The wrong bridesmaid, p.14
The Wrong Bridesmaid, page 14
I make the call, hoping it’s the right one. “It’s fine, Avery. I don’t care. I’m honored to be by your side today, tomorrow, and for the rest of our lives as friends. It’s not about where we stand, it’s about who we are to each other.”
Avery tears up again, and the assistant growls a curse under her breath, grabbing another tissue. But Rachel’s almost giddy. “Thanks, Hazel. Thanks, Avery.”
Without another word, the assistant shoves me out the door. I stumble, nearly tripping over my own feet, but recover as quickly as I can and begin high kneeing it toward the archway. I feel like I’m back in my soccer days, except that I’m in a dress and heels.
Cara lifts her megaphone, calling out, “No, no, no. That’s the wrong bridesmaid! Go back. Everyone go back and start over.”
I make my way to Cara as fast as I can, still feeling like I’m in some sort of bad TV commercial. “It’s okay. Rachel and I are switching places. It’s fine. Keep going.”
Cara sighs dramatically, rolling her eyes to the sky. I think she mumbles something about being done with crazy brides, but if she’s talking about Avery, she’s the least crazy bride ever. “Fine, fine. Keep going, everyone stay in place where you are. Next!”
I drop into a walk, as behind me, I trust that Rachel is following along with this new plan. At least, I don’t hear any more screaming as I approach the arch, and Wren gives me an amused but questioning look.
“Okay,” Cara says once Rachel’s at the archway, “the music will change to the bride’s processional, everyone stands up, Grandpa to the right of the door, and . . . cue Avery.”
The first notes of the song Avery and Winston chose begin, a recording today, but tomorrow, it will be a cello-performed instrumental of “Can’t Help Falling In Love.” It was one of the few things Avery put her foot down about. It was Grandpa Joe’s and her grandmother’s favorite song when Elvis did it, and her parents loved the UB40 version at their reception.
As the classic instrumental Elvis version starts playing, Avery steps through the doorway, takes Grandpa Joe’s elbow, and begins her walk.
“Perfect. Slow steps, don’t rush it. He’ll be there waiting whenever you get there,” Cara calls, and I swear I can see Grandpa Joe muttering something under his breath. I can guess it has something to do with the fact he can’t rush it anyway, and he doesn’t need his hearing aid for this damn thing.
Either way, once we’re all under the archway, my eyes drift to Wyatt. I find him looking at me, his blue eyes hard as marbles and swirling with thoughts I can’t decipher.
I try to focus on what Cara is saying, knowing she’s going to want perfection and probably give a multiple-choice test after this practice before she’s satisfied. But now that I know he’s looking at me, I can feel the weight of Wyatt’s gaze. It somehow makes me both hot and cold, irritated and relieved.
Whatever last night was, Wyatt isn’t giving me the cold shoulder anymore. His eyes are virtually screaming at me with unsaid things.
We go through the rehearsal, skipping certain parts out of tradition, such as the actual vows themselves and the final kiss. Still, Winston and Avery’s joy, though premature, is real as they go back down the aisle arm in arm, rings on their fingers, only to be collected by Cara’s assistant for tomorrow.
Now it’s our turn. Wyatt steps forward and Rachel nearly runs into him in her excitement to get close to him. “Hello again,” she gushes. “Imagine meeting you here. Do these often?”
Wyatt smiles politely at her, but as soon as Rachel looks forward, his eyes find me again. Still he says nothing, and he and Rachel depart. I meet Wren in the middle and she holds out her elbow, which I take, and together we walk down the aisle.
“You and Wyatt okay?” she whispers under the instrumental sounds of “All The Stars.” That was apparently Winston’s choice.
Me? I would have chosen “Come and Get Your Love,” but I guess that’s too funky and sexual for Cara DeMornay.
“Yeah, fine,” I whisper back to Wren. “Why?”
“Because he was giving you the look, and he was your driver last night,” Wren points out. “And he didn’t get back until after I was asleep.”
“It’s fine,” I whisper. “Just . . . not now.”
Back by the house doors, we congregate as Cara directs the Fords and Grandpa Joe on how to exit the ceremony space. Once the whole wedding party is together, Cara finally unclenches herself a millimeter. “That was good. As long as everything goes exactly as it did today, everything will be perfect. There can be no changes. Understand?”
She looks at me and Rachel accusingly, and I resist the urge to ask whether that means I should still sprint across half the garden, instead flashing a thumbs-up. “We’re all good. Promise.”
Cara nods. “Good. Questions, anyone?”
There’s a murmur of noes, and I’m sure everyone’s ready for this part to be over with. Seriously, it’s not the halftime show at the Super Bowl.
“Then please see your way into the dining room, where Mr. and Mrs. Ford have graciously offered to host you for dinner. After that, go home, dance the night away, or whatever,” Cara says, relaxing some more and showing that, yes, she actually is a human being under the bitchiness. “Hell, play musical chairs and charades for all I care. There are only two rules . . . one, no getting drunk the night before the wedding. Nobody is pulling a My Fair Lady and coming in singing ‘I’m gettin’ married in the mornin’.’ And two, go to bed at a reasonable hour. None of you are going to get a wink of sleep anyway, worrying about things I’ve already handled, but at least pretend like you’re going to rest so the makeup artists don’t have to cover your undereye circles. Understood?”
We all murmur again, agreeing this time. Although I’m sure I’m flat out lying, because I need to help Mom at the bakery again. I’m probably going to be flying high at the wedding with the assistance of caffeine and sugar, to be honest.
Declarations made, Cara and her assistant head toward the tent, megaphone at the ready and Boss Mode already reengaged. I feel bad for the vendors out there who are finishing their setup and hope Mom, or one of her assistants, isn’t one of them.
Mrs. Ford, though, takes over with a much gentler hand. “Won’t you all come in and sit down? I’m sure Maria is ready for us, and I for one could use some iced tea.”
Chapter 11
WYATT
The Ford home has two dining rooms. One I don’t like, and one I despise.
The “family dining room” is a relatively typical, although large, room with a six-person table. It’s the one we used most often when Winston, Wren, and I were kids, for meals, homework, and craft projects. That table has a small spot from Wren’s fourth-grade volcano diorama, which she insisted on building bigger than anyone else’s because nothing but the best would do. Back then, I loved this room, hearing about Dad’s day especially. As I got older, though, those family dinners became a bit more awkward, with Mom and Dad questioning me on my future, discussing my grades. Like most teenagers, I wanted to relax through the end of my high school years.
The other dining room is the formal one, with a table that’s held up to twenty people for business dinners and political committee meetings. When I had to sit there, it was with the expectation that I would be seen and not heard, support Dad no matter what, and play the part of the perfect son. As a boy, I was proud to do so. Later, not so much.
But though we’re in the formal dining room, tonight’s no business reception or political thing. Tonight’s about celebrating Winston and Avery privately, intimately. This is the real celebration, in my opinion. Tomorrow’s about appearances, at least for half my family and probably a good chunk of the guests.
Somehow Rachel manages to sit by my side, even scooting her chair a bit closer and flashing me a flirty smile. I’m trying my best to be polite, but damn! And what is up with the bridesmaid-order switch? I was looking forward to walking with Hazel, even after last night.
I spent most of the night thinking about her and what happened. She’s skittish, understandably so, and I got impatient. I let what is basically her fear and established prejudice strike out at me and hit.
But I think she’ll be worth it if I can go slow.
You’re only here for a few more days.
Okay, not that slow, then.
“Well, I’d like to start with a toast,” Dad says, standing up. He’s got a drink in his hand, but I’m reasonably sure that this is his first. I’ve been watching like a hawk, because I won’t let Dad fuck things up for Winston, and at this point, I don’t trust him to make good choices. “Winston, I have watched as you’ve become a man, and I’m so proud of you. Now tomorrow, you’re taking another step, and I couldn’t be happier for you. Avery, from the minute Winston brought you home, we could see how special you are. The two of you deserve nothing but the best, and I think you’ve found that in each other.”
Cheers go around, and I prepare to drink, but then Avery’s Grandpa Joe stands up, his own glass in hand. “Well . . . since I’m sort of standing in as father of the bride, I’m going to take the privilege to say a few words. I know her parents would be very happy today if they were here.”
The celebratory vibe dims, and I know we’re all thinking about Avery’s past. That her parents were taken from her so tragically . . . it’s just wrong.
“Now, Avery’s mother was the one with the words,” Grandpa Joe says after clearing his throat, “and thankfully, she was also the one with the good looks, which she passed on to Avery. Lord knows what would have happened if you’d come out looking like me or your father!”
There are laughs all around, and Grandpa Joe continues, “You’ve been amazing in everything from the moment you were born, and look at you now. I changed your diapers when you were a baby, and now, you’ve had to change one or two of mine, but that’s how things go . . . life comes around full circle.” He gets quiet for a moment, his eyes going unfocused. He shakes his head, smiling. “Uh, what was I saying? Oh yeah, full circle . . . like your love for each other.”
I don’t know, but I think I like the old guy. He’s funny, and Avery is smiling at him lovingly. Even Winston is smiling at the old man.
“Yeah anyway, that full circle, think of it like a wheel . . . it’s going to keep rolling along,” Grandpa Joe says, “so hang on to each other. Because soon enough, it’ll be you two standing up here feeling foolish while trying to make some damn sense, when all you really want to say is ‘I love you both, and I want you both to be happy.’ Love hard, kids.”
Now that I can understand, and my eyes flick across the table to Hazel, and find her looking back at me.
Slow, man. Remember that?
But slow is not what’s on my mind as I stare into her eyes.
The dinner starts, and it’s as delicious as I expect, but it’s also a five-course meal. I’ve been through all this before; I know what to do. But as dinner progresses, it’s pretty clear that Hazel doesn’t.
Not that Hazel Sullivan cares, really. She relishes the food, from the pomegranate and feta salad to the poached trout appetizer. She might look around for clues about which fork to use and have no idea about fancy table manners, but I could watch her eat every day for the rest of my life and never get bored.
She examines the food, inhaling deeply as each new plate is delivered, and then takes joy in the food itself, moaning and groaning quietly as she samples each new thing. Some of it’s familiar, and I’m sure some of it’s brand new.
But whatever it is, she enjoys every bit.
“Now that the fathers have had their say,” Mom says after the second course is cleared away, “would anyone else like to speak?”
“Yes, that would be nice,” Dad adds, giving me a look. “I’m sure Wyatt has plenty of zingers for his brother. Maybe a few tonight and save the rest for tomorrow? What do you say?”
Before I can make a move, Hazel clears her throat, and I see she’s rising to speak. I sit forward to listen carefully.
“When we were kids, Avery and I would talk about the one,” she says, chuckling a little. “Probably because we were too into those Matrix movies. And when you told me you’d met the one, I was so happy for you. And then I heard who he is.”
Uh-oh, is she going to do this at my parents’ dining table? Really? I’m part horrified and part intrigued with what’s going to come out of her mouth next, which is exciting. She’s not one to bow down to Dad because of his position as mayor. If anything, she’ll tell him exactly what she thinks of him and where he can stick it.
But instead, Hazel smiles. “Much to my surprise, your happily ever after is coming with a man I would’ve never expected. But you’ve shown, not just me, but everyone”—she looks around the table—“what love can do, what love can be, and how it can change you for the better.”
Wren lifts her glass. “Hear, hear.”
But Hazel isn’t done. She narrows her eyes, pinning Winston like a bug under a microscope.
“But let me be clear that if you hurt her, I will absolutely destroy you. Not murder . . . that’s too easy and not nearly painful enough. I will drag you out to the woods, tie you to a tree, and cover your body in Tayvious’s fancy ketchup so that everything that creeps, bounds, and slithers along the ground will want to have a bite.” She goes as far as clacking her teeth Winston’s way, but he raises his glass good-naturedly.
I don’t know if it’s karma or if she was listening, but it’s then that Leo and Maria come in, pushing the big serving cart. “Our main course . . . roast leg of lamb.”
“Appropriate,” I quip, and Winston laughs at least. Dinner continues, my own toast forgotten or perhaps delayed. After all, if Hazel’s willing to throw down, what is the Ford black-sheep brother willing to do?
After dinner, Dad guides everyone to the living room, and I worry he’s going to forget his promise about not getting drunk. But he pours himself a club soda with lime, giving Mom a pointed look, and then offers Grandpa Joe a cognac. Mom assists by pouring a few glasses of wine and dispensing them to Wren, Rachel, and Avery.
She offers Hazel one, but she declines and instead asks Wren, “Excuse me, where’s the restroom?”
Wren points to the guest bath. “Down the front hall, second door on the right.”
Hazel disappears, and a moment later, I make a quiet exit. I head toward the front hall, but hear voices in the dining room, and something tells me to go that way instead.
“No, Hazel. I’ve got this.”
“How many times have you pre-bused a table for me when you come into Puss N Boots?”
I stand in the hallway, out of sight, and use the mirror’s reflection to see into the dining room. To my surprise, Hazel is helping Maria clean off the table from tonight’s dinner. Maria smiles. “Habit.”
“Same here.” They work together, chatting while everyone else is talking about the wedding in the other room. Hazel puts a plate on the cart, and looks over. “Is that your Leonardo that opened the door earlier?”
“It is. We’ve been with the Fords for years now.”
Hazel lifts an eyebrow. “I didn’t know that.”
“Well, when I come in to eat, it’s with my ladies’ group from church.”
“One margarita each, Tayvious’s dinner specials, and a to-go burger and fries,” Hazel quotes from memory. “For Leo?”
Maria smiles softly. “Yes. He is a good man . . . but a terrible cook.”
Hazel laughs quietly before sobering. “Do y’all like working here?”
Maria nods, which warms me inside. “The Fords are good people, treat us well.”
Hazel looks around suspiciously, and I duck back, making sure she can’t see or hear me. Thinking she’s clear, she leans toward Maria. “Let me guess . . . the walls have ears?”
Maria laughs. “It wouldn’t matter if they do or don’t. We’re happy here.”
“What about Wyatt?”
My ears perk up at that, and I lean closer to make sure I can hear every word.
Maria looks into the mirror, her eyes meeting mine. She knows all the tricks us kids used to use around here. She winks after making sure that Hazel is looking down at the stack of dishes in her hands.
“Wyatt? Oh yeah, he’s a good-looking one, isn’t he?” she teases.
Hazel blushes but nods.
More seriously, Maria says, “He’s an interesting man. He was a good boy, always happy. But when he got older, something happened. I don’t know what, but it changed him. He was never the same after that, more . . . angry? No, that’s not it . . . He was jaded.”
Her sad eyes glance up to mine, but fall immediately. She doesn’t know why, but she does know how I reacted. “He left, and I hope he has found his happiness again. He deserves that.”
“We all do.”
Maria hears something in her answer, because she stops clearing the table, giving Hazel her full attention. “Are you happy, Hazel?”
Hazel sighs heavily. “I was. Or I thought I was. But maybe it’s not happiness, so much as . . . content? Or stagnation?” Maria hums and Hazel rushes to add, “I don’t know, I’ve just been thinking.”
“Thinking is good. Sometimes, when opportunities come, we are not ready for them, but we have to get ready really fast. Like your Avery and my Winston,” Maria says. “I know he was a boy when they met, but he grew up fast for her. And she adjusted what she thought her idea of perfect is. Because the truth is . . . no one is perfect. Not even my Leo. He farts like he has died and been resurrected in the devil’s image whenever he has greasy french fries.”
Hazel laughs. “I’m gonna tell Tay Tay.”
Maria laughs heartily, making the cross motion over herself. “Go ahead. Because do I bring the fries? Of course I do. Because he enjoys them.”
“Not sure this is the same thing as killer farts,” Hazel says dryly.
Maria waves it off. “You’d be surprised what can be the thing that drives you crazy,” she says wisely. “Now, you’d best get back to the party, where you belong. Let me do this.”
“Okay, but you know I’m going to give you an extra-large serving of fries next time you come in, right?” Hazel asks, and Maria grins.
