Toss the Bride (13 page)

“‘Pressure' might be the wrong word. How about ‘strongly suggested'?” Avery laughs, squeezing my knees. He ducks his head down to look into my eyes.

“Okay, I guess you can say it's a hazard of the job. I want to get married one day. Is that so terrible?”

“Nope, it's not. It's just that you never actually said that you wanted to get married to me. You were always so closemouthed about it. It's only been recently that you have hinted, and well, just sort of talked about us being more permanent.”

I take a deep breath. “Avery, why haven't you wanted to get married to me?”

He pulls his head back a bit as if I had slapped him. “What do you mean? I want to marry you. Of course I do.”

When I am very surprised or shocked, I feel like the whole world is dancing right at the end of my nose. All the tears, cries of joy, and groans of millions of people dash past in a frantic parade while I try to sort out my feelings. Are they good? Bad?

This feeling is good. It is very, very good. A tiny tear plops onto my eyelashes. “Well, then, why haven't you asked?”

Avery runs one finger along my leg. The motion gives me goose bumps. “I've wanted to, believe me. I've even thought of perfect places to ask you, ways I might surprise you. But something always keeps me from going forward.”

I wait, eyebrows raised. Is it my small-town upbringing? Do I not fit in enough? Is my high school French too creaky, my knowledge of wine lacking?

He continues. I hear the ocean for the first time in what seems like hours. Somewhere, a woman named Tallie waits to be married. I honestly do not care a flip.

“I wonder how you will respect me when I don't have a job,” Avery says. “Or an occupation of any kind. How will you feel when you head out the door to work and I don't go anywhere or do anything meaningful? How long will it be before you lose respect for me?”

“I don't know what you are talking about. I have plenty of respect for you. I love you, Avery.”

He smiles sadly. “Well, maybe you do now, but over time, that might change if I'm always dipping into Mr. Trust Fund and not earning my own money.”

I rub my palms along the arms of the chair. “Okay, I didn't go to college. One day, are you going to wake up and lose respect for me about that?”

Avery laughs. “No, of course not! You started working right after high school and have taken care of yourself ever since. I admire you. So what if you didn't go to school? It's overrated anyway.”

Leaning forward, I take one of his hands in mine. “So, it's kind of the same thing. These are details about our lives that we've accepted in each other already.”

Tilting his head to the side, Avery looks at me. “It's fuzzy logic, but I'll accept it because it makes me feel better.”

“Problem solved.”

“I've actually been thinking about pursuing some type of career recently,” Avery says, a small smile appearing on his face. “Any openings in the bridal biz?”

“You wouldn't last two days.” I laugh. “The first time a bride pulled some stunt, you'd tell her to get lost and that would be the end of your wedding-planning career.”

Avery rolls off the ottoman and onto the floor. “I'm glad you think so highly of me.”

“It takes a special breed of crazy person to put up with these girls.”

“Well, I don't think you're crazy, but you are good at what you do. You know that.”

I am quiet for a moment. “It's funny, I complain all of the time about Maurice and my job, but it really does give me a sense of accomplishment when we get a bride married off. I like closing the file on her, knowing her special day went perfectly. Or almost perfectly in most cases.”

“I wish I had that,” Avery says.

I can tell that a lot of things have gone through Avery's mind while he was away. Talking about getting a job or some sort of career is a new thing for him. As much as I want to keep talking to him, I know it's just a matter of time before Maurice tracks me down. I stand and check my watch. I need to head back out to see if the caterer has arrived with my veggies.

“Hey! Where's our romantic reunion? Is talking all that I'm going to get for flying across the ocean to see you?”

“So, now you want to talk after ignoring me for a week?” I offer Avery a hand getting off the floor. “Let me get this bride married off and then I'm all yours.”

“I said I was sorry for being stubborn,” Avery says as he slips his hand around my waist. “I never finished telling you about those European guys with their wives. They looked so content, you know, really self-assured. Like they had made the right decision. I want to look like that. I know I can. I've already got the hard part out of the way.”

I lean my head against Avery's chest. “And what's that?”

Avery pulls me toward him, kissing my neck and my chin. “I've found the bride. I can check that one off the list.”

7

The Evil Bride

I have never thought much about the Middle Ages. I'm not even sure if they came before the Dark Ages or not, or what even makes it a “middle” age rather than, say, the First Age or the Ice Age or something like that. My closest experience with this entire time period comes down to a day at the Medieval Fair south of Atlanta last summer. A dusty man selling homemade mead stumbled over to me and my cousin Melissa, who was visiting from Cutter, and tried to buy one of us to be his wife. We thought it was funny until we realized he was not kidding.

Devin, the bride who follows Tallie, has definitely done her research. She adores the medieval times and has decided to plan her wedding around a theme of mutton, velvet, and braided hair seasoned with a bit of bowing and curtsying. That's what brings us to this morning's appointment. She has actually found a history weirdo who is showing her how royalty would greet other royalty and other such fun facts.

“Milady, that's right, and turn and turn. Nod the head just so. Very nice.” Professor Edwin Lance sits in a director's chair and nods as Devin practices. We are in his house, a fussily neat Queen Anne near Emory. The professor is a theater director, so he has access to all sorts of velvety robes and gold-looking crowns. When no one was looking, I sat one on my head, but I'm really not supposed to do things like that.

“What do you think, maidservant?”

I snap to attention. My mind was idly pushing Devin off of a cliff. Not necessarily a high cliff. More like one with a bunch of foam balls down below so she wouldn't be too hurt by the fall.

“Milady, you are looking pretty cool,” I say, waving a yawn away.

Devin shoots me an angry look because I am not playing along with her fantasy. She told me this over dinner last night at Ye Olde Thymes Restaurant. We went there for “research,” but I secretly think Devin just likes to be called “wench” over and over. The waiters are endlessly offensive, all in the name of history: “Would you like some more mead, wench?” “Wench, sit on my lap, 'tis the law of the land!” By our dessert of apple crisp, I was a wench ready to retch. That was when Devin leaned over and gave me a job evaluation.

“I don't know, Macie. It seems to me like you're not a team player. What say you?”

I crumpled my napkin in my lap. Even though Devin is ridiculous, she is still the client. I hope she hasn't blabbed to Maurice.

“Well, I am sorry if I gave that impression, Devin.”

“Please, Macie. Let's go over this one more time. I am your employer, so you must call me milady or madame. This is not the time for informality.”

“Ah, yes. Right. Madame,” I said. I desperately searched the room for the restaurant's court jester, who has a habit of popping up at our table at awkward times like this. Devin believed he liked her span of historical knowledge, but I suspected his real reason for stopping by was the low-cut empire-waist dress she wore. Maybe he would interrupt us with a juggling show.

“Well, just so you know your place. If this was the tenth century, we wouldn't even be at the same table. You're lucky, you know.” Devin tossed back the last of her fermented grape drink.

The evening went on and on like that. And now, today, I am playacting through the curtsy practice with the professor as best I can. When I get home, I call Avery. My voice gives away my mood.

“Hey, you're whining. Bad day with the Queen of the Round Table?”

“The worst. I had to open her car door and curtsy when she drove away,” I wail.

“Macie, that is a bit much. She's paying you how much to go through this?”

I sigh and sniffle into the phone. “Maurice is giving me double time for days like this. I told him he owes me more.”

“Well, it will be over soon,” Avery says. “She gets married next week, right?”

“Yup. It will not be soon enough. I think I dislike her more than any of the others.”

Avery laughs over the phone line. “You say that about all of them.”

“Wanna come over? I've got the rest of the day and night off. Maurice could see that I was going to snap.”

Avery says that he will leave for my place right away. I hang up and smile into the mirror over my dresser. Devin may be in love with the Middle Ages, but I am happy to be right here, in this place in time.

*   *   *

“So, here's my list. You have to tell me what you think,” Avery says, holding up a rumpled piece of paper.

I sit at the kitchen table, looking over the movie section of the newspaper. “What list?”

“Well, ever since we had our talk in Hilton Head about my career choices, or lack thereof, I decided to take on a little project.”

I reach for the list, but Avery snatches it back. “Not so fast. Let me tell you what I've done.”

Pulling out a chair, Avery sits down and tries to straighten his list. Bits of salsa stick to one edge of the page.

“At first, I made a list of what I thought I wanted to be, like an architect or a doctor, you know, things like that,” Avery says.

“You hate the sight of blood,” I remind him.

“True. So I crossed that one off the list. Anyway, it hit me that maybe instead of me trying to fit into a career, I should try to fit a career to me.” Avery stops, looking pleased with himself. “Voilà! My list of things I do well. Or, at least, sort of well.”

Things I Do Well
by Avery Leland

Swim

Play tennis

Grill meat

Sail

Travel

Read magazines

Organize things

Help friends

Talk to people

Listen to people

Kiss Macie

Avery looks at me expectantly. Smiling, I hand the list back.

“Now, all I have to do is find a career that lets me use these things.” He folds the list in half and taps his fingers on the table.

“That's great, honey. I especially like the last one.”

Leaning over the table, Avery gives me a quick kiss. “Just so I stay in practice.”

“What do you think the next step is?”

“Unfortunately, I can't exactly walk into my future boss's office and hand him this attractively rumpled piece of paper and say, ‘Hire me!'”

“You know that I don't think you need to get a job to prove anything to me, Avery. But if you are doing this for you, then we just need to zero in on something you really, really want to do, and we'll be halfway there.”

I think about Mr. Leland. He must have tons of contacts, even though he doesn't seem to have a job either. I'm sure one of his high-powered friends can land Avery a position somewhere. The question now is: doing what and where?

“Did you tell your parents what you are doing?”

Avery yawns. “I think my dad said something like, ‘Splendid, son.' My mother overheard us and she cried for about five minutes, until cocktails. I think she just doesn't want me to move out.”

I nod. His family seems strange to me sometimes. When I decided to try my luck in the big city, my mom and dad sat down at the kitchen table in Cutter and plotted out the driving routes, my budget, and rental-truck options. If they hadn't had to work the day I moved, they would have driven me and helped unpack. Avery's parents seem to have neglected a few Life 101 pointers.

I decide to call Iris. She has such a cool head and knows a lot of people. Perhaps she will have an idea.

I reach her on her cell. It's very noisy wherever she is right now.

“Macie! I'm so glad you called!” Iris's voice is almost drowned out by voices and what sounds like applause.

“Where are you?”

“I'm at Food Mart. It's the big food expo, remember?”

I wince. I'm such a rotten friend. I had forgotten. Iris baked for weeks for this opportunity. She rented a large booth for the three-day fair. Thousands of food representatives, caterers, and media reps will walk past her booth each day. Her goal is to get more media buzz about Cake Cake. Iris has been talking about expanding to the northern suburbs, and this expo could be an important step for her.

“Yeah, how is it going?”

“Not so good. You know how I hired those two models to hand out cake samples? They didn't show and I am swamped. I can't talk to clients and sling cake at the same time.” A clanging bell sounds. “Man, I have to go. That's the bell signaling the end of the cooking class. We'll be overrun in a few minutes.”

“Hey!” I raise my voice. “We'll come down and help you out. Give us half an hour.”

Iris's relief comes across loud and clear over the noisy crowd. “Park off Spring, I'm booth number 745. I'll leave two passes at the security desk.”

Avery and I hop up. I change shirts and slick on some lipstick. Avery tucks his shirt in, and we jump into his car. We roar downtown to the Food Mart, the cavernous building that is host to a different food-related trade show each month. After paying way too much to park, we dash inside to find Iris.