Bride Has Two Faces: A Wedding Caper Sequel

by Briggs, Laura

  “Of course,” said Beatrice. “First thing in the morning.”

  “Good,” sighed Charly. She closed her eye again.

  On the phone and dealing with a wedding planner instead of a distraught bride, the baker sounded less friendly.

  “She’ll have to pay for the damaged display cake,” he said. “No two ways about it–”

  “But can we at least talk about the lemon part?” asked Beatrice. “My client would be willing to pay–more–if she could have it.” Crossing her fingers that this part was true.

  “Nothin’ doin’. It’s vanilla or bust. Tell your client I have a waiting list long as my arm and wouldn’t have even given her consideration if it wasn’t for how good your firm’s been to us ...”

  “Right, Vincent, I understand.” With a groan, Beatrice hung up. Clearly, Charly was going to have to live with a vanilla cake. A piece of news she dreaded breaking to her, given the swift transition the bride made between thrilled and threatening on these occasions.

  How long before the psycho side of Charly’s nature was directed at her? Until now, she’d been nice enough, but that might not last. Beatrice shuddered at the thought. How could Daniel not see this–how could he have avoided Charly’s temper this long?

  She buried her face in her hands. She had to do something about this. She just wasn’t sure what it would be at this moment. This was the kind of warning Gwendolen Miller had forgotten to relate to her potential senior planner.

  *****

  The boutique bridal dress run was not Beatrice’s idea, nor was it the suggestion of her boss–had Gwendolen ever dreamed anything like this up, Beatrice would have quit the firm on the spot. Hordes of screaming brides racing towards a single store, trampling people in their path, was the complete opposite of her personal tastes.

  Charly was the one who suggested it. Adrien had read a story on a mother and daughter who teamed up to help snag each others’ perfect dresses.

  “Of course, we’re not related, but I thought it would be fun,” said Charly, over the phone. “If you’re not busy on Saturday, we’ll make it a girl’s day. Grab a dress, have lunch somewhere afterwards. Lunch is on me. What do you say?”

  Say no. Beatrice raced for an excuse to avoid Daniel’s bride in any capacity except work.

  “I think the bridal run is a little ... overdone,” she answered. “After all, it’s a big risk. Getting a dress you want, I mean...”

  “No, it’s not, silly,” Charly said. “I’ve already staked the best one. A friend of mine who works there hid it at the bottom of the pile up for grabs and all I have to do is pull it out once we’re inside. Like a covert mission only without the danger, huh?”

  Covert missions would appeal to Charly, Beatrice surmised. As would something as primal as the bridal dress run. The possibility of danger might be minimized by the man on the inside, but Beatrice felt the same doubts that prompted her to uncover Charly’s questionable homecoming crown.

  “I would’ve thought Lisa or Beth would be better at this than me,” said Beatrice, envisioning one of the perky bridesmaids helping fend off desperate brides from the pile. “This sounds more like a bridal party event to me.”

  “But they’re working this weekend and you’re not,” pleaded Charly. “Besides, I want to spend as much time as I can with you. Daniel seems to think you’re just the best thing in the wedding business.”

  A quote which sounded strange to Beatrice, imagining Daniel waxing eloquent on her work. She detected nothing in Charly’s voice but her normal perky tones.

  “Come on–I owe you lunch anyway for being such a doll about planning that weekend for my parents. I’ll pay your entrance fee for the run–and it’s for a good cause.” The lilt in Charly’s voice was meant to entice, a sing-song quality. “Who knows? You might see a dress for when you meet that special someone.”

  Unlikely, in Beatrice’s estimation. This whole experience sounded horrifying–so what on earth was she doing here, on a Saturday, braced at the starting line beside Charly?

  “Now, remember–just keep pushing towards the door,” said Charly, in a low voice. “I know exactly where the dress is, don’t worry.”

  “Me? I’m not worried.” Beatrice pulled her ball cap lower over her eyes, hoping no one in this crowd was a client of the firm who might recognize her, in case things went wrong. She wore leggings and a t-shirt reading “Rock Rules” (the geological, not the musical) along with running shoes, but Charly had entered the spirit of things with a cheap white dress and lacy sneakers. Other brides around them were similarly attired in homemade wedding gowns or thrift shop purchases.

  “So what’s the dress like?” she asked. Trying to picture Charly in something glamorous, even as jealousy nipped at her thoughts.

  “Ivory satin, sleeveless with a sequined bodice,” answered Charly, mechanically. “I thought it was divine the moment I saw it in the shop window when me and Adrien were out browsing around.”

  “Ivory,” repeated Beatrice, slowly. “Isn’t that Adrien’s–”

  “Don’t look.” Charly seized her elbow, interrupting her in the middle of the sentence. “I think those two women over there are partners, too. See the way they positioned themselves? They’re angling to cut off the rest of the group from the right.” Beatrice nodded in response, her glance drifting in the direction of two women sharply focused on the stretch of sidewalk ahead.

  If only she were at home in bed at eight o’ clock on a Saturday morning. If only Barrie’s Boutique hosted its charity mad dash on a Wednesday afternoon, when she would be safe at work. If only–

  The starter’s pistol had a report unlike the gunshots Beatrice heard in the distance from her apartment, but the reaction of the bridal crowd was equal to the panic of people witnessing a crime. She felt herself propelled forward by a rush of cheap tulle and rayon. Charly was tugging on her elbow, practically dragging her into a sprint.

  “Run, for heaven’s sake!” screamed Charly. She thrust her elbow into the stomach of the nearest bride, who doubled over briefly as she clutched her midriff. Ahead, a bride tripped over another’s makeshift veil of stapled coffee filters.

  Charly’s sneakers dashed over the pavement as if it were on fire and the only escape lay ahead. Puffing, Beatrice raced to catch up with her despite her habit of walking or running almost daily. Apparently the drive of the athletic runner had nothing on a woman desperate for a designer gown.

  Another bride fell victim to a thrust from Charly’s knee, landing a woman in a white pants suit face down on the pavement. She was vicious, efficient, and completely focused–Beatrice began to wonder what her purpose was in this crowd as she dodged a blow from a heavyset bride armed with a tissue paper bouquet.

  Charly had joined the pack of brides in the lead, a crowd of swift, thin figures dashing through the doors first to the pile of dresses. They plunged headfirst into the tulle as the employees stationed nearby prepared to congratulate each bride on her choice.

  Beatrice pushed her way through the doors, ducking beneath the arms of a bride attempting to block others from entering. The steady stream of traffic moving inward bore Beatrice along towards the tide of dresses. Her breath came in short gasps as she stumbled over an abandoned satin gown tossed aside, her sneakers narrowly avoiding the tissue-paper train of another runner.

  Charly rose from the pile like a fish popping to the surface of a pond, her hands filled with the shimmery folds of an ivory-colored gown. Another pair of hands were locked onto the skirt with a death-like grip. A pair of shapely brown hands connected to a slender bride in a child’s dress-up veil.

  Gabriella and Charly locked eyes with loathing, the dress between them like a tug-of-war rope.

  “Let go!” hissed Charly.

  “Not on your sweet life, babe,” snapped Gabriella. “Last time was the last time I lost out to you.” She gave the dress a yank which practically pulled Charly into the fast-diminishing pile of dresses.

  “Pick another one!” sc
reamed Charly. Since her rival didn’t release it on cue, she dove at her across the fabric pile. With a shriek, Gabriella vanished from sight, tumbling over the heap of gowns into the floor below.

  With a sense of panic, Beatrice leaped into the fray, forcing her way past the mob of brides. She caught a glimpse of Gabriella pinned on the floor beneath Charly, whose fingers were alternately trying to pry the dress free from her rival’s grip and strangle her rival by her turtleneck collar. Gabriella dug her fingers into Charly’s shoulders, one hand gripping the flyaway blond curls like a handful of grass.

  “Get off me!” Gabriella’s voice was muffled by the dress fabric. Beatrice seized Charly’s cheap satin gown only to feel a strong resistance from her client. A shower of sequined buttons popped under pressure, revealing a cheap zipper beneath.

  “Give it up, you thief!” demanded Charly, just as Gabriella successfully flipped her over, towed along by her grip on the dress. Beatrice tried to force her arm between them as they struggled.

  “Let it go, Charly,” she gasped. With one arm wrapped around her client’s waist, she tugged her upwards. Charly yanked free of her, then wrenched the dress free from Gabriella’s hands with a triumphant grin.

  “Mine,” she said, brandishing it by the hanger. “Sorry, Ms. Cortez.” Pushing her way towards the sales assistants, she seemed not to notice or care as Beatrice followed.

  “Charly,” said Beatrice. Her client was squealing excitedly as the sales clerk tagged the garment.

  “Of course, you’ll have to be measured in order to receive this gown in your size,” chirped the clerk. “Due to the volume of participants, of course, it won’t be ready until–”

  “I know, I know,” said Charly, interrupting the spiel. “I’ll be back for fittings by next week, I promise.” She stuffed the return ticket into her purse just before she was shoved aside by the next successful bride.

  The room looked like a war zone in white as Beatrice picked her way through the ruins in pursuit of her client. She caught a glimpse of the wounded slumped in chairs or near the now-empty bargain table. A girl in a torn sateen dress moaned as she clutched her arm, while another inspected a long facial cut in a nearby mirror.

  Outside, Charly was making her way towards a cab parked on the curb for its passengers to disembark. Beatrice caught up with her, amazed that her client’s blond curls were still perfectly in place after the scene within.

  “Charly, I think this has gone too far,” she said. When her client didn’t respond, she seized her elbow, turning the blond’s face towards her own. “I’m serious.”

  “About what?” Charly sounded confused.

  “About this whole ... bridezilla thing,” answered Beatrice, sounding confused herself. What was she supposed to say? Charly seemed completely unaware that there was anything wrong with what just happened, with what happened any of the times in the past.

  “You’re running over everyone to get what you want,” she said. “Now, I know it’s not my place to say that, but I have to be honest. I don’t want you to ... hurt yourself. Or Daniel, for that matter.”

  “No one was fatally injured back there, relax,” Charly answered, in a scolding tone. “I’m not going to hurt myself–”

  “I don’t just mean physically–I mean in terms of reputation,” Beatrice pressed on. “What about that job you want at the station? I mean, if they saw you in a situation like this morning–or that day at the bakery, for instance.”

  “What, Beatrice?” Charly interrupted her. “What would they think? Any less than they think of someone like Gabriella Cortez for stealing my first reception site?”

  Beatrice sighed. “I’m just concerned–”

  Charly pinched her cheek. “Then stop being concerned,” she answered. “I can take care of Daniel and myself, thank you very much.” As she spoke, she glanced at the car parked next to them, a gleaming red Porsche.

  “You know,” she said, softly. “I’ve seen that car before.” A funny smile appeared on her lips. Beatrice’s eyes widened with anticipation of what was happening.

  “Charly,” she began, warningly. But her client’s fingers deftly removed a handful of keys from her purse. She raked one across the car’s paint, a trail of teeth marks criss-crossed in a jagged path that tore through the gleaming red paint.

  “There you go, Ms. Cortez,” she declared, brightly, then turned to Beatrice. “Well, shall we have lunch now? There’s this little cafe I’ve been dying to try...” Stuffing the keys back into her purse, she trotted towards the idling cab, hand waving as her torn dress billowed in the breeze.

  ****

  “I should definitely quit this wedding,” Beatrice mumbled to herself. “I should tell Gwendolen to just cut me loose. I could be planting trees now if I’d stuck to my original plan...”

  The car she borrowed from Mindy at the firm was a rattling hatchback which had seen too many miles on the road. The gear shift resisted when she forced it into reverse; the engine rumbled suspiciously as it wound its way up the mountain road.

  Her purpose this weekend was not to hide in a rustic cabin, but to have a serious heart-to-heart with a friend. Daniel, specifically. Because she was firmly convinced by now he had no clue about the alternate version of his fiancé’s personality.

  “She’s manipulative, Daniel,” she said, her hands gripping the steering wheel tighter. “She says things that sound nice, but aren’t. She treats people like dirt sometimes–ever see the way she talks to a sales clerk, for instance?”

  She envisioned him standing before her, looking concerned. Hands on his hips, a look of intense concentration, the expression on his face she remembered from late-night study sessions in the library.

  “There’s more, Daniel. She’s kind of dangerous. If someone gets between her and the thing she wants, she’ll do whatever it takes to shove them aside–is that what you want in a future wife?”

  This conversation had taken a way too personal turn; with a flush, she remembered a similar argument before she left WUNY. Although that time, she was making the case about herself.

  “You’re rushing things,” she had argued, as she rolled her posters awkwardly for the packing box. “I’m not as mature as you. I’m definitely not as responsible–”

  “But you could be.” He was sitting on the foot of her bed, watching her with a hurt expression that she did her best to ignore. “What we have is something great, Beatrice. I think we should give it a chance.”

  She pulled the thumbtacks from the constellation postcards he had given her, fingering their edges gently. “I don’t think I have the qualities you think I do,” she said. "I'm not the kind of person you're looking for ... as someone you want to spend your life with, I mean." Her voice had been trembling, but she had forced confidence to the surface. After all, it was best for her to take this chance–for both of them to have as many experiences as possible before settling down.

  Silence had followed this statement. A moment later, he rose. “If that’s how you feel.” He didn't finish his statement. When she looked at him over her shoulder, there was no trace of tears as she watched him leave.

  There were plenty later that night, however; and on the day she officially said goodbye to him on campus, she spent the better part of her bus trip crying in the rear seats. The memory stirred something in Beatrice even now, blurring the edges of her vision as she concentrated on the road. Smooth pavement had become gravel, then turned to dirt as she neared the campground. A small general store was the only sign of life other than canoes strapped to cars, a cabin-like structure fronted by a single light pole and a pay phone.

  Daniel was spending the weekend conducting an experiment connected to his grant–this much she had wheedled from one of the members of his team whose name was on the guest list. The place was a site near the campground, on a piece of state property where he had a permit. She found driving directions online, a little red trail marking the distance between the city and her Sunday destination.

&nbs
p; The little hatchback sputtered slightly, the worrisome engine cough taking on new meaning as it took the steepest part of the road. Beatrice had the sensation that she was driving up a straight wall, like a cartoon character in a clown car. There was a whomp! as the underside of the car made contact with the straightest part of the road near the peak. Ahead, signs for the campground and the hiking trail Daniel’s coworker had mentioned.

  Shifting the car into park, she withdrew her key from the ignition and took a deep breath. What would happen now? Should she leap straight into the problem or start with a few stories about Charly’s behavior? Confronting Daniel on his fiancé’s behavior had seemed easy in her mind this morning–had dragged her to the top of this mountain–but now it seemed ridiculous. Childish, even. An excellent way to get fired–although she wasn’t too sure she cared at this point.

  As she climbed to the crest of the trail on foot, she saw the first metal rod. Staked in the ground like a giant nail, it was followed by another one, a few yards away. Beyond that, a field of metal rods driven into the ground in a variety of heights, all more or less the same otherwise. In their midst was Daniel, consulting an open notebook in his hands. A pile of cables or wires were connected to the rods, she noticed, leading into some kind of box with a dial on one side.

  The wind swept the untucked tails of his plaid shirt in a flag-like motion, his denim jacket billowing like a sail as he stood facing the wind’s direction. She could see his stern expression of concentration, an aching throb in her heart in response.

  “What are you doing? Pitching a giant tent?” she called. She stepped off the trail and into the clearing, her hiking boots making contact with the thick grass below.

  He looked up from his notebook, staring at her as if she were a sinister stranger. “What are you doing here?” He flipped the book closed and moved towards her at the same time.