Made of Honor

by Marilyn Griffith

  She had to be kidding.

  At least I hoped so. But when I opened my eyes and swallowed the rock in my throat, Tangela Daniels, one of my brattiest brides yet, was still standing there with that stupid smile and all ten diamond-studded fingers holding my calloused ones. She had that look that all brides had when they popped the question to me. Only the others had been people I could tolerate for more than sixty seconds.

  “Will you be in my wedding?”

  I blinked in disbelief. Maybe I should close down my bath and body shop and become Dana Rose, professional wedding attendant. The money would be steadier for sure. “Don’t you have somebody else? A cousin? Neighbor? Paper girl?”

  Tangela laughed in that fingernails-on-steel way of hers, but I didn’t crack a smile. I was too scared. And rightly so. Nothing good ever came of my bridesmaid experiences. And that was with people I liked.

  She exhausted her high-pitched whining.

  It’s a good thing she’s cute. That noise could kill someone.

  “Oh, Dana, you are just so funny. The other girls will just eat you right up. There’s no one else. Bristol had the nerve to get pregnant and get too big for her gown and everyone is too…well, you know…”

  I didn’t know, nor did I want to. For once, I was actually jealous of the pregnant woman who got to ditch this assignment. Formulating a bridal fragrance for Tangela had been hard enough, but being in her wedding? Well, I was tired just thinking about it. The woman had driven fifty miles on four different occasions to get just the right scent for her wedding night.

  I usually put a little of my Vanilla Smella in all the brides’ scents to hook the husbands into coming back for more. Not this time. I didn’t want to see this woman—or her NBA-round-one-draft-pick fiancé—ever again. Now I was considering guiding them down the aisle. I closed my eyes.

  “Come on, you’ve got to do it. There’s another girl, but she’s trying to get pregnant, too, and she just refuses to put it off until after the wedding. And I was her maid of honor. Can you imagine?”

  My eyes opened, but I wished I’d kept them shut. The hydrangeas on the new wallpaper behind Tangela’s foot-high French roll started to swim. Could I imagine that a woman and her husband didn’t want to put off the conception of their first offspring for this nutty buddy’s three-hour, hundred-thousand-dollar sideshow? I could imagine. Too bad making babies was the only way out of this madness.

  I raked a hand over my not-so-flat stomach. Some days, I could pass for gestating, but everybody knew pregnant was one thing I’d never be. That would require a man, a bad habit I’d laid at the altar of Broken Bread three years, five months and six days ago. I refused to pick up that particular package from God’s hands even if Adrian was looking so good lately that it was criminal.

  “The nerve of her, putting her family before you,” I said in a mock tone of insult.

  The whole thing flew over Tangela’s head. Big-time.

  “You understand just how important all this is.” She pursed her lips and reached out to touch my hair. “And fixing you up will be fun, too. Like a life-size black Barbie.”

  Okay, that’s when I almost lost it. I had to turn and look at my purse and let my eyes burn through the leather to that negative balance in my checkbook. Though it was December, the month Adrian promised I’d be living off of for the rest of the year, I was going to have to play Barbie with this fool.

  Lord, I know I prayed for patience, but I think I prayed too hard. Cut me some slack here, will You?

  “Well, Tange, here at Wonderfully Made we aim to please. I’d be glad to help out at your wedding. A hostess perhaps. Give me a call later in the week. Let me just take that check for you—”

  I almost had the money, but girlfriend pulled back. She shook her head. “Ah, ah, ah, Dana. I see your game. You’re trying to get rid of me.”

  She really wasn’t as dumb as she looked. “Well, I do have a big order of masks to make for the spa party tomorrow, choir practice is soon and another bride is coming by this after—”

  “Shh.” Tangela dropped her humongous bag on the counter and scrambled for a pen.

  Having daydreamed through most of the pages in the Coach catalogue, I wondered how I’d missed this pink monster. How many cows full of strawberry milk had bit the dust for that one? It could level a small nation.

  “If you do this, I’ll add another zero to your fee for my favors. Today’s check is just a start.”

  A zero? As in the ten-thousands place? I was no beauty queen, but when it came to math and money, I could run with the best of ’em. I felt like doing the robot to make sure I could move my new doll arms and doll legs. I did a mental inventory of what I’d order the minute Sweet Pea left the shop—ten buckets of cocoa butter, a few drums of olive oil, jojoba, a good bit of shea…Bulgarian lavender, some organic chamomile…

  Even with the bridal accounts, the bills were mounting faster than I could open them. Two days ago, I’d been praying to stay in business after the New Year. Just as quick as I’d been knocked down, I was back in the game. And all for the small price of my usual yearly humiliation—joining the supporting cast in someone’s fairy tale.

  Tangela extended the check to me. I smiled and tried to count to ten and look professional. You know, not too eager and all that. I made it to about four before I snatched the note and scanned for all the pertinent information—social security number, phone, that sort of thing. My eyes skipped across the single line at the top. Sheldon Manson. No numbers. No address. No nothing. The groom’s name said it all.

  Cash money.

  More than I’d ever make in a lifetime, which wouldn’t amount to much if things had kept on at their current pace—in addition to the new rent, my essential oil supplier shut down and moved to Miami, tripling my shipping costs. I folded the check and slipped it into the register, grateful for this timely payment and the promised installment. All those zeros were honey to a sistah’s heart—even if it did come with a price.

  “Now we’re even,” Tangela said. “And if…uh, when you ever get married, I promise to not be pregnant, fat or otherwise indisposed. I understand just how stressful this all is.”

  I almost laughed then, staring at homegirl’s bejeweled and designer exterior. Stressful? What did she know about it? Whatever problem Tangela’s man didn’t pick up, her daddy would. Though he’d taken to wearing clean shirts and cooking me breakfast, my father was no doubt on the casino boat, at the racetrack or on his way to the shop to borrow a few dollars to “tide him over.”

  Next, Renee would come for her weekly fill-up, and then my no-good cousins, who stopped by on weekends to see if I wasn’t being “stingy”—meaning whether I’d let them plunder the soap bins and slather lotion from head to toe, filling their purses with goodies for their friends.

  No, ole Tange didn’t know a thing about stress. My Daddy in Heaven had my back, as Renee so deftly put it. I’d never join the ranks of my once-intelligent, college-educated former friends who’d morphed into breastfeeding, baby-talking soccer moms with sippy cups and minivans. Tangela would become one, too—in the off season, of course. She and Tracey could keep it. There’d be none of that for me.

  What about Adrian?

  I shrugged off the thought. Things between us were strange but bearable. His sporadic visits and communications kept things they way I wanted them, under control. Church, work, books, bills. Those were my world. And not necessarily in that order.

  The cash drawer clicked shut. There wasn’t any turning back now. Unless…I wasn’t pregnant, but I still had my childbearing hips. They’d gotten me out of worse jams than this. “Are you sure the dress will fit?”

  “Perfectly. She spread at the bottom first…if her belly had held on another two months, we could have made it.”

  “Right.” Great. I was a perfect match for a pregnant woman. Next, I’d be a stunt double for a linebacker or something.

  Tangela lunged forward to give me a hug. I stumbled from the stench o
f her perfume. Estée Lauder’s Beautiful. Half a bottle at least. Not a bad choice, but with all that money, I’d expected Chanel, but considering her rate of use, cheaper was probably better. Woke my sniffer right up.

  She dug in her purse of mass destruction and pulled out a pamphlet. Tangie’s Bridesmaid’s Handbook. It actually said handbook. Some people have way too much time on their hands.

  “The dress will be delivered tomorrow.”

  “On Sunday?”

  Her grin said it all. “FedEx.”

  Some intense brides-to-be had passed through my door in the past few months, but this one was not to be believed. “You already sent it?”

  The hyena laugh again. “I knew you’d say yes. Why wouldn’t you?”

  I could think of one tall, brown reason and it stood across from me, reeking of SD 40 alcohol. That wet cement settled in my throat again—God’s way of reminding me that sometimes it’s best to just hush. I shrugged. Why not, indeed.

  “The schedule of events is on page twelve. But in case you don’t get around to reading it today, the bachelorette luncheon is next Saturday. Semicasual—”

  Was this a wedding or an inauguration? “Don’t you mean bachelorette party?” Not that it mattered. I’d be working.

  “Oh, no. That’s not until after the slumber party, the sisterhood tea and the spa cruise.”

  I stared. First at her, then at my purse and finally at the ceiling. A girl had to watch out what she prayed for to be sure. I didn’t know what God was up to, but this sounded like a doozy. I tried to focus on all the lovely soap I’d be able to make. And bath bombs, lotion, maybe even launch the natural hair care line—especially the twist and lock butter and the roll-on scalp shampoo I’d been playing with.

  “Sounds like a riot.” The damp sand taste in my mouth traveled to my gut….

  “You’re so cute. It’s all in the book. Read it over. I’ll get back with you.” She waved like a little brown puppy. “This is going to be so fun…and wait until you see your escort. If I hadn’t met Sheldon first…well, you know.”

  I did know. Girls like Tangela went for the dollars, not the dude. I had to laugh though, considering how much of a jerk Sheldon had been the one time he’d come to the store with her. Girls had come out of every store on the block, flocking behind his Lincoln Navigator limo like it emitted the last oxygen on Earth. He’d stepped out of the car with a cell phone plastered to his cheek and pushed them all aside…including Jericho and my silly cousins, who were too old to be out there anyway. Besides his cornrows, that man was a total loss.

  At least Miss Black America hadn’t mentioned her gift registries. Purchasing one more crystal candleholder would send me and my credit card over the edge. What did people want those things for anyway? Staging their own murder mystery party? Whatever happened to a Crock-Pot? I held my handbook shut, not daring to look at the index page.

  Tangela waved stiffly, like a beauty queen with arthritis. “See you next weekend, okay? And don’t worry. You’ll do fine. How many weddings did you say you’d been in?”

  Mama always said chitchat comes back to haunt you. “Ten.” I whispered it, wishing that even I couldn’t hear.

  “How many?” Tangela’s forehead crinkled. Just as quickly, the supple cocoa skin eased back into its normal place.

  “Ten!” In my best you’ve-made-me-mad loud voice, I prayed for forgiveness as the sound echoed off the bottles of peach cobbler conditioner stacked nearby.

  Crinkled forehead again. I hoped she’d save that look for the other side of the altar. “Ten weddings and you’re still single?” She floated toward the door, almost knocking the chocolate body mousse off its display. “Well, if three is a charm, I guess ten is a chance, huh? With Austin spreading the word about you, you’re bound to land somebody. Ciao.”

  Yeah. I’d have to drop Austin a note on this one. Everyone else had only been half-batty. Trying to fix me up with one of her groomsmen. Puleeze. I released my clenched abdominals remembering the one man I’d met at a wedding—Adrian’s wedding. The best man, Trevor Ice. He’d lived up to his name. Just plain cold. I pushed away her insult and focused on the big picture. I could stay in business.

  Though I’d never get married or have a man to protect me, God had come through for me…again. This money could mean a trip to the Illinois gift show next year—the first step between breaking even and national distribution. In spite of her attitude—and mine—I grabbed Tangela and gave her a quick hug. “It might be fun playing bridesmaid one last time.” I doubted it, but stranger things had happened.

  Tangela added a squint to her expression. “Bridesmaid? Did I say that? I have enough of those.” She bumped the door open with her hip. “You’re going to be the maid of honor.”

  “Somebody has to tell her.”

  I looked at Rochelle and turned my head. True enough, choir rehearsal had been a painful sound, but I wasn’t going to be the one to tell Sister Wells that her gifts might be better served at the hospitality counter than the soprano section. Or in her case, the soprano-alto-tenor section. The woman couldn’t even hold a pitch through the chorus. “It’s not going to be me. Mother Holly is still cutting her eyes at me after I took her solo. It’s your turn.”

  I could tell from the look on Rochelle’s face that she was close to total meltdown. Choir practice and taking turns driving Jericho around—his driver’s license had been suspended one week after he got it—were about the only communications we had left, but she was here and I needed to talk about Tangela’s wedding with somebody.

  I leaned in closer to look at Rochelle’s shoes, her feel-good strappies in lime leather with chunky heels. My eyes rested on the polka-dotted scarf at her slim neck in contrasting orange and turquoise, both brilliant against her dark velvet skin. Where did she get those wild, wonderful color combinations?

  She started arranging the sheet music on the stands. Ours was a little choir, though when the Minister of Music put on his robe and took us to the heights of the scale, the sound would fill the house from front to back. Being so small though, one person singing out of key changed the melody.

  In Sister Wells’s case, she changed the whole song. The choir leader was out of town, but if he had to deal with this situation when he returned, he wouldn’t be pleased, nor would he deal with it tactfully. God was still working on Simon in that area, and I didn’t hold it against him. I had my own struggles to focus on.

  “So are you done with that basketball guy’s girlfriend? Angela?”

  I knew she’d work her way around to it. “Tangela. And no, I’m not done. She asked me to be in the wedding—”

  “That might be a good thing.”

  Huh? Just when I was about to go into my tirade about how ridiculous the whole thing was, my best bud—well, former at the moment, but we’d get back—says that this nightmare is a good thing? I bit the inside of my cheek. The only explanation for her behavior was something I didn’t want to think about—a man. She’d been absent from Golden Corral the past few Sundays, but I hadn’t seen her with Bad Pants, either.

  My eyes widened as we walked silently from the church to our cars parked side by side in the gravel lot, which looked big without Sunday’s cars spilling out of it. We stopped at her Lexus, facing my eight-year-old Cougar. Shoes were an easier sell than soap. Our vehicles reflected that.

  “Since when is being a stand-in a good thing, Rochelle? And for Tangela, no less? You know…how people treat us singles. Always a fix-up—”

  A sheepish grin crept across my friend’s face. A grin I’d missed. “Speaking of single, I’m seeing somebody…”

  My breath caught in my chest. My girl. My partner. The last single Christian woman in my world holding it down on the job and holding out in the bedroom. Even if we weren’t speaking outside of e-mail, knowing Rochelle was going through the same things had helped me stand strong. What was next, Daddy getting a job? “Somebody? Not that guy from Golden Corral? Please, tell me it’s not.”

&n
bsp; She didn’t say a word.

  I turned back toward the church. Had I somehow driven her to this by not participating in BASIC?

  Let’s not start the blame game.

  “Why not Deacon Rivers instead?” At sixty-two, he hitched his pants up to his armpits, but he wasn’t bad-looking and could sing a mean hymn. He was too old for her, but if she was going to settle, why not sell out all the way?

  Rochelle walked around her car, opened the door and sat inside. She motioned for me to get in too. Car talk.

  “Why now?” I asked again, slamming the car door. “What’s changed? Just tell me that.”

  I am the same yesterday, today and forever.

  Rochelle tapped her foot on the gas pedal. “I’m not sure myself. This stuff with Jordan, I guess. It’s time for me to move on. I’ve known it a long time, but I didn’t want to let you down.”

  Let me down? I’d always thought it would be the other way around. “Okay…why that guy then? Not to be funny, but I didn’t take him for your type.” Or anybody’s type for that matter. Even Tad would have been better than this.

  She shrugged. “Because he wanted me, I guess.”

  A pause whistled across the space between us. I blew it away, trying to catch my breath. Had it come to this? “You’re scaring me.”

  She turned to face me, her shiny black curls reflecting in the rearview mirror. “He’s a chauffeur.”

  I blinked. “A who?”

  “You heard me.”

  “I thought I did.” This was too much. All the times I’d let a fine blue-collar brothah get away because of Rochelle’s needling about having something in common? And now she was going to run off with someone’s driver?

  “He owns the limo and rents it out, but he does the driving himself.” Her voice dipped in pitch. “He does well. It’s not serious yet, but if it doesn’t work out, I might try one of those dating things.”

  I leaned all the way against the passenger door so I could get a look at my friend’s face. A good look. “A dating thing? What exactly does that mean?”

  She smoothed her scarf against her neck. “It means that a few like-minded people get together and have dinner, exchange business cards…that kind of thing.”