Never the Bride

by Rene Gutteridge

“One of us needs to be at work right now! Why aren’t we at work?” I throw on a yellow blouse and appear in front of her. “What about this? How does this look?”

  “Canary-ish.”

  “Then help me! Help me pick out something!”

  “Good grief calm down, woman. What is the occasion?”

  “It’s…it’s hard to explain. I’m going to a wedding chapel.”

  She sets down the toothbrush and moves past me into the closet. “Okay midday wedding, you’ll want a spaghetti strap—”

  “No, it’s not a wedding. At least I don’t think so. I can’t—I can’t look like I’m showing up for a wedding, even if there is one, because then I look desperate. Do you know what I mean?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  We stare at each other for a moment, and then Brooklyn spots something in my closet. She grabs a pair of black slacks. “Here. Dull for me but wears well on you. Add that aqua, sleeveless number right there and you’ll be fine.”

  “Really?” I quickly shove myself into them. “This is good?”

  “Come on. To the bathroom. Let’s do your hair and add some makeup.”

  “I don’t have time!” I protest, but then I look in the mirror and realize I better make some time.

  “Here, put this cream on.”

  “What’s it for?”

  “Your face.”

  “I know that. But I don’t need—”

  “Trust me, you do. Now let me fix your hair.” I dab on the cream as I watch Brooklyn pull my hair back. She finishes, and I’m not kidding, I look worse than when I got up.

  “Brooklyn, what did you do? My hair looks all tangled and pieces are falling out and—”

  “It’s called a messy ponytail. Trust me, it’s a good look. It makes you look sexy.”

  “It looks like I didn’t try to fix my hair at all.”

  “Exactly. Now, let’s go with a light gloss.” She swipes some across my lips, but I can’t really get my eyes off my hair.

  “I just don’t know. I mean, it looks like I got up but my hair stayed in bed.”

  “Sis,” she says, turning to me. “Do you trust me?”

  “No.”

  “But am I a fashionista?”

  “Yes.”

  “Maybe I’m wrong about this, but by the way you’re acting, I’m thinking there’s a guy involved, right?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. It’s…complicated.”

  “You look fabulous. You’re screaming, ‘I’m sexy without trying.’”

  “I’m more comfortable with, ‘I’m trying not to be sexy.’”

  “Just go! It’s twenty till.”

  “Oh!” I rush downstairs, grab my bag, and run to catch the trolley.

  I like the trolley. Aside from the fumes that seep in, it’s a nice ride. The seats are comfortable and face inward so you don’t have to turn to look out a window. An elderly couple sits across from me. The woman is fussing over the man’s collar, and he lets her. Afterward he pats her lightly on the cheek, and they go back to watching the scenery pass by.

  “Red Tile District, next stop.” The trolley slows and two other people get off with me.

  As I step off the trolley I think at first I hear God clapping for me. But no. Turns out it’s a clap of thunder, and before I’m on the sidewalk, it’s pouring.

  “Show-off,” I mumble. Just like God to make sure I’m incapable of hiding behind hair, makeup, and somewhat stylish clothing. Though I think my hair might’ve actually improved.

  Heavy with extra water weight, I drag myself toward the chapel. It’s getting cold and I feel myself shiver, but maybe that’s just anticipation.

  The chapel is small, known mostly for impromptu weddings. A few celebrities have made their mistakes here. It’s always open but mostly bare, probably so people won’t steal things. I look around and I’m alone, so I sit in a pew near the back and listen to the rain let up.

  Perfect timing for the rain. Of course. God has an ornery side. My dad always used to tell me God had a sense of humor, but I never believed him. What kind of God would steal parents away?

  I never did much asking why me when my parents died. I wasn’t the only kid who’d lost her parents. Why not me? A stretch of bad luck was easier to swallow than a God who decided it was their time to go. A well-meaning old woman told me at the funeral that my parents were so special that God wanted them in heaven with Him. I remember thinking that was the most selfish thing I had ever heard.

  I try to squeeze the moisture out of my hair and shirt. It’s really no use. I’m drenched and there’s no hiding it. The question is, what am I doing here? And why is He so late?

  I hear the door creak open. Strange. Usually He doesn’t use doors.

  I turn and He’s smiling at me and about to say something, but I cut Him off. “Don’t even ‘hi’ me.” I stand up. “First of all, not funny. I mean, if You had to bring rain, why not drop a hint and tell me to grab an umbrella?” I walk toward Him. “Second, You’re late. I realize you have Your ‘business’ to run, but since You ‘own’ Your own ‘business,’ You can be wherever You want, whenever You want.” I hold up my hand to stop Him from interrupting. “Third, You better make this quick because I have to get to work. As You might recall, I have a small business to run, and if it doesn’t run, I might be sleeping on the streets. So…” I pause. I smile, because He’s still smiling at me, with a look of amazement on His face. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be, you know, me so much. I get a little wound up. So…what are we doing here?”

  “Well, hello, you two.” The voice comes from behind me. I whirl around to find a minister walking up the aisle, black robe and all. He’s grinning expectantly. “What can I help you with today?”

  I realize something. “Wait a minute. “You two?” You can see Him?” I pitch a thumb behind me.

  God looks unnaturally surprised, but not as surprised as the minister, who is looking at God and nodding.

  I throw up my arms and laugh. “Oh, right. Of course. You’re a man of God. You two probably meet on a regular basis.” I cross my arms and smile at God. “So? What’s going on here? Is there a special reason we’re here or is it just to chat?”

  God smiles. A little. I’ve never seen Him smile a little. Usually He’s either not smiling or He’s giving it His all. God glances back and forth between me and the minister. “I just stepped in to get out of the rain.” He is now looking at me. “It’s still raining. Maybe we could sit and chat.”

  I feel myself growing a little angry. “You didn’t bring anyone with You?”

  “Bring anyone?”

  “You know what? Forget it. You two have fun chatting. I have to go to work. And blog or something.” I march out, pushing the door hard as I exit. Not surprisingly, it’s sunny. The pavement is still wet, though, and it splashes on my ankles as I return to the trolley stop.

  Is it just me, or is God playing head games?

  fifteen

  Enter.

  Enter.

  Enter.

  But no amount of pounding on the Enter key will get the error message off my computer screen. It has, however, gotten Malia’s attention. She’s staring at me over her book.

  “I’m fine!” I say loudly, before she has a chance to ask.

  “You sure you’re okay?”

  I roll my eyes. What did I just say? But then again, this is Clay’s proposal day, and Malia knows, deep down inside, I’m not fine. I simmer down as I hear the bell ring, indicating a customer has come in. Malia leaves her counter to go attend. A lump forms in my throat. Why can’t anything go right?

  Enter.

  Enter.

  Enter.

  “I hear if you spit on it, that works.” Malia now stands above me, smiling.

  I can’t smile back. “I’ve got to get this proposal video online. In an hour this guy is planning to get his girl to the Web site we made for her. It’s on the computer, but it won’t link to the site.”

 
“Call Fine Computer Techs. That’s what we hire them for.”

  “Okay. Maybe.”

  “Don’t you need to get to the beach for Clay’s proposal?”

  “Yes.”

  A long pause indicates she’s hoping not to have to state the obvious. She rubs my back in small circles, then says, “Brooklyn’s already there.”

  “I know.”

  Malia wraps her arms around my shoulders, leaning over me like a protective mother bird. “Jess, remember what we talked about? What did we nickname him?”

  I know exactly what she’s talking about, and I’m glad she knows without my saying what is bugging me. “Wet Clay,” I say quietly.

  “Why?”

  “Because he’s not formed, not designed right—not for me.”

  “That’s it.”

  I groan and start composing an e-mail for those Fine Techs. “And I bet you’re going to tell me that today is a day worth celebrating.”

  “Like a graduation from him,” she says.

  I turn in my chair to face her, and she steps back to give me some space. “Malia, when is this all going to stop?”

  “What?” she asks.

  “Trying to turn every negative thing in my life into something positive. Every lost love is ‘just an opportunity for better love.’ Every loser boyfriend is ‘just proof I’m too good for him.’ It’s getting pathetic. People are running out of things to say excuses for me and my wretched love life.”

  “You know that book I’m reading?”

  “The one where the woman gets her man?”

  “Yes. Remember, it takes four hundred five pages to get there. Gracelynn-Danielle Trubeau is falling for all the wrong guys through the whole story. Finally she wakes up to what is right in front of her.”

  I turn back to my e-mail message. “Yeah, well, with a name like Gracelynn-Danielle, you’d expect her to have some identity crises.”

  “All I’m saying is that your ‘finally’—it’s coming, honey. I know it.”

  “Maybe. But I’m thinking it’s going to be more of a War and Peace page count, if you know what I mean.”

  Malia squeezes my arm. “I better let you get back to work.”

  I shoot off the e-mail to the computer company. I start to grab my things when an alert announces I have a new comment on my blog.

  From JessieFan!

  I apparently need some help winning a girls heart…got any advice?

  I collect my purse, briefcase, keys, and phone and walk to my car. Do I have any advice? Hahahahaha. More than I’m certain he needs. But I like this guy. He seems genuine, willing to go the extra mile. I compose a note to him in my head as I drive.

  Dear JessieFan,

  In order to win a girl’s heart, you need to find out what’s in it. Novel concept, isn’t it?

  No, take out “novel concept.” This guy doesn’t need sarcasm. I try again.

  Think of her like a treasure. One worth digging through all the muck to get to the beauty.

  Too Pirates of the Caribbean—ish? I mean, maybe he’s the one person on earth who isn’t impressed with Jack Sparrow. Okay, let’s try an entirely different approach.

  Find out what her little-girl dream is, what she always hoped to do with you once you found her. Did she dream of sitting with you on a porch swing night after night? On your white veranda? Find a way to give it to her.

  Yes. I like that. I’m on a roll.

  Does she have a favorite treat? Say, like, dark chocolate M&M’s? What’s her flower? Don’t go standard. For example, I’m not a roses girl. Give me daisies. And uncover her favorite song. A guy could melt me with “I Only Have Eyes for You.”

  And with that, I pull up to the pier, where I’m helping a man propose who didn’t only have eyes for me. Sometimes my life is so stinking ironic.

  Brooklyn is rushing toward me. “Where have you been?”

  “Sorry. Had trouble putting up that Web site. How’s it going?”

  “I think okay. I’m pretty sure I have everything in place.” She’s looking around, one hand gripping a pencil, the other a clipboard. I study her, and my heart sort of swells with pride. She’s being so responsible. I pull her into an unexpected hug.

  “Uh…what?” she asks, her words smothered by my shoulder.

  I can’t stop hugging her. Finally she pulls away. “What’s wrong?” “Nothing.” I smile.

  She eyes me as she hands me my walkie-talkie. “Jess, you’ve got to focus. A lot has to go right here.”

  “I know.” I snap to attention. “Where’s the boat guy?”

  “He’s over there. He’s waiting for you. I gave him the hundred-dollar bill.”

  “Hi, this is Jessie,” I say into my walkie-talkie. “Can you hear me?”

  The boatman waves to me. “Ten-four, little lady.”

  I wave back. “Okay, I’m thinking about twenty yards out. Let’s try it and see how it looks.”

  “Gotcha.” He pulls away from the dock.

  Brooklyn grabs my arm. “I’m going to go get the balloons and tell the camera guy where we want him to hide.”

  “Perfect.” I glance at my watch. “We’re about ten minutes out. Clay should be texting me pretty soon. We need to stay in touch, okay?”

  “Okay.” Brooklyn rushes off.

  I’m standing on the small hill near the pier, watching the boat maneuver into place. The sun is setting perfectly behind him. The water sparkles like expensive champagne, and the breeze blows my hair off my face and shoulders. Everything is perfect for this proposal. “Even the weather is cooperating,” I mumble.

  My phone vibrates. It’s Clay texting me. R 5 MIN OUT. I put the walkie-talkie to my mouth. “Clay just texted. They’ll be here in five. Everyone, stand by.”

  I turn and gasp. God is back. In my personal space, no less. I take a moment to catch my breath. “Why did You send me to that chapel?” I try not to sound hostile, but I feel that way.

  He doesn’t answer, but I don’t really give Him time, either.

  “Besides, of course, to get a chance to prove You do, indeed, control the weather. Like now, for instance. Perfect weather. You and Clay must be tight.”

  “I was trying to do something for you.”

  “Really.” I study Him. “What?”

  “It didn’t go according to My plan.”

  “No? Because I thought the rain shower was so perfectly timed.”

  He steps even closer, a gentle but serious expression on His face. “So I’m giving you another chance.”

  “I’m kind of busy right now.” I gesture to the water. And the balloons. And the pier.

  He doesn’t look at any of it. “Go to the twenty-four-hour Laundromat at State Street, and wash your clothes at eight o’clock tonight.”

  “I have a washer and dryer at my condo.” I fold my arms. “Why would I—”

  “You wouldn’t.” He smiles. “But then again, I do have custody of the pen.” He turns and begins walking away.

  “Hey! When you were knitting me in the womb, did it ever occur to You to knit me some blond hair?”

  “No,” He says, without looking back.

  “Jessie!” I whirl around and Brooklyn’s running up to me. She’s out of breath. “Where have you been? I’ve been looking everywhere for you! I’ve tried calling you on your walkie-talkie and—”

  I hold it up. It’s turned off. It can’t be said enough—He does like my undivided attention.

  “Come on!” Brooklyn says, tugging at my arm. “It’s time!”

  We race down the hill and take our hiding spots. I can see Clay’s car coming toward us, a trail of dust behind him on the gravel road.

  “Jess, two o’clock,” whispers Brooklyn into the walkie-talkie. “Coming toward ya.”

  They park and get out of the BMW. Clay and I always thought it was funny that we both drove Beemers. The only difference is that he’s the kind of guy that wears his like an emblem.

  I haven’t seen Gwyne in a long time…except in
my nightmares. She’s taller than I remember, plus her hair has grown out. It’s long, falling down her back in perfect golden waves. She removes her oversized shades and swings her oversized handbag onto her undersized arm. Clay takes her hand, grinning wide enough for a satellite to pick up the glow off his newly whitened teeth.

  They are talking as they walk to the pier. A small crowd is there; really the perfect number of onlookers. Not crowded, but enough to make her the center of attention.

  I take a deep breath. Timing is critical. I focus and give the cue for the flare.

  A pop and then a whistle causes everyone to look up. The red flare shoots into the sky and reflects against the water.

  Clay takes Gwyne’s hand and pulls her toward the end of the pier.

  She hesitates. “Clay what are we doing here?”

  I glance at the cameraman. He’s following it all with precision. “Okay cue banner,” I say into the walkie-talkie.

  The boat captain raises the banner. In big, black, and—I dare say slightly obnoxious—fancy lettering, it reads, Marry Me, Gwyne. I Love You. Clay

  As if I’ve cued the bystanders, they all start oohing and aahing as they watch Clay turn to Gwyne. He reaches for her arms, then squeezes her hands. But she’s still looking at the banner.

  Maybe she’s a slow reader.

  “Clay?” she says. But it’s not so much what she says as how she looks—like she’s a first-hand witness to a tsunami rolling in. “Clay?”

  Clay drops to one knee and lets go of her hands to pull out a box from his shirt pocket. Gwyne’s eyes are so wide it looks like she’s about to put in contact lenses. She’s clutching her heart but not in an endearing way. If I didn’t know better, I might call for a doctor.

  My attention shifts to Clay. He’s still grinning, his teeth gleaming in all their glory, but the rest of his face is so strained and tense, the grin looks more like a grimace.

  “Marry me?” he squeaks, down on his knee, back straight as a board, one arm extended with the ring, the other behind him like a perfect gentleman.

  Gwyne puts her hand to her mouth, shakes her head, cries, looks like she needs a wastebasket.

  “Oh no…,” I groan.