelyn could go either way.”
I thought of Elise and wondered what she was doing. It was morning, so she was probably sleeping off a late night at the café. I pictured her in a very Parisian apartment, maybe with a few of those large theater posters framed on the plaster walls. Of course, maybe that was just how Americans thought the French decorated.
“Macie, are you drifting?”
I nodded. “Sorry. I’ve been working so much that my mind is pretty fried.”
“Ah, about that. I regret that my personal problems have prevented me from taking an active role in my business. You will be paid well, I assure you.”
“That’s not what I want, Maurice. You and Evelyn should take all the time you need. I have been doing fine, really.” I twist my engagement ring over and over on my finger.
Maurice looked a little stricken, like he was truly sorry for sticking me with all of the work over the past ten days. It had been a wild ride, too, with attending to Baker Land and a few other brides coming up on the calendar. When Maurice called and told me about Kimmie, the child bride, I knew I was close to cracking. To make matters worse, Avery and I were still having problems. Right after I had my big breakthrough, he left town for a Chattahoochee Chocolates business trip with Ted to the All-American Confection Convention in St. Louis. That was followed by a week with his father checking out some property they owned in the Virgin Islands.
“Sure, I’ll miss you, Macie. But maybe this time will give you space to figure out why every time I bring up the future, you still get a little crazy,” Avery said before he left for the airport with his father. As much as I missed him, I knew he was right.
That left me with Maurice, who was coming back onto the scene, battered and guilty, but still sort of functioning. We quickly got down to work at the coffeehouse and he handed me the child bride’s folder.
“Good grief, Maurice. She’s only eighteen.”
“A hundred years ago, she would have had three kids on the farm by now. No one would have cared,” Maurice said, waving his hand in the air.
“Well, that was a hundred years ago. This is today. What are her wacky parents thinking? And is this legal?”
“They are friends of Evelyn’s, as I mentioned, and they are thinking that it is better to support her rather than lose her. An older daughter has already run off with some sort of guitar player.”
I flipped through the file, noting that Kimmie had been educated in Europe until ninth grade and had traveled extensively in South and Central America. When she was thirteen, she started her own baby-sitting business. “Sounds like she’s kind of mature for her age at least,” I said.
“Yes and no. Anyway, let’s toss her and move on to the next one. If we treat Kimmie nicely now, maybe she’ll use us for her next wedding.”
I frowned at Maurice. “That’s rude, Maurice. Let’s give her the benefit of the doubt.”
Maurice placed his empty espresso cup off to the side of our pile of papers and sighed. “You’re right. I am sorry. It’s just that I’ve been so cynical lately about love.”
“Things will get better, they will,” I said weakly. A greeting card sentiment was not what my boss needed, but I did not know what else to say.
Maurice looked up, a tentative smile on his face for the first time. “Where are my manners? Congratulations on your engagement. I cannot believe I forgot to say something.”
It felt weird to talk about marriage with Maurice’s own union on the rocks, but I chatted with him for a few minutes about the beach trip and Avery’s proposal. I dreaded the inevitable question, and it was not long before he delivered it.
“So, when’s the big day?” Maurice asked, eyebrows raised.
Later in the week, when I am with Kimmie, I think about the unartful way I dodged the question with Maurice. I hemmed and hawed, eventually half-lying to get out of answering the truth. What was I supposed to say? “Well, Maurice, it’s like this: I am afraid of turning into one of our freakishly selfish, inconsiderate, and mean brides.”
But of course I said nothing, and my reward is that I get to drive Kimmie around town for another hour instead of facing my very real problems. When I am with the child bride, time seems to stop and every little thing becomes very important.
“Macie, do you think the salmon should be wrapped in the banana leaves or just left on the plate all by its little lonesome?”
Forcing myself to pay attention, I examine the two plates in front of me at Kimmie’s parents’ club. The salmon with the banana leaves is exotic, but the plate with the salmon solo looks pretty darn good, too. I run my finger along the gold-edged charger ringing the banana leaves salmon. “This one I think.”
The club’s food and beverage manager scribbles furiously on a clipboard. “And the starch?”
“Do you have a nice polenta?” I ask, my mind a million miles away from this stuffy club with its hobnailed leather chairs and hovering kitchen staff.
Kimmie wrinkles her nose. “What about french fries?”
We get through the rest of the tasting fairly quickly. I simply make most of the decisions, knowing Kimmie’s mother and father will not mind. When I met them for our initial meeting, they just said to keep the whole affair “under a low six figures.” Kimmie could buy a whole boatload of french fries with that budget.
I quickly discover that a younger bride is not as polished in the art of being nasty, but she is quickly learning her trade. At the department store linen counter, Kimmie sniffs to the poor clerk that her selection pales in comparison with the fine boutiques of London. When we stop in for a consultation at the stationery store for Kimmie’s thank-you notes, the store manager is told that ecru, not cream white, is the card stock of choice for brides everywhere except Atlanta.
I do what I can to minimize my junior bride’s warpath. Smiling brightly, I take her arm and steer her away from slack-jawed clerks. I try to model good behavior, much like Avery models good sportsmanship to the boys on the tennis court. Winning isn’t about jumping up and down, he tells them. Torturing store clerks is bad form, I inform Kimmie.
By the end of our third afternoon together, I am worn out. I decide to take a break from my eighteen-year-old charge for a day to help Iris wade through pastry chef résumés. I know she needs the help, and it will keep my mind off of Avery.
Iris posted the job opening for her new store on several culinary Web sites and she has been overwhelmed by the response. Apparently, there are a lot of talented and unemployed people out there who make five-star goodies.
“Macie, the proper word is pastry or cake or brownie, not ‘goody.’ I think hanging out with Miss Teen Bride has dumbed down your vocabulary,” Iris says crossly the next day at her studio. She sifts through a dozen résumés and several brochures that lay on her desk. A stack of unopened envelopes sits nearby.
“Get with it, graybeard,” I say, imitating Kimmie’s pert voice. “Sometimes you are so twenty-seven!”
“Forgive me, oh wise one. I forgot that you have the world figured out.” Iris pauses, distracted by one of the résumés. “Oh, look at this goody. He’s at Quelle Fromage right now, which is impressive enough, but check out his picture.”
I walk over to her desk and peer down at a catering brochure for Quelle Fromage, one of the city’s busiest bakery-restaurants in Midtown. One picture shows a handsome, tanned pastry chef standing next to a tall wedding cake. Quelle Fromage makes an amazing cheese muffin dotted with imported Gouda from Amsterdam. I melt when I eat this treat.
“I don’t know,” I say to Iris. “Is hiring someone because he looks tasty sound business practice? Just a thought.”
Iris gives me a fake pout. “You mean I can’t hire and fire on the basis of looks? Come on.”
I take a stack of the résumés rolling out of the printer and flip through the pages. Most everyone has studied somewhere impressive or interned under big-time head chefs. I try to picture the perfect person for Cake Cake to Go Go. He or she should be creative, a hard worker, and someone who is okay being left on their own since Iris will be across town. They should also be liberal with the free handouts, as I might be stopping in from time to time.
“What about him?” I ask, handing her a two-page résumé. “This guy attached some pictures of specialty cakes. He definitely has a sense of humor.”
Iris scans the document and then puts it in the “keep” pile. “I like his use of color and space. See the way he pulls the eye into the top tier?”
We work like this for another hour or so. Some of the candidates Iris rejects without another glance. Reputations get around, she informs me. Others are not experienced enough. One woman mailed Iris a piece of cake, urging her to try it. “Ugh,” she says, before dropping the squashed package into the trash can.
In the end, Iris selects four finalists and gives me the task of setting up the interviews. I pretend to be her assistant and call the four, telling them that Iris Glen would very much like to interview them, and when would they be free?
“I like having you make the first call,” Iris says. “It seems more professional. If I called, I would start blabbing on and on about how scared I am to expand and how they would be crazy to give me a try but oh, you know, could you start tomorrow?” She kicks her feet up onto the desk and drops the pile of rejected résumés into the trash.
“You are so brave,” I say, settling into a chair. “I can’t imagine running my own business.”
“Didn’t you just do that very thing when Maurice flaked out on you?”
“Yes, but—”
“But nothing. From what you told me, you contacted all of your upcoming dopey brides, landed a movie star’s wedding, and kept all of the current brides happy like nothing ever happened. That’s running your own business, even if you don’t think it is.”
For once, I shut up and listen to Iris. There may be some truth to what she says. I did shoulder all of the day-in, day-out tasks that Maurice usually performed. I chatted with brides, consoled them, humored them, and when necessary, chastised them. I had been to see Baker Land three times since our first meeting, each time feeling more confident in my position. Although I was still uncomfortable wedged between the taskmaster Kathleen and the fairly nice Baker, I was beginning to stand up for myself.
“I never thought of it like that,” I say.
“And speaking of men who go cuckoo, what is the latest with your absentee fiancé?”
“He is not absent, we’re just taking things a little slowly. I need to get my head together, you know, really figure things out.” I tuck my hair behind my ear and look up at Iris, daring her to question my position.
Of course, she does. Iris crosses her arms over her chest. “Macie, that is pure drivel, and you know it. You’ve figured out the problem—you don’t want to turn into one of those Frankenbrides. Okay, we get it. Now what are you going to do about it?”
I know Iris is right. She usually is, much to my chagrin. I have spoken to Avery several times since I self-diagnosed my bride paranoia. He believes me, Avery being the loyal soul that he is, but I know the fixing part is up to me. Holding me close before he left for the Virgin Islands, Avery said he would marry me tomorrow if I wanted. When he said those words, my heart started to pound.
I feel close to tears when I ask Iris, “What if the problem I have is with Avery and not just being a bride?”
Iris smiles at me, a touch of sympathy in her eyes. “Then, you had better figure that out, don’t you think?”
* * *
Leaving Iris’s comfy studio, I feel a little lost. I do not want to go home or work on any weddings. Avery is not
due back for a couple of days, but even if he were home, things are so strained that hanging out together would just be terrible.
Maybe a smoothie will help cheer me up. I drive over to Mr. Smoothie on Fifth Street and order a large cantaloupe blended with soy milk. Mr. Smoothie has no inside tables, just a tiny order window with the day’s flavors written on a chalkboard and several painted benches outside.
I pick a bench in the shade and sip my drink, turning over my dilemma in my head. A few families walk up to the order window. I examine the couples to figure out if they look happy or bored or simply content. It is hard to say, of course, but I think they all might be a wee bit tired of life. It’s no scientific study, but a slump of the shoulders here, an extra-large mocha fudge smoothie there, and the casual observer starts to see things.
One of the women catches me staring at her, and I look away, only slightly embarrassed. I know it is wrong to make sweeping generalizations about complete strangers, but I do not know what else to do. There are no titles in the bookstore that give me the advice I need. Engaged but Crazy? and Got the Ring and Totally Chicken have not been written. I am waiting.
I have considered calling my mother for some advice, but I do not want to pop her bubble. My parents are proud of their little girl for making it in the big city and for landing (Mom’s word) a nice southern boy. They dream of grandchildren. There is no way I will call home to Cutter and tell them I am having a serious case of cold feet. Trouble is, I am running out of excuses for stalling my mother. She wants to crank up the ancient wedding machinery that rests in almost every female’s breast. Mom has even asked me for Mrs. Leland’s phone number. On my parents’ next visit to Atlanta, they want to meet my future in-laws. That will be something to see, my parents and Avery’s parents chatting over drinks on the veranda. It will give my folks something to talk about for months back home.
Growing up, I did not know a single rich person. Everyone was sort of just getting by, living in modest homes, and driving used cars. It was not until I moved to Atlanta that I witnessed displays of wealth on a daily basis. I also saw how stacks of cash affected people. From my perspective, it seems like the more money someone has, the more they want, and excessive wealth shelters people from reality.
Toss the Bride Page 19