With a nod to his crew, Tony takes a gloved hand to the burner, heating the envelope and causing the balloon to rise from the ground. The tether cables drop and my bride sails into her happily ever after as the sun paints the field a bright pink and yellow. When the balloon is about twenty feet above us, Annette tosses her bouquet. The flowers stream to the field, much to the delight of the little girls, who scream and rush for the fresh blooms.
* * *
I arrive home early, happy to have the rest of the day off. I reflexively check the machine and my watch. Avery flew back to Atlanta last night after spending more time in the Virgin Islands with his father than he had initially planned.
He called when he landed, and asked if I wanted to see him this weekend. I said yes, but I was nervous after so much time apart. Would he expect a completely different fiancée? Is this when he would mention the prenuptial agreement? Or maybe, we would look into each other’s eyes and decide sadly that things just did not work anymore.
I am brushing my teeth and examining a small mole on my cheek that produces a wiry black hair at all the wrong times when the doorbell rings. I use the peephole to peer into the hallway but no one is there.
Opening the door slowly, I glance down the empty hall. At my feet sits a waxy, white cardboard box with Cake Cake’s logo stamped on the side. Attached to the top is a note in familiar handwriting. It reads, “Don’t let the little man be all alone. Do what needs to be done.”
Curious, I carry the box inside, relock the door, and place the strange package on the kitchen counter. I wonder what Iris has sent and why she did not stay to see me open it.
The box opens from the top, but the sides fold down to allow a cake to be picked up and moved without damage. I have seen it done a hundred times, so I use a fingernail to flip open the wings of the box. When I do, I laugh out loud.
Iris has sent me my very own wedding cake. It is in miniature, with all the trimmings. A tiny topper stands above the main base. Butter-cream icing coats the surface flawlessly and little polka dots run up and down the sides. Delicate fondant bows roll over the edges and a light dusting of white sugar makes the entire cake shimmer. It is delightful.
But the topper is the best part. Iris has affixed a solitary groom. The stiff, little ceramic man is dressed in a black-and-white tux, his frozen grin masking his distress at standing there all by his lonesome. I reread her note, loving Iris all the more.
She is right, of course. It is time I make some sort of decision. As I plan weddings for brides all over Atlanta and beyond, it is only fair that I think seriously about my own. Avery has been understanding, but it is not right to make him stand on the cake alone. On the other hand, if Avery has been hiding his secret ideas about our marriage, then I figure he can eat his cake, and say good-bye to Macie Fuller. I won’t want anything else to do with him.
I dress quickly, knowing Avery is probably finishing up with his tennis lessons with the boys. Maybe he’ll want to grab brunch at Tang when he’s through. The boys have not had a lesson for two weeks, so Avery was eager to see if they practiced like they promised. By the end of the summer, if Antwon and Damon did well at Saturday practices and got along with each other, Avery had promised the boys brand-new rackets to replace their secondhand ones.
I select a pair of linen shorts and a sleeveless blouse. If we go to Tang, we will probably sit on the terrace, so I make sure to spray my ankles with bug repellant. I am fastening the silver shell necklace around my neck when the doorbell rings.
Curious, I open the door slowly. Did Iris send something else? Instead of a cake, a deliveryman hands me a large bouquet of daisies. I must have a look of complete surprise on my face because the man laughs.
“Yep, they’re for you. If you are Macie Fuller, that is.”
I nod, embarrassed, and dig up a couple of dollars for a tip. When the door is shut and locked again, I search for a card in the mass of white, yellow, and purple daisies. Surely Avery sent these. Who else would?
The small, white card reads, “Be generous in love.”
I’ve never been good with short sayings, haiku, or Chinese fortune cookies. I like long endings, overblown messages, and drawn-out good-byes. So this concise message puzzles me. Be generous in love. Who in the world sent this?
I sit on the futon and think of my bride and her groom, sailing into the sun in a perfect four-mile-an-hour wind. Annette is generous—with her love, her grandchildren, and Lee. If you put aside the money and the uncertainty about the legal things Mrs. Leland told me, Avery is Avery. He is funny, loyal, loving, and a good sport. He makes me laugh, does not hold grudges, and has the sweetest smile of anyone I have ever known. I miss him, and I miss our closeness. But the weight of the future still hangs over me.
Speaking of Avery, I wonder if his lesson is done and if he will want to go to brunch. I try his cell once and then again a few minutes later. His voice is breathless; I hear the sounds of boys yelling in the background.
“Are you still at the park?” I ask.
“Yeah. We’ve had a great lesson. You’ll never guess what just happened. Antwon and Damon’s dad, Louis, you remember him?”
“Yes, he works at Chattahoochee Chocolates.”
“Right. Well, he and another father came down to the park today and asked me to teach a few other boys and girls. They want a sort of tennis academy for their kids.”
I am proud of him and put aside all of my dark thoughts about our relationship. “That’s great, really great. What do you think about it?”
Avery pauses to holler encouragement to one of the kids. “I want to do it. It is perfect—I love to teach these guys, and with some girls added to the mix, things should get interesting around here. They are already so competitive. Let’s get some young ladies to give them a run for their money.”
I take a deep breath. I feel like if I don’t talk to him now, I’ll lose the chance forever. Life seems stretched out before us like a fancy, embroidered quilt.
“Avery, when your lessons are over, we really need to talk. I’ve done a lot of thinking while you were gone. Iris made a cake for me—well, for us, really—to kind of help me realize some things. Then your mother had stuff to say. And Annette—”
“You talked to my mother?” Avery asks, lowering his voice.
“And it was terrible. But after talking to Annette, I see that if I let you go, I—”
“Macie, I’ve got to get back to the boys, and then the dads want to have a meeting. Can you do an early dinner?”
I feel numb, but I tell Avery we will meet up later today. I can’t blame him for not dropping everything and rushing over. I am the one who flaked out on him even after I said I was ready for a commitment. If anyone had told me I would be thrown for such a loop by a proposal, I would have said they were crazy. Looking back, I thought I was ready, but I can see now that maybe I was not.
Hunger propels me out of the apartment and onto Highland Avenue. I stroll slowly, moving out of the way of happy-looking couples walking briskly toward brunch or coffee. Because of my job, it is natural for me to glance at ring fingers. When I see the glimmer of gold or platinum on the hands of the people walking past me, I get a little pinch in my chest. I need to figure things out with Avery now. Waiting until tonight seems impossible.
I stop into a bagel and biscuit shop. Mindlessly scanning the menu, my eyes fill with tears. I would rather be doing anything with Avery than eating an egg and cheese biscuit alone. Does he want the things his wacky mother talked about? If they are so important, why hasn’t he mentioned them to me? I sip a bottle of organic orange juice at a corner table.
“Is this seat taken?” A couple stands above me, peering down at the empty chair across from mine. They hold newspapers and a tray of drinks and scones.
I nod that they can take it. After the chair is moved, the extra space at the table mocks me. I toss my trash and head outside. I pick a side street beside the shop and walk in the opposite direction from my apartment.
It’s like my weirdness about Avery’s wads of money. It’s not Avery’s fault he’s rich. But I do fear being a part of that money, since we’ll be combining our lives together. Will I have less of a say in what we do with our money because I bring less of it to the marriage?
The big question, of course, is the prenup. In reality, I just can’t imagine Avery putting those words on paper and then handing me a pen to sign. Besides, thinking about it makes my head hurt.
The houses on the street are tidy, with tiny front yards boasting petunias, roses, and wide front porches. I pass two little girls swinging in a hammock. They giggle when I walk near, sharing secrets with each other. A few houses down, a sturdy bungalow with a blue door is for sale. Without even thinking, I bend down to take a flyer from the information box staked into the green grass.
The price is outrageous, but I notice the interior pictures of the home show a gracious living space with hardwood and built-in bookshelves. Avery would love the kitchen. Stainless-steel appliances and natural pine cabinets are right up his alley. I am peering at the picture of the master bedroom when it hits me that I am mentally moving into this home with my husband. I do not see us choosing some halfway measure like living together or renting this house. I imagine us unloading a truck with our own two hands—hands that sport matching bands. We unpack wedding gifts and pieces of old furniture we both could not bear to part with, and in my imagination, we are laughing.
I am lost in this little picture for a few moments. Then I remember I am standing on a sidewalk in front of a stranger’s house. I am sure they are nice people, but all the same, I decide to get moving. Before I do, I tuck the flyer into my pocket. This little bungalow will always remind me of an important few minutes in my life. Maybe Avery will want to take a look at it later.
Walking a few feet, I take mental stock of my little house fantasy. My heart does not pound, I do not have drumming in my head—all good signs. Maybe I can mature a smidge and consider that just because I work with the most vain and selfish women in Atlanta, their disease does not have to rub off on me. Avery and I are special and different. At least that is what I tell myself.
My route takes a fork in the road and the sidewalk runs alongside a neighborhood park. Blooming crepe myrtles grow in a line next to a gentle slope of shade trees. As I walk closer, I spy all the familiar trappings of a Saturday morning wedding: gardenia garland, portable fern stands, and a sweating wedding party. The air is humid and I feel for the groomsmen in their jackets and vests. The ceremony must be over. Guests are milling about, and a photographer wriggles through the throng, snapping shots of the bride and her groom.
I am almost past the park when I hear a voice shriek out over the crowd noise. I wince, almost like the insult was directed to me.
“Carl, I told you not to step on my train! Do you need me to say it again? Are you dense?”
The bride, a tiny speck of a woman wearing a satin A-line, addresses her new husband with the fury of a hornet. Poor Carl looks caught between nervously laughing and choking on pure fear. A few women wearing large hats shake their heads. Former brides themselves, they silently berate Carl in a show of unity.
I walk past the park before I can witness another ugly display. I am so afraid that will be me—the curled hair, the rosy red lips, the mean heart. Even though things might be fine between Avery and me one day, what happens if I become that bride? Chill bumps pop up on my arms, even though I am sweating and the sun is high.
A new thought emerges. Maybe if I do everything backward or opposite, I will not transform into a mean bride. If I do not have any showers or parties, maybe greed will not sweep over me like a monsoon. An even stricter idea: not registering for gifts! If I don’t go to the trouble to register, I won’t have piles of presents to open. I would make a bet that in pioneer days the women were glad if someone tossed them a bag of sugar or a fresh beet. Those women were tough. If they needed a frying pan, they traded for one. No crystal and china registry for them, no sir.
I continue on my walk, totally dispirited. Weddings float through my head like a current of bad memories. Devin, Carolina, Darby. The names of some brides I have trouble recalling, but I can see their faces in my head. Other thoughts are just snippets of bad behavior. At the end of this sad parade is a lone, little bride who just wants to marry and live happily ever after. It has to have happened to someone out there, I am sure.
Suddenly, as I round the corner to my apartment, I think of Gwen, my sweet pink-haired bride. She seemed so content and ready to marry her fiancé, Jake. That I even remember his name is amazing because we never know the fiancé’s name. Rule number one: The day is all about the bride.
I will call Gwen. Hopefully, she won’t think it weird that her former wedding planner is calling for love and marriage advice. From what I know about Gwen, my questions will fit right in with her freewheeling, slightly offbeat sense of things. I feverishly hope that she is in town and able to take my call. I sprint up the stairs to the apartment, almost tripping on the last, uneven stair.
I have deleted Gwen’s phone number from my cell, but I still have her file. It is pink, of course. I added a few pictures after the event and I reminisce for a moment with the glossy prints. There is the tiny park next to the church where we moved the wedding. This picture shows the wilted fancy flowers so out of place in the outdoors. The last photo is of Gwen and me at the Fox during the reception. She looks beautiful and I wear a huge smile. It was one of our best weddings, but boy, I was nervous down to the wire.
I dial nervously, but when Gwen hears my voice, she acts like we just spoke yesterday. She even invites me over to her loft for tea and “whatever else I can dig up.” I tell her that I will be right over. I turn to replace Gwen’s file in my desk drawer, but then I stop. I remove the picture of the two of us and I place it on the bulletin board, where it will give me hope.
* * *
Gwen and Jake live in a trendy, developing area of Midtown near Tenth Street. I have driven past their glass-and-metal tower before and even eaten in the restaurants on the ground level, but I have never been inside. I take the ultracool metal-and-blond-wood elevator to the eighth floor, sharing the ride with a tattooed mother and her little boy.
Gwen meets me at the door and gives me a big hug. Her hair is strawberry blond now, and she still wears the cutest clothes. Complimenting her on her striped skirt and matching belt, Gwen just smiles. I know that means she designed it. Oh well, I grimace to myself, there are other things I do well like create color-coded files.
Gwen gives me a tour of the loft, mentioning that Jake is at his studio working on a new series of paintings. The loft is warmer than most I have visited. A honey-blond wood covers the floor and some of the walls. There are the prerequisite floor-to-ceiling columns and metal accents, but the entire place feels comfy. I try to picture living here with Avery, but I have my heart set on something with a backyard for a future dog.
After the tour, I ask Gwen about her clothing business.
“I have a lot of orders for my wedding dress, would you believe?” she says as we curl up on the modern blue sofa that sits on a natural jute rug. “It’s been in a few magazines, and I am sort of leaning toward doing just dresses for now.”
“Does that mean your store opening has been postponed?”
Gwen nods. “I think I should go with what is big, for now. I can always do retail later, you know?”
I picture Gwen’s dresses adorning movie stars at award shows. Having an obvious talent like hers makes me wonder if life is any easier for her. I have seen it with Maurice and Iris—once they found what they liked to do, they seemed happier. Avery, too, perked up a million degrees when he stumbled onto Chattahoochee Chocolates and his tenn
is lessons. Feeling a bit down, I decide to focus on Gwen and try to forget about my problems.
“Can I see your wedding album?” I ask.
“I know every bride likes to show off her pictures, but I can tell something is bothering you, Macie. I can always bore you with my pictures some other time.” Gwen walks over to the kitchen and grabs two bottled teas out of the refrigerator.
Now that I have come all the way over to Gwen’s loft, bothered her in the middle of a Saturday, and made myself at home on her couch, I have a sudden case of shyness. Maybe I could have figured this thing out on my own.
By just looking at the facts, it is entirely possible that Avery and I do not belong together. We grew up on different rungs of the socioeconomic ladder. I had a dog, he had a pony. My family went to flea markets, his went to antique fairs.
“I guess it all starts with my fiancé’s proposal,” I begin. “Well, he was my boyfriend at the time, but now we’re getting married. Or not. I don’t know—it’s just so confusing. And I don’t know what to do.”
Laughing, Gwen says, “Take it easy! Just start at the end. Or the middle. Just pick a place.”
And so I tell her all about wanting to get married, but then realizing a whole lot of things went with it—finances, moving, in-laws, Avery himself. I don’t know how to share toothpaste with someone. I have no idea how to be a daughter-in-law. The worst part is, Avery seems unbothered by all of these day-to-day worries.
I tell Gwen my entire tale, up to and including today’s conversation with my fiancé. Although, to tell the truth, he does not even feel like a fiancé, and that is not Avery’s fault, it’s mine.
“I don’t have dreams anymore about our life together,” I say quietly.
Sitting still, Gwen looks out her wide windows that offer views of downtown and the hazy, late-summer day. Traffic sounds are muffled at this height.
“Why did you call me? You’ve mentioned your best friend, Iris. Why not her?”
“She’s heard all of this before. Her advice was to figure out what I was really afraid of. I did that.”
Toss the Bride Page 21