Maggie (Tales Behind the Veils)

by Violet Howe

  I felt more than a little uneasy about what all this meant for our schedule. The ceremony was supposed to start in fifteen minutes. The bride should have already been downstairs and loaded in the carriage to make her way to the hotel’s beach.

  My unease grew to panic when I knocked on Tonya’s door and she opened it clad only in a skimpy little satin robe.

  “Honey, you’re supposed to be dressed and downstairs already.”

  I tried to say it as sweetly as possible, but I’m sure my panic came through. My Southern accent kicked in thick, which usually only happens when I’m panicked or frustrated. Or pissed. Or drunk.

  “Do you think I don’t know that?” she asked, arching a perfectly drawn-on eyebrow. “Do you think somehow when I booked this wedding and had invitations printed and planned the entire damned event, I somehow didn’t realize what time the ceremony started? And just who the hell are you anyway?”

  Well, alrighty then. Obviously this was going to be a fun day.

  “Um, I’m Tyler Warren. I’m assisting Lillian with your wedding today.”

  “Fine. Those bitches left me with my nails wet.” She held up both hands to show me the glossy, fresh manicure. “How the hell am I supposed to get dressed with wet nails?” she asked, arching both eyebrows now and glaring at me like I was somehow responsible for this.

  “Oh.” My mind spun with the limited time frame I had available, the amount of clothing she still needed to put on, and the amount of time it would take to get her in the carriage and to the ceremony.

  “Give me just a second to let Lillian know we’ll be down shortly.” I smiled what I hoped was my sweetest smile and stepped backward into the hallway.

  She slammed the door as I frantically dialed Lillian’s cell.

  “You’d better be calling to tell me she is in the carriage and on her way,” Lillian said. “It is hotter than Hades out here. I have several people looking like they’re about to faint, and I may possibly dunk a cranky, tuxedoed five-year-old headfirst in the lake. The bridesmaids say she is not even dressed. Tell me you are on top of this, and my ceremony will not run late.”

  Lillian Graham has been doing weddings since Moses’s mother got married, and her weddings do not run late. Even after working for her for three years, I still get nervous as all hell assisting one of her events. No one else in the office has that effect on me. I don’t even get nervous with my own clients. But with Lillian? Sheesh.

  I felt like I might throw up a bit when I opened my mouth to answer her, but I swallowed hard and tried to sound calm.

  “Yes, yes, I’m on top of it. Getting her dressed now and we’ll be right down.” I lied to my boss and hung up on her.

  Tonya swung open the door on my first knock.

  “Do you have more calls to make, or can you help me get dressed now? I don’t want to be late for my own wedding.” She stood there tapping her pudgy little foot with both hands on her hips.

  I’ve often wondered why people freak out and become monsters on their wedding day. It seems to me if it’s a happy occasion, if you’re marrying someone you love, and if all your family and friends have come to see you be happy and get hitched, the least you could do is be nice about it.

  “Okay, let’s get you dressed and to your ceremony!” It was probably the most sickeningly false voice I have ever used.

  Tonya led me into the room waving her fingers to dry her nails. I struggled to keep from staring, but I was fascinated by her. Never in all my days had I seen anyone so colorful!

  Tonya was about five feet two and well over three hundred pounds. She wore a royal purple satin robe with huge yellow flowers all over it. Though it barely skimmed the bottom of her rump, she seemed perfectly at ease nearly naked in front of a total stranger.

  Tonya’s hair glowed a bright, shocking orange. Not red. Not auburn. Orange. A fiery, neon orange curling in cascades of flames around and below her shoulders.

  An iridescent smudge of purple shadow covered her eyelids, and greasy black liner outlined the entire rim of her blue eyes. A thick, black fringe of false eyelashes fluttered and flapped with every wink.

  The bright, bubble-gum pink smear on each cheek matched the slick gloss on her lips. I thought perhaps she would be more attractive without makeup. And without her present scowl.

  “Here,” she said, gingerly holding out a pair of pantyhose between her French-manicured fingers. “Put these on.”

  I swear for a minute I thought she meant for me to wear them. Then it dawned on me with sickened recognition that she wanted me to put the pantyhose on her. Ewww.

  I stared at her a bit dumbfounded. I have been asked to do many things in this line of work. It’s definitely not as glamorous as the star-crossed wannabes imagine it. But never in the multitude of weddings have I ever been expected to put on another human being’s pantyhose. I thought surely she was joking. Surely, there was a bridesmaid left hiding in the room to do this. Surely, a meteor could come crashing into the hotel at that moment and create a hole to swallow me up.

  As a girl with abundant thighs myself, it is my personal belief that support pantyhose are a relic left over from some medieval torture chamber. I have never been happier with the fashion world than when they decided pantyhose were out of style and we could all go bare-legged.

  Putting on hose is an all-out swearing, sweating, pushing, pulling, aerobic activity that borders on assault. My granny used to say it’s like shoving two pounds of lard in a one-pound sack. To go through this torture against your own thighs within the privacy of your own room with the shades pulled down tight is one thing. But with someone else’s sweaty thighs? I was repulsed. It must have shown.

  “It ain’t like I got any other options,” she said, placing one hand on her hip and waving the other in such a dramatic flourish I almost laughed at the absurdity of the situation. “Them bitches all left me.”

  I wondered briefly if this was the task that pushed them out the door.

  “Those selfish no-good whores got themselves ready and didn’t do a damned thing to help me. And now here I am, on my wedding day. My day. It’s about me. It’s not about them. They’re lucky I even invited them. I didn’t have to! They oughtta be thanking me! Kissing my ass! Doing all they can to show me some appreciation, don’tcha think?”

  My phone vibrated on my hip, and I ignored it. I knew it was Lillian, but I had no idea what to tell her.

  “Okay,” I said with a deep breath. “Let’s do this.”

  She propped her foot up on the ottoman in the room. I knelt on the carpet to begin the task at hand, taking another deep breath and thinking I truly do not get paid enough to do this.

  I carefully slid one leg of the hose over her French-manicured toes and then over her calloused heel. So far so good. It wigged me out a little to touch someone’s feet, but I kept telling myself to be a professional. To square my shoulders and get it done.

  We made it over her ankle and started up her leg with no problem, but as I got to the largest part of her calf just below the knee, things got more difficult. And awkward.

  When I put on my own hose, I have to start working my fingers all the way around the leg to make sure the hose come up evenly. Not so easy to do on someone else’s leg. I twisted, scooted, and bent my arms like we were playing Twister. All to get the hose over one knee.

  Her legs were slick with perfumed lotion, which didn’t mix well with my own palms damp with nervousness and the sheen of her perspiration. The moisture caused my hands to slip and slide, but it did the opposite for the hose as they adhered to the stickiness and refused to budge.

  To keep from thinking about how this would work above the knee, I went ahead and started on the other leg. Over the toes, up the calf, over the knee. Then we had reached the point of no return. I had to get the hose up her thighs and over her bum.

  My phone vibrated again, and I shut it completely off. I wasn’t sure I could hold my composure on the phone while facing the monumental task ahead of me. Bet
ter to deal with the consequences later and climb the mountain in front of me now.

  It was one of the hardest and most uncomfortable workouts of my entire life. I tugged. I pulled. I did little circles around her on the floor until my knees were carpet burned. All the while praying my fingernails wouldn’t pop through the strained nylon and spark a run.

  Tonya stretched. She danced. She did squats. She wriggled, and jiggled, and wiggled to try and help put everything where it needed to be without the use of her hands.

  “Maybe you could spread your legs a little farther?” I never thought I would ever have occasion to say that to another woman.

  “Wait, no, that pulls the hose tighter,” I said as her balance wobbled from trying to stand at a straddle with the hose around her thighs.

  I strained to wedge my hands between her legs, but there was no space between the fleshy abundance of her upper thighs. We were both outright sweating now, and the scent of us mixed with her lotion nauseated me. It was a nightmare beyond what I could have dreamed up.

  Bit by bit and inch by inch, the hose were slowly coming up, but that meant my hands were slowly getting closer to the nether regions, which I had no desire to reach. I silently prayed a bridesmaid or family member would come walking in. Or a housekeeper. Or an alien. I didn’t care at that point. I did not want to have my hands all up in this girl’s hoohah.

  She grunted and squatted again as I tried to heave the nylon across her dimpled upper thighs. I sighed and sank back on my knees behind her, catching my breath for a moment as I summoned the courage to finish the job.

  It was at this point that she hiked the robe up out of the way.

  Commando.

  No lacy big-girl panties in sight. Nothing. Nada.

  Just The Yellow Rose of Texas fluttering in my face. My hands faltered, and I considered what other jobs I could do if I quit this one at that very moment.

  As I contemplated the need for more specific life goals other than “not ordinary,” Tonya shifted her weight and cleared her throat. I realized I’d been staring at her butt for an awkwardly long pause.

  I took another deep breath and wrangled the nylon past Tonya’s lady parts, determined to finish the deed and get out of that position. Let me tell you, if I never have to do that again, it will be too soon. The material strained as I hoisted it over the fleshiest part of her cheeks and settled it around her midsection. I thought the waistband might cut off my circulation if I didn’t get my fingers out as quickly as possible.

  “Okay, get my dress,” she commanded with a sweep of her arm and a point of her finger, as though completely oblivious to our unfortunate bonding experience and the effect it had on me.

  I walked to the closet in somewhat of a fog, feeling both violated and underappreciated. I slid open the mirrored door and gasped out loud before I could catch myself.

  “Isn’t it beautiful?” Tonya asked. “Custom made. The only one like it in the whole world.”

  “Wow! It’s . . .” I struggled for composure and tried to find any leftover reserves of calm facade and polite bullshit not used up in the nylon project. “Amazing!” was what I finally came up with.

  I could say it was purple, but that would be a tragic understatement. It was more like an optical assault of purple. Shocking brighter-than-you-can-imagine purple. The satin jacket had shoulder pads and huge puffy sleeves that would have done any 80s prom photo proud. The voluminous, floor-length, A-line skirt shimmered with layers of organza over royal purple.

  “Purple’s my favorite color,” she said with a huge smile.

  “Mine too,” I responded, hoping my eyes matched the smile plastered on my face.

  I like purple, I do, but this was a bit much purple. Over the top and then some. Some green to be exact.

  A brilliant emerald-green satin bodice peeked out from underneath the jacket, coordinating with the humongous emerald-green bow and ribbons that trailed down the back of the skirt to the floor. A thin layer of green tulle was gathered around the hips in some sort of ode to a bustle. I had definitely never seen anything like it.

  When the queen for a day was clothed in her royal garb, I handed her the exquisite bouquet from the floral box on the counter and headed for the door.

  “Wait!” she said. “My veil!”

  I felt a little apprehensive to even look in the direction she pointed. With good reason. Plumes of purple feathers waved at me from the Styrofoam head on the corner table. At the base of the feathers was an emerald-green satin hat, surrounded by a pouf of purple tulle barely long enough to cover her face.

  The contrast of the purple veil and green hat against the neon orange of her hair was like Picasso on crack. The entire visage of purple satin, organza, feathers and eye shadow was practically enough to turn me against the hue forever.

  I have always believed every bride should wear a gown reflective of her personality and tastes. I am also a proponent of women of any size being fashionable and stylish. But there is always an exception to every rule. Lines need to be drawn sometimes. It is possible that three hundred pounds of satin and organza in colors vivid enough to produce light may be the place to draw one.

  I loaded Barney the Bride into her elegant carriage, and the driver nudged the horses into action. I considered turning the other way and running. It would take them several minutes to navigate around the pool area and down the long wooden boardwalk that ran along the lake to the beach. I could have been in my car and gone by the time they arrived at the ceremony site and Lillian looked for me. I would still have to see her eventually, though, so I turned my phone on and faced the inevitable.

  She answered after the first ring and yelled into the phone, “Where are you?”

  I had never heard her yell before. Lillian is a formidable lady, fully capable of ripping a person to shreds without a second thought, and she doesn’t even have to raise her voice to do it.

  I didn’t get a chance to answer her.

  “Are we calling the whole bloody thing off, Tylah?” Her British accent sounded even more intimidating when she yelled, dropping the er from my name as she always did.

  “She’s almost there. We, um, hit a little complication,” I answered.

  “What happened? Did you turn your phone off? I’ve been trying to call you and it kept going straight to voice mail. What complication?”

  This wasn’t something I was sure I ever wanted anyone to know about, and it definitely wasn’t anything I was prepared to discuss right then.

  “I’ll explain later. She’ll be there soon.” I hung up on my boss for the second time in one day.

  Tonya’s sweaty wedding guests looked at her with more contempt than joy when she finally pulled up in the carriage, an hour past the time they were put out to fry in the blazing Florida sun. More than a few grumbled and complained loudly, although her groom did manage a smile.

  As I watched at Barney the Bride and her groom, I wondered for the millionth time if there really was someone for everyone. Was this guy some poor, masochistic chump who mistakes abuse for charm? Or was he just as volatile as his bride, an even match in poor health and behavior?

  Maybe they were blissfully happy together. Maybe they were both fortunate enough to have found “the one.” But I’ve learned while doing weddings that just because people are getting married, it doesn’t mean they’re happy.

  Or that they’ll stay married.

  Click here to find out more about Tyler’s diaries and the Tales Behind the Veils series.

  .

  Love Romantic Suspense?

  This lighthearted romantic suspense has a charming paranormal twist! Sloane Reid never believed in ghosts before she met Chelsea. Now she’s trying to solve the mystery the young girl has struggled with since her death. But Sloane can’t solve it alone, and before local deputy Tristan Rogers will help her, she’ll have to convince him she’s not crazy. Or a criminal. As they work together to unlock the secrets of the past, Sloane soon discovers it may be her own life that
needs saving.

  To purchase, visit www.books2read.com/ghostinthecurve

  or www.violethowe.com.

  Photo Credit: Back Cover KLPS

  About the Author

  Violet Howe enjoys writing romance and mystery with humor. She lives in Florida with her husband—her knight in shining armor—and their two handsome sons. They share their home with three adorable but spoiled dogs. When she’s not writing, Violet is usually watching movies, reading, or planning her next travel adventure. You can follow Violet’s ramblings on her blog,

  The Goddess Howe.

  www.violethowe.com

  Facebook.com/VioletHoweAuthor

  @Violet_Howe

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