Bride Has Two Faces: A Wedding Caper Sequel

by Briggs, Laura

  Charly was staring at her as if someone had released a yapping dog in the middle of the room. “Excuse me,” she said, “but what are you doing here exactly?”

  Her tone was quiet. Polite, gentle, but hardly friendly; Beatrice felt her own ears burn with embarrassment. Adrien was speechless, gazing perplexedly at Charly.

  “What do you mean?” She released a faint laugh. “I’m the maid of honor. I’m supposed to be here. You called me–”

  “I called Clauda,” said Charly. “When I spoke to you, you weren’t available, as I recall. Which sounds a lot like all the other times I’ve called you.”

  Adrien stared. “What do you mean?” she said.

  Charly pressed her lips together for a moment before answering. “I mean that your services aren’t required here today.” A pathetic little smile followed this, one of pity cast in Adrien’s direction.

  The maid of honor seemed to shrivel, as if the room around her was a hostile environment. She glanced blindly at both people present, then backed towards the door.

  “Then I suppose I’ll be going,” she managed, after a moment’s silence. “Goodbye, then.” The door closed behind her, followed a moment later by the distant sound of the elevator’s bell.

  Charly sighed. “It had to be said sometime, I suppose.” She sank down on the sofa again. “Maybe she’ll take some time to think about what I said. In the meantime, we’ll get on a lot faster with Clauda, don’t you think? She’s a little more fun than Adrien. Who tends to be a little slow on these things.”

  Beatrice trained her gaze on the planner now open on her lap, her pencil drilling a hole through one corner as she twisted it in her fingers. Imagining Adrien crushed by her friend, befuddled by her own wedding’s hassle–or being forgiven, only to be stuffed into an unflattering pink dress for another’s big day. A grim picture indeed.

  “Temperatures mostly in the seventies on Wednesday, with a chance of precipitation rolling in from the east,” Daniel announced, the faintest tremors of youth and excitement in his voice. “On Thursday, we’ll see a return of that cold front we promised...”

  Beatrice clicked the pause button on the remote. Daniel remained frozen on the screen, smiling as he motioned for the clouds to sweep in from the screen behind him. There was something carefree in his smile that seemed to defy the present-day Daniel engaged to his two-faced fiancé.

  “Oh, Daniel,” groaned Beatrice, as she buried her face in her pillow.

  *****

  Tuesday, Beatrice was busy confirming the limo rides for Charly’s family from the hotel to the reception and arranging for the cake to be delivered early for the wedding photographer’s benefit. The caterer needed to adjust the menu to accommodate a few last-minute guests, the dove trainer had misunderstood the ceremony’s time–the list of little things grew bigger by the minute. And in the midst of all of this, those doubts about Charly’s personality darted in and out of her thoughts like mice popping out of attic holes.

  “Your dove trainer phoned,” said Joan, holding up a slip of paper when Beatrice returned from her lunchtime jog. “He said he has a conflicting schedule now, so he suggests you phone around for a replacement.”

  “But I was there first,” protested Beatrice, staring at the slip of paper. Joan lifted the phone receiver.

  “That’s his code for ‘the other guy’s client is richer than yours’, by the way,” said Joan. “Get used to it–this is a cutthroat business.” Her voice assumed chirpier tones as she dialed a number. “Hi, this is Joan from Creative Coordination...”

  Beatrice stuffed the note in the wastebasket and sank down at her desk. The florist’s had sent the wrong bouquet designs, the menu for the rehearsal dinner had gotten lost in an online black hole–how did anyone ever make it through this ordeal? With a sigh, she lifted the receiver of the desk phone, grumbling under her breath.

  “Long hours,” said Joan, as if reading her mind. “Long hours.”

  At eleven o’ clock that night, she was cross-legged on the floor of her apartment, inspecting the seating charts one last time. She had already switched Daniel’s family to a different table to make room for a last-minute addition to the section reserved for his science colleagues. Now she needed to create space on Charly’s side for a last-minute cousin's family invited to attend.

  Reaching for her phone, she dialed Charly’s number, crossing her fingers the bride-to-be was still awake at his hour. The phone rang several times before a muffled voice answered.

  “Hello?” She detected a froggy tone to Charly’s voice–either she had been asleep or crying until now.

  “Charly, it’s me–Beatrice. I need to talk about the seating charts.” Beatrice shifted the plans onto her lap, uncapping a black magic marker.

  “Now’s not a good time,” said Charly. “We’ll talk about it in the morning, ‘kay?” This last part was uttered in mumbling tones; in the background, the sound of a man’s voice sent a ripple of jealousy through Beatrice’s frame. The call was disconnected before she had time to realize what she had heard in the background of Charly’s phone.

  It wasn’t Daniel’s voice she heard behind Charly's. It sounded more like Stefan’s.

  It couldn’t be. She was imagining things. Her finger paused above the redial button, tempted to confirm this to herself. Charly, however, probably wouldn’t answer the phone a second time.

  Lying in bed, the idea clung to her persistently, even as she tried to sleep. Her dreams became snatches of Charly’s past, the little bits of rumors she found through the search engine. Homecoming queen scandal ... stolen boyfriend ... a monster. She woke up with a start, a layer of sweat across her forehead.

  She had to do something. To prove Charly guilty or innocent before Daniel said ‘I do’ to his seemingly-perfect fiance.

  The meeting in the morning was on Friday’s rehearsal dinner’s plans at Penderland’s club dining room. Charly had promised to meet her at ten o’ clock to discuss the menu and the last-minute change in color schemes which had the hotel scrambling to accommodate them with matching linens.

  Adrien wouldn’t be there, since the maid of honor had been erased from the picture by the confrontation in the apartment. Clauda had stepped into her responsibilities with an air of belonging. Even the belated bridal shower planned by Adrien was no longer mentioned.

  There was no sign of Charly in the dining room when she entered the club. Stuffing the change from her cab ride into her purse, Beatrice glanced around for signs of her employer’s presence in a cozy parlor space near the windows. A white wicker purse rested on one chair, an oversized sequined daisy decorating the front.

  Charly’s purse. Beatrice recognized it from previous visits to the apartment. A matching scarf in shades of paisley was draped beside it. Charly was nowhere in sight, meaning she was somewhere with members of the staff most likely.

  Beatrice’s hand twitched in the direction of the handbag, almost automatically. Her eyes shifted from one side of the room to the other, the furtive glance of a criminal engaged in the act. Slowly, her fingers slid aside the purse, revealing Charly’s cell phone beneath it.

  She held her breath as she opened the cover, glancing at the screen of blue sky and white clouds. Her finger hovered, then touched the list of calls. Unfamiliar numbers appeared, most of them unidentified, several of them calls placed to Daniel’s cell or to hers. She felt the pinch of disappointment, as if she expected to see Stefan’s number emblazoned in red on the list.

  She clicked the menu button, glancing over her options as the phone book slid past, the games and shopping apps, then the photo album.

  Clicking the button, she scrolled through the pictures. What she was looking for, she wasn’t certain–not the photo of Charly’s mom that appeared, nor the three or four taken at the family picnic. All innocuous images, most of them in public photo albums labeled My Life or Friends and Family

  There was a private subfolder of photos without a name. Beatrice clicked on it, watching as the
first image appeared on screen. Charly with her arms wound around Stefan’s neck, a big grin evident on his face. Then another, of Charly and Stefan at a restaurant, leaning forwards as they posed, holding hands across the white tablecloth. Another of Stefan alone, a bouquet of red roses in his arms, surrounded by a heart-shaped frame.

  “Find something interesting?” She froze at the sound of Charly’s voice.

  The bride was standing behind her, a smile on her face as she asked this question. Beatrice’s guilty fingers still held the phone in their grip, the photo of Stefan visible on its screen.

  Reaching over, Charly pulled the phone free from her grasp. “I’m surprised no one ever told you it was wrong to touch other people’s things,” she said. “It’s sad how no one has any manners anymore, isn’t it?” There was an electronic beep as the picture disappeared.

  “You’ve been lying to Daniel.” These were the only words that emerged from Beatrice’s lips, finally. “How could you?”

  “That’s none of your business, is it?” Charly’s voice was quiet. “But you know what is your business? Planning weddings. And I seem to recall somewhere that there’s a policy at your agency against being involved with your clients.”

  “What are you talking about?” Beatrice’s eyes widened. “If you think–”

  “It doesn’t matter what I think, does it? Because I already know that you and Daniel weren’t just friends in college. Not exactly a fact that requires much research.” Charly’s tone was cold and soft as she moved closer. “And I know exactly where you both were last Sunday night.”

  “Nothing happened,” Beatrice answered, panic rising in her throat. “We didn’t do anything.”

  “I don’t think your boss will see it that way,” answered Charly. “I’m pretty sure she would believe it. Just like Daniel would believe something he shouldn’t, if you were to say something to him about this.” As she spoke, she held up the phone for Beatrice’s benefit, her finger hitting the ‘delete’ option for the unmarked folder. Its image shivered out of existence before Beatrice’s eyes.

  “Now then, I think the only thing we have to discuss is that caterer’s menu, isn’t it?”

  Beatrice didn’t have an answer, staring at Charly’s face as her client’s malice vanished with a calm smile. She was still silent as Charly picked up the bridal portfolio herself and moved towards the cluster of dining staff representatives, motioning cheerfully for Beatrice to follow.

  *****

  “I’m surprised Ms. Connors phoned me about this,” said Gwendolen. “Usually clients don’t complain, unless there’s been a pattern of behavior. And I can’t see you being tardy for important meetings, somehow.”

  She sounded disappointed; not that Beatrice blamed her. Standing in Gwendolen’s office, she refrained from the urge to cross her arms and stick at her tongue in the direction of the complaint form. A little warning, no doubt, on Charly’s part. A reminder of how simple it would be to end her career and make her friendship with Daniel a relic of the past.

  “Maybe she’s a stickler for people being on time,” suggested Beatrice. She shrugged her shoulders, meeting Gwendolen’s eyes with a perfectly blank gaze.

  Gwen sighed. “I suppose so,” she answered. “She didn’t seem like a perfectionist when we met, but sometimes client surprise you.” She rose from the edge of the desk and moved towards her waiting chair. “You haven’t had any other problems, have you?”

  Beatrice hesitated. She had planned on speaking to Gwendolen about this, right? When she first saw signs that Charly wasn’t the angelic homecoming queen Daniel believed her to be. But now, it was something much more. It would mean trusting Gwendolen to believe that Sunday night was innocent–and that she wasn’t guilty of doing something that would permanently besmirch the firm’s good name.

  “No,” she answered, after a moment of silence. “None at all.”

  Gwendolen gazed at her, as if attempting to read what was beneath the surface of her calm. “All right,” she answered. “You can go. I’m sure you have plenty awaiting you with the rehearsal dinner.” She lifted the receiver of her desk phone as Beatrice exited.

  There was a new message on Beatrice’s cell phone, left during the meeting with Gwendolen. Charly’s chirpy voice played in a digital version. “Hi there! Just a teensy reminder that I need you to order some matching thank-you notes. You know, like the wedding invitations, only ...”

  Beatrice snapped the phone shut and tossed it against the wall of her apartment, where it bounced off and landed in a pile of bridal magazines. She was tempted to kick it also, but refrained from it as she ran her fingers through her now-rumpled curls.

  She was supposed to change into a dress and be at the party in twenty minutes–an evening pretending to smile as she joined the seemingly-happy couple with a dozen or so of their closest friends. None of whom were aware that the bride’s heart belonged to someone else already.

  Daniel was trapped–completely trapped into marrying this woman unless she told him the truth. He deserved to know that Charly had feelings for another man. That she was probably seeing him in the interim between Pittsburgh and the moment Daniel proposed.

  Frustrated, she kicked a sofa pillow lying on the floor, punting in the direction of her bed. There had to be something she could do, someone who could help her. Gwendolen Miller would, she felt certain–if Gwendolen wasn’t the person who would be forced to fire her to protect the firm, that is.

  Kicking off her brogans, she lifted the party dress hanging on the back of her door as if accepting a prison uniform. Marching off to change into her fake self for the evening.

  *****

  Beatrice muttered personal threats under her breath as her heels wobbled on the dining room carpet. High heels were hardly her favorite footwear. She caught a glimpse of herself in an elegantly-framed mirror–an attractive enough picture with her shapely green satin dress and curls tamed with bejeweled pins, if not for the scowl on her face at the moment.

  Daniel and Charly were posing for a photograph on the other side of the room, her parents stationed beside them. Happy smiles all around, although Beatrice imagined guilt gnawing Charly at the core. Surely she felt something other than the happiness her face reflected.

  “Have you seen Clauda?” Lisa tapped Beatrice’s shoulder. “She should be here by now, shouldn’t she?” She glanced at the shimmering green fabric which seemed to wrap itself around Beatrice. “You look nice, by the way.”

  “Thank you,” said Beatrice. “No, I don’t know where Clauda is. Haven’t seen her in days.”

  Lisa shrugged. “Let’s hope she’s not pulling an Adrien,” she said, her tone suggesting such a thing was an act of villainy.

  Accepting a glass of champagne from a tray, Beatrice downed its contents before forcing a pleasant smile to her face when she caught the bride’s eye. Maybe some sort of miracle would happen–a technical glitch would transfer those deleted cell phone photos to the wedding day slide show projected on a screen of white beside the Penderland gazebo. A form of poetic justice and fate intervention all in one.

  There was a slight commotion at the entrance to the dining room as a woman hurried inside, unbuttoning a dark blue coat. Despite the guests partially blocking her view, Beatrice recognized the former maid of honor as the party’s newest arrival. Guests parted here and there to allow her to move closer to the bridal party.

  “Is Stefan here?” she demanded. “The time changed for the party–I only just found out from Stefan’s message.” She stared at Beatrice with confusion.

  “It changed over a week ago,” Beatrice answered. “I thought they told you.” It occurred to her that Adrien might not have been banished merely as maid of honor, but also as friend. “I haven’t seen Stefan tonight, but I’m sure he’s here ...” She glanced around, no sign of the groomsman in question in the crowd.

  “Where is Charly?” Adrien sounded on the verge of tears. Beatrice could see traces of smeared rouge, of messy eyeliner, as if
the girl had been crying recently.

  “She’s with Daniel,” said Beatrice, softly. “Are you all right, Adrien?”

  “I know this is ridiculous,” said Adrien, more to herself than Beatrice. “Perfectly ridiculous. But I ... I want to talk to her. I never dreamed she would ask me to leave her wedding party...” Her fingers were twisting the handbag between them like a damp rag as she spoke.

  “This is going out to the lucky bride and groom as one of their favorites.” The disc jockey’s voice echoed over his microphone as the last notes of a Nat King Cole song faded away. A new song began playing, the first strains of “Isn’t It Romantic?” issuing from the speakers.

  Adrien's wedding song. At the sound of the opening notes, the former maid of honor’s face turned pale. Her eyes darted in the direction of Charly, who was pulling Daniel in the direction of the impromptu dance floor, where two or three couples were swaying. Stefan was visible in a corner across the room, moodily staring in their direction.

  Without saying anything, Adrien turned and stumbled in the direction of the door.

  “Adrien, wait.” Beatrice darted forward to catch up with her, but the former maid of honor was moving swiftly, pausing only as she bumped into the newly-arrived Clauda.

  “Watch it,” Clauda snapped. She took no further notice of the woman she was replacing in the ceremony as she moved forward to greet her friends.

  With a sense of fury, Beatrice pushed her way through the crowd, although it was probably hopeless to catch up with Adrien by now. If she could catch up with her, maybe she could convince her to confront Stefan about those photos, unless Adrien was equally as blind to her fiancé’s flaws.

  “Beatrice, the caterer needs to speak to you.” Beth was behind her. “Something about a substitute pate? I don’t know, so I can’t help.” She offered the planner a little shrug of her shoulders when Beatrice turned around.