Bride Has Two Faces: A Wedding Caper Sequel

by Briggs, Laura

  “Hey, Hank, ease off, buddy,” said the bartender, drawing the man back by his collar. “Sorry–he’s a regular these days. Gets a little emotional after a few rounds.”

  Beatrice staggered backwards, out of reach of the slumping figure of Hank. Whose words were burning in her brain, along with the sensation of his fingers on her arm.

  Impossible. Clearly, Hank’s story was a figment of his imagination.

  *****

  “You and I are going to be the best of friends.” Charly gave Beatrice’s shoulders an extra rub after releasing her from a greeting hug. “I just know it.” This, in a little whisper, as her nose crinkled with her trademark smile.

  Beatrice forced herself to relax and smile in return. “Sure,” she answered. “So, shall we get started?” Clutching her planner beneath her arm like a military report arming herself against the enemy.

  They were perfume shopping; not necessarily for the sake of the perfect scent for Charly’s ceremony, but as a way to kill time before meeting the bridal party for lunch. Beatrice anticipated a rush of hugging, squealing girls identical to Charly; herself fending them off with a thin leather portfolio as they stampeded in greeting. Minus Adrien the reserved maid of honor, of course.

  The rest of the bridal party, however, consisted only of a semi-perky crowd: a girl in a pink tank top with manicured nails, two dark-haired girls who could easily be twins, give or take a few dress sizes. All seemed thrilled at the sight of Charly while limiting themselves to warm handshakes for Beatrice. Adrien offered her a polite smile from across the table.

  “This is Beatrice, everybody,” said Charly. “She’s just the most divine wedding planner–really, all Daniel’s idea to hire this dream firm to put things together. Beatrice, this is Clauda and Lisa and Beth, my bridesmaids...”

  As she talked, Beatrice engaged in a second round of handshakes, attempting to match faces and names in her memory. Beth with the impressive double piercing, Lisa wearing a too-tight shirt, a sparkly eyeliner splashed across Clauda’s eyelids in the same shade as her tank top.

  “Beth here is just a wiz at makeup; she’ll be doing mine for the wedding,” said Charly. “I met her when I interviewed for a job at WLET–fingers crossed on that one.” Her fingers were crossed on both hands with these words, her face the adorable squinch of a toddler waiting to blow out birthday candles. Disgustingly adorable in Beatrice’s opinion. But she knew better than to think those things, given their current relationship.

  “I’m doing the invitations and the rehearsal dinner’s flowers,” said Clauda. “Florist training, thank you very much.” She high-fived the girl next to her, Lisa; Beatrice surmised that the two of them were probably close friends asked to be part of the ceremony as a duo, not singularly.

  “And what about you?” said Beatrice to Adrien. “Maid of Honor, so I’m guessing–bridal shower?”

  “Adrien’s busy planning her own wedding,” Lisa answered. “Engaged what– two days after Charly?”

  “Almost a week,” answered Adrien. She was quietly absorbed in dressing her salad. The rest of the bridal party, Beatrice observed, had ordered similar luncheons, making her feel guilty for the chicken sandwich and baked chips she ordered.

  “When’s the wedding?” asked Beatrice.

  “It was going to be the end of this month; but she moved it up for Charly’s big day.” This was uttered by Beth, who was sprinkling pepper over a mound of shredded lettuce.

  Adrien managed a faint smile. “It’s a month away,” she answered. “There’s so much to do–my planner is from a small firm with too many clients, I’m afraid.”

  “But she has Charly to thank for the engagement in the first place,” said Clauda. “I mean, Charly hooked her up with Stefan–like a matchmaker.”

  “I just introduced them, nudged them towards a little dinner date,” said Charly, a modest shrug as she glanced up from the menu. “But Adrien didn’t need any help. What with her good cooking, she was sure to win him over in no time.” The dimple in her cheek reappeared with a sweet smile.

  “I do a cooking segment for WLET,” said Adrien to Beatrice, her voice so low it was almost a whisper. “Stefan was a traveling food critic. He became a columnist for a food magazine this year.”

  “Just think, if Charly gets the job, we’ll all be one big happy family at the studio,” chirped Beth. Beatrice surmised at least two of the girls must be in the news station’s makeup department; Clauda might be in wardrobe.

  “I won’t know for a few weeks,” said Charly, in explanation. “And in the meantime, I’ve got so much to worry about, it’s crazy, isn’t it?” The rest of the table laughed at this statement, except for Adrien, who was checking her text messages.

  “Excuse me,” she said. “I’m afraid there’s a slight issue with my reception site.” With an apologetic smile, she rose from the table and slipped away.

  There was a subtle change at the table afterwards, Beatrice noticed; narrowed eyes following Adrien’s departure, a gimlet stare from Lisa for a split-second.

  “You know, she should be grateful,” said Beth, in a low voice. “I mean, she’s such a cold fish, it’s a wonder Stefan ever fell for her. A guy like him–”

  “It doesn’t matter,” interrupted Charly. “If she wants to show up my big day, what can I do? I just have to grin and bear it. Maybe she’ll realize on her own that this rush to plan her wedding is because of mine.” She took a sip from her water glass and gave Beatrice a halfhearted smile.

  “Anything else, ladies?” Their waiter returned, pencil and pad in hand.

  “A slice of low-fat cheesecake please,” said Charly, whose dampened spirits seemed to disappear with this notion. None of the other girls ordered anything. Beatrice’s appetite for dessert had vanished at this point.

  “At least contending with Adrien’s little drama is better than Gabriella, right?” said Lisa. The rest of the girls let out little murmurs of assent, almost groans of relief to Beatrice’s ears.

  “Gabriella?” repeated Beatrice. “Who’s she?” No one answered; Charly’s smile had become somewhat inscrutable.

  “Oh, she’s just someone I met before,” answered Charly. Nonchalantly, as she dug a dainty bite out of a sliver of lime cheesecake.

  *****

  Gabriella’s name would resurface shortly in Beatrice’s world, at a floral arrangements show for charity. Gwen had recommended it personally to her clients as a great source for elegant centerpieces and a great service to the community, prompting Beatrice to suggest it to Charly.

  “Orchids are big, as always,” Beatrice said, checking off suggestions scribbled in her portfolio as they wove their way through the crowded showcase room. “But given the colors you want, I’d suggest something fresh and white. Like daisies.”

  She indicated a cluster of white petals, the arrangement ornately studded with red cloves. Beside her, Charly studied it with interest, although her eye kept wandering towards showier designs from local florists. Orchids like massive butterflies, bright yellow roses spread blanket-like with ferns fanning along the edges.

  “Daisies, you say, hon?” Charly’s voice sounded faint as she made this statement. In her fingers, she twirled a little red paper flag with her name on it–a marker meant to be staked in her chosen model to mark it as sold. Already, two or three prospective designs which Beatrice had thought would be perfect had been marked by other eager brides.

  “Lilies ... or maybe chrysanthemums?” suggested Beatrice, pointing towards a basket of white blossoms with yellow-tinted tips. Charly’s flyaway blond curls bobbing enthusiastically every time she leaned forward to study the contents of the floral showcases.

  For a girl who claimed to prefer simplicity, Charly’s taste seemed to gravitate towards big and bold when confronted with a choice. Already, she had passed on the menus of the small-grade caterers Beatrice had emailed her, clinging to the upscale bakery whose lemon-lime truffles had impressed Daniel.

  “You know best,” replied C
harly. “I guess I should listen to you with a little more sense, huh?” She moved to squeeze Beatrice’s arm, then paused as she saw something on the other side of their display aisle.

  Beatrice followed her glance. Charly was watching a girl with a dark brown, bobbing ponytail, a slender figure encased in a bright purple knit top and fitted jeans. The girl’s brown hands were gesturing enthusiastically as she chatted with one of the event’s volunteers, motioning occasionally towards an elegant centerpiece behind glass, a large basket of bud roses and yellow-speckled lilies.

  “Who is it?” asked Beatrice, half-expecting another bridesmaid to be revealed.

  “That’s Gabriella Cortez,” she answered. “She’s getting married the same week I am–we met at a couple of parties. Mutual friends and all that.” She snapped open a compact from her purse and checked her lipstick. “We had a little misunderstanding. See, she got the church I was supposed to have for the ceremony. Actually, she told them she was making the change at my request.”

  “Ouch,” said Beatrice, feeling a slight pang of sympathy for Charly. “Thus, the reason for the new site. Bride wars can be pretty tough.”

  “I know,” Charly said, snapping it closed. “That’s why we have to play this cool. Gabriella’s got an eentsy bit of temper.”

  Beatrice frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Just go on and talk to her, now,” said Charly. “Go on.” She nudged Beatrice in the direction of the bride on the opposite side of the glass. Obediently, Beatrice stumbled forward, despite the growing reluctance she felt.

  As she turned the corner, she saw Gabriella up close. The slender woman was shaking hands with the volunteer, who moved on to another prospective customer.

  Beatrice forced a smile to her face. “Ms. Cortez?” she said. “I’m Beatrice Bailey. From Creative Coordination, the wedding firm.”

  Gabriella’s face had been smiling up to this point; but her gaze became shuttered at these words.

  “Who’s your client?” she asked.

  “Actually, it’s Charlene Conners–” she began, taking a deep breath. Gabriella scowled.

  “Charlene Conners–that girl who stole my wedding theme?” the girl demanded. “Do you feel lucky, working for a woman who takes other people’s ideas for her own?”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Beatrice, feeling a little apprehension. “I just thought I’d be friendly and say hello.” Or be psychotic and get myself into this mess, she thought.

  “Well, you can tell your client to keep her ‘friendly’ wedding planner to herself, since I don’t want any more trouble.” There was a smirk on Gabriella’s face as she said these words. Beatrice could see Charly’s curls bobbing just behind them as she conversed with one of the volunteers.

  “Trouble?” repeated Beatrice. “Trust me, I’m not interested in causing trouble–”

  “Then why don’t you get back to your client?” suggested Gabriella.

  “Let Charlene talk to you about this–” said Beatrice. By now, Charly was behind them, a sweet smile on her face.

  “Why, Gabriella,” she said. “How nice to see you again. Having a good time here?”

  It was then that Beatrice noticed the little flag was no longer in Charly’s hand. Instead, it was implanted in the rose and lily display behind them, a volunteer closing the glass case again to protect it.

  Gabriella turned, her eyes flickering from the volunteer’s movements to the plastic flag, a look of white rage appearing as she glanced at Charly.

  “You stole my centerpiece!” she snarled. Charly’s eyes widened innocently.

  “They’re all up for grabs, sweetie,” she said. “I didn’t see any tag in it.”

  “You knew I was looking at it,” hissed Gabriella, “that’s why you sent your spy over–”

  “Whoa, whoa,” Beatrice interjected. “I didn’t–”

  “Did she come up with this plan–or did you? You conniving creep–”

  “Now, those aren’t very nice names, Gabriella,” answered Charly. “All I did was plant a little old plastic flag–”

  Gabriella’s hand made contact with Charly’s shoulder, shoving her backwards, almost against the glass case. Beatrice tried to grab the bright purple sleeve, only to feel Gabriella’s elbow make sharp contact with her ribs. The breath whooshed out of Beatrice’s chest–the bride was small, but her muscles were apparently swift and strong.

  “You watch yourself!” said Charly. Her voice sounded scolding as she slapped at Gabriella’s hand.

  “Don’t you dare hit me!” The two brides were facing off, hands raised like cats preparing for a slap fight, their voices taking on a slightly snarled tone.

  Drawing her breath in swiftly, Beatrice straightened herself and seized Charly’s arm. “Let’s move on,” she suggested in a grunting tone as she tried to hold her client back from her rival. A volunteer grabbed Gabriella’s elbow as her hand swung in Charly’s direction again. The raised voices had attracted the attention of several other attendees, who were watching with keen interest.

  “Ladies, ladies,” scolded the volunteer. “That is enough! I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

  “Please, ma’am,” Charly began. “It was just a misunderstanding–”

  “Then I suggest you resolve this immediately by leaving,” said the volunteer. Another nametagged person was holding Beatrice and Charly insistently by the elbows, drawing them away. A glowering Gabriella was now engaged in a heated debate with the volunteer, pointing towards the display case with vehemence.

  A few feet away, Charly straightened her jacket. “Well, that turned out all right,” she said to Beatrice. Who stared at her with surprise.

  “What do you mean?” said Beatrice. “I think you just made Gabriella an enemy for life.”

  “She didn’t like me before now,” said Charly, scoldingly. “Just because I picked out some flowers she liked doesn’t mean she’ll hate me anymore. Maybe now she’ll see that this thing is a two-way street. Maybe she’ll think twice before she snatches something else from my wedding plans.”

  She took hold of Beatrice’s arm and maneuvered her in the direction of the door. “Come on,” she said. “We need a little lunch before we make any more decisions.”

  She gave Beatrice’s arm a little squeeze. “I will say, you were right about those lilies, weren’t you?” With a little giggle as she pushed open the door to the street outside. Blood seemed to be pounding in Beatrice’s head as she hurried to catch up with her client. Despite the sound of traffic, the only sound she could hear was the hoarse whisper of Hank, the drunk from the pub. She’s a monster ...

  *****

  “Is planning a wedding the stuff of your dreams yet?” asked Gwendolen, puffing slightly as they rounded the corner of the path. “Or is it a nightmare?” She glanced at Beatrice with a breathless laugh, brushing aside loose strands of blond hair.

  “It’s great,” said Beatrice, grateful that her gasps covered the hollow tone behind this reply as she paused to lean against a tree

  They were jogging through the park for this meeting, since Gwendolen was fond of meeting her senior planners in more interesting ways than sitting in her office. Beatrice’s athletic tendencies might have made her appreciate this gesture, if it wasn’t for the fact she wanted to avoid the subject of her pending promotion.

  It was just a mild case of bridezilla rivalry. That’s what she told herself. The only cure would be reasoning with Charly on the issue of Gabriella. After all, her client seemed reasonably intelligent despite the bubbly laugh and the dimples. A little pointed reminder might be enough.

  “Do you like your clients?” Gwen asked. “That’s half the battle in this work, you know. Liking the person who’s wedding you’re planning–even if they’re a handful.” Beatrice’s eye was drawn to the hand resting on Gwendolen’s knee as she leaned forward, the stone glinting in the sunlight.

  “I guess you don’t have to care as much,” sai
d Beatrice. “You have someone to go home to, right?”

  “It still matters, trust me,” said Gwen. “So in your case–”

  “Charly’s nice,” said Beatrice. “That’s what she said to call her. Charly.” Actually, Charlene had never said this, but Beatrice felt it was implied since her client seemed to shun professional titles.

  “My first client was ... a little challenging,” said Gwendolen. “It was a rough ordeal, believe me. I was planning a ceremony for a bride too busy with studies and fun to take the time to plan it herself. And her mother–I was on my stiletto shoes’ toes every second," she laughed.

  “Was it a big success?” asked Beatrice. “Your first client?”

  Gwen hesitated. “I opened my own firm because of it,” she answered. “I think that says enough.” She slid her arm around Beatrice’s shoulders and steered her onto the pathway again.

  “Just be careful, Beatrice,” she said, as they struck up a brisk walk on the running path. “Remember to keep your head in the game, but not your heart. Understood? Because that’s the only way you can make a wedding come out perfectly when the disasters start piling up.”

  “Disasters,” said Beatrice. “Got it.” In her mind, she pictured a stream of angry brides swarming her from every dress shop and bakery, pelting her and Charly with baked goods and blossoms as they ran away. Her new “best friend” a flying veil of blond curls sprinting towards escape.

  “If you need anything, then come see me,” said Gwendolen. “I mean it, Beatrice. After all, we want this ceremony to have a happy ending and a promotion for you. Right?”

  Beatrice nodded. "Right." The walk became a sprint as her feet picked up their old pace, chin raised in determination as she visualized the problem of chastening her client.

  This afternoon was the opportunity for saying something, she imagined. Trailing along behind Charly and Adrien in a dress shop in search of bridal party attire, her leather brogans picked their way through a fallen pile of chiffon.