Gone With the Wedding

by Briggs, Laura

  "Really," said Amy, who held the key in her hand, a sense of awe for its representation. "Is that her in one of the portraits in the lobby?"

  "No, Ma'am. Those all belong to later generations of the Sawtelle family." He made a note in the ledger, then slid his hand beneath the desk.

  "A Ms. Murray has left this message for you." He slid an envelope across the desk to Amy. "She says she'll see you first thing in the morning in the Magnolia Suite. Edward will take your bags upstairs for you, Ma'am."

  He rang the desk bell, Amy glancing expectantly in the direction of the corridor leading to another part of the house. No figure appeared along its dim, curtained passage.

  Mr. Fairfax rang the bell again. Still no action, although he didn't seem surprised by this. He pressed it one more time; this time, Amy detected a movement from the darkened hall, as if one of the chairs along its wall had come to life.

  A figure shuffled forth slowly from the darkness, pondering steps which advanced with all the speed of a tortoise hurrying across the highway. Edward, thin and bent partway towards the floor, a shock of white hair and slightly sagging black and white uniform a confirmation of his age.

  "Edward, take Miss Pontelle's bag to the Savannah Suite, please," said Mr. Fairfax. The elderly bellman shuffled forward to take the suitcase's handle, wheeling it slowly towards the stairs.

  "Has he ... been with the hotel long?" asked Amy. Who was half-afraid the man might collapse on his way upstairs.

  "Since nineteen forty-four," answered Mr. Fairfax, without any sign of concern for the man's capability. "Of course, we've been closed for the last fifteen years or so." He was scribbling a quick note in the margins of his ledger, which he then closed.

  "Will there be anything else, Miss Pontelle?" he asked. "There'll be tea served out on the veranda at three in the afternoon every day and just ring the bell if you want something and we'll pop right up."

  "Thank you," said Amy, half-hoping it was not Edward's job to "pop up" in response to the bell. She turned towards the carpeted walnut staircase climbing high to the floors above, her gaze traveling from the elegant portraits to the doors visible on the floor above.

  She turned the key to the Savannah Suite and pushed open the door, revealing a canopied bed covered with a candlewick spread and pillows, lace curtains billowing in the breeze of an open window. A vase of pink hyacinth blossoms was in the middle of a table bearing an antique Remington typewriter and crystal candy dish.

  Her fingers touched the typewriter keys, clicking a few of them idly. Perhaps it would be more fun to use this while she was here–type the pages of her sequel's manuscript on an antique which might have been in the possession of a once-grand Southern family. Here, in the chamber named for a city renowned for its romance and architecture.

  There was a second door leading to a private washroom, then a door leading to a separate sitting room, a parlor with two antique sofas and a stiff chair with needlepoint cushions. Against pale green floral wallpaper, a smiling portrait of a dark-haired woman in a pink gown and jewel-pinned curls.

  Remembering the note in her hand, she opened it, seeing the editor Mathilda Murray's handwriting for the first time. Welcome to the White Egret! Sorry it's in rough shape, but it was one of the few open historic houses totally capable of fitting our schedule and your description of Swan's Nest in the novel. First photography shoot for the mag is at one o' clock tomorrow. Looking forward to meeting you and the lucky groom!–Mathilda.

  Amy refolded the note as she moved to the bedroom window and surveyed the landscape visible outside. Gardens alive with flowers in bloom and thick hostas like green fans, the curve of the water hidden by the trees except a brief glimpse of a boat in the distance.

  Her fingers reached up and gently drew the tall panel of glass closed, latching it in place. Outside, the vision took on a blurry quality, the colors brightening as if an Impressionist painting of its splendors. The blur was her tears, she realized, a sob of satisfaction rising in her throat as she stood in this room, feeling the delicate lace curtain fan her cheeks.

  It was a moment worthy of her epic romance–or maybe the one she dreamed about secretly on a more personal level. Antonia gazing upon the ruins of Swan's Nest couldn't feel more emotion than this.

  There was a squeaking sound behind her, an odd scraping softened by the carpet. Turning, she saw Edward slowly entering the room, her wheeled suitcase in tow. Parking it on the floor, he stood in the same half-bowed position as before, his quavery, ancient voice emerging after a moment's effort.

  "Your suitcase, Madam." With a bow which was merely a dip in his regular posture, he turned and shuffled away through the open door without bothering to wait for his tip.

  *****

  When Amy opened her eyes in the morning, it was with a momentary sense of displacement. The closed damask drapes, the blue willow vase on the bedside table–these weren't her things. The flash of yesterday's bus journey, the taxi ride to the hotel, the afternoon spent strolling along the garden pathways, came to her with a force of energy that propelled her from beneath the covers.

  A southern mansion, a big meeting with the editor who planned to transform her wedding day into an antebellum fantasy. It was this perfect train of thoughts which looped in her mind repeatedly as she drew her robe over her nightdress and opened the drapes to the world outside.

  The green lawn was glowing in the bright morning sunlight, red blossoms like spilled lipstick splashed across the manicured flowerbed. In its midst, a man in a pair of faded jeans and work boots, his back and shoulders shirtless and exposed to the sunlight as he tamped the dirt around the base of a newly-planted spindly tree of some ornamental species. He stood up and stretched, revealing noticeably firm muscles beneath his tan, thick sandy hair spiked beneath a layer of sweat.

  His back was turned to her as he surveyed the lawn and she surveyed him with a breathlessness not entirely different from the view of Wild Egret from yesterday's taxi window. The inappropriateness of this moment finally struck her, followed by her hand yanking the drapes closed as she whirled away from the scene.

  What was wrong with her? Ogling the hotel staff like some sort of–well, not like a woman here to plan her wedding, that's for sure. With more force than necessary, she yanked open the dresser drawer and pulled out a tank top and a skirt, raking her fingers through her rumpled hair.

  She should call Greg after breakfast. He was probably working his fingers to the bone in his office, trying to clear his schedule so he could join her. She should show him she appreciated gestures like that, just as she appreciated the effort he made on the part of her novel more than once.

  Downstairs, there were signs of breakfast being served on the veranda, but not of her fellow guests. Spreading jam over a toasted biscuit, she glanced around for any company besides the tottering figure of Edward watering a large fern beside the pillar.

  "Mr. Fairfax," she said, as the manager emerged to survey the line of serving trays and juice pitchers, "is there–is there anyone else staying here? Besides me and the magazine staff, I mean."

  "Oh, no," he answered, although not in a tone which suggested he was dismayed by this fact. "Would you like some more coffee, Miss Pontelle? I trust you had a good night's sleep since you’re out here enjoying the fine view."

  "Just great," she answered. She was envisioning herself snuggled down in one of the wicker chairs with a plate of biscuits, a fantasy which beguiled her more than sitting here awkwardly waiting for Ms. Murray and company. Not that she was complaining in the midst of all this beauty. No indeed.

  *****

  "I know this place is a little bit of a rat trap, but it was a very last-minute decision, I assure you," said Mathilda Murray. "But it has charm, it has history, and it's gorgeous enough to look at." She was speaking to Amy as she climbed the stairs to their floor, not bothering to lower her voice for the sake of the employee dusting the lobby furniture below. Edward showed no signs of having heard anything.


  "It seems fine," answered Amy, with a quizzical glance at her companion. "It's a little antiquated, but that's the charm."

  "The estate's latest heir is having it renovated, but it seems to be a little behind," continued Ms. Murray, as she unlocked the suite's door. "Maybe they delayed just for us–wouldn’t that be an unlucky honor? The previous owner was a little eccentric and never let the hotel be modernized, kept the same staff forever, even worked as a bellboy himself before they closed down. Once it's restored, however, it'll be a tourist hot spot, I'm sure." She pushed open the door and ushered Amy inside.

  It was a sitting room similar to the one attached to Amy's room, only bigger–and crammed full of people. Laptops on tables, fashion sketches pinned to walls, fabric swatches draped across chairs and sofas, as if the room was transformed into a design office.

  "Meet the creative team of Southern Elegance, completely at the disposal of your wedding for the next week," said Mathilda. "Kay is in charge of fashion," she indicated a tiny dark-haired girl with hair cropped short, "Maurice is in charge of makeup and hair, and Elise is in charge of food and flowers." A pouty man in a business shirt and waistcoat stared at Amy, alongside a stunning redhead armed with a leather portfolio.

  "The general staff had already helped the photographer set up a studio in the Willow Suite," said Mathilda, "so we'll get started if you're ready."

  "Ready?" echoed Amy. "Of course I'm ready. I mean, I'll have to change..." She pulled the sides of her skirt out, a plain khaki choice she was fairly sure wouldn't meet with Kay's approval.

  Kay and Maurice both laughed–too heartily for Amy's tastes. "Isn't she cute?" said Maurice. "Of course, we're going to fix all that." Waving his hand at her outfit for emphasis.

  "Your dress is here..." began Kay, who was pulling a large white bundle from a nearby garment bag. It unfurled to reveal soft, swishing skirts with a green floral pattern, a green ribbon at the waist. Amy's mouth fell open in response.

  "Oh, my...is that–" she began. There was no need to finish, because she would recognize that dress in the dark, if she touched the fabric while blindfolded, if she was presented with only the merest swatch of that Southern belle elegance. Not the cheap version her eight year-old self had worn for Halloween, but a version so real, so stunning, that it seemed as if someone had ripped it from a fabric warehouse in Hollywood under cover of darkness.

  "Her hair won't do at all. We'll have to lose it." This announcement from Maurice was accompanied by a hairbrush seizing Amy's hair, yanking it back against her scalp as she yelped. Kay had joined in, unzipping a cosmetic bag with the swiftness of a medic opening a First Aid kit.

  Amy's hair was pinned tight against her head, the metal tips digging into her scalp with a vengeance. Another staffer pulled a wig over her scalp, fluffing out its waves before Maurice shooed them away from his application of heavy mascara and lipstick. A dark red streak traveled just below the line of Amy's vision, her chin propped upwards along with her gaze as another hand slathered mascara across her lashes.

  The dress was wrapped around her in the tiny dressing corner hidden by a foldout screen. Kay's swift fingers had peeled down the tank top, tugged a corset into place with a speed beyond Amy's comprehension until the laces were drawn tight.

  "Oof," she said. This breathy protest had no affect on the designer, who cinched Amy's stomach against her spine with an extra tug before drawing the dress's bodice into place.

  "Your bridesmaids are ready and waiting," she said, as the screen was folded back, allowing Amy to stumble into the main room again.

  "Bridesmaids?" gasped Amy. "Who? I mean, there's only Sophia and she's not here yet–" A sense of dismay stole over her at the thought of the magazine selecting her wedding party.

  "No waiting, no worries," said Mathilda. "This is just a glamour shot with some standard models from our best agency. Your friend Sophia doesn't have to be in it, necessarily." She was already gathering her things, no doubt ready for an en route procession to the photographer's makeshift studio.

  "But–" said Amy, who was being ushered along to join a bevy of spread skirts in the hallway. Four girls in pink chiffon gowns billowing over massive hoops like Amy's own reproduction gown–only these women clearly had no need of corsets to trim their waists. The pouty lips and narrow cheekbones, the masses of curls flowing beneath floppy sunhats made Amy's heart sink.

  How would she ever stand up beside these women? She passed for cute in an average crowd, but not in the presence of paid professional beauty, she was certain–even if Maurice had stuffed her blond wavy curls beneath a mass of hair that felt like a cape covering her shoulders.

  "This way," said Elise, who held open the door to an adjoining room, its walls and floors draped with photography cloths concealing a two-tiered platform, a single stool sitting in the middle. A man was adjusting a camera on a tripod, shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal a dragon tattoo.

  "Andre, we're ready," said Mathilda. The man raised his eyes to appraise his future subjects.

  "All right–Clarise and Mindy, towards the back, upon the second level. Giselle and Debi, foreground and either side–and you–"

  "Miss Pontelle, the author," volunteered Mathilda.

  "Miss Pontelle, on the stool, please." He was gesturing impatiently, already fiddling with his lens as Amy climbed on the stool, struggling to adjust the massive skirts to fall over the other side. A magazine staffer scrambled to adjust the mounds of fabric in a hopefully-elegant pose.

  "Head up–chin down–eyes tilted my way, Miss Pontelle–"

  "Amy," volunteered his subject, weakly. It felt strange to be addressed so formally when the professionals around her were not.

  "Amy–smile. No, sultry smile. Smile like you know a secret that nobody else does ... and you're not telling unless they really want to know." The camera clicked away as the women beside her struck elegant poses, Amy remaining the wooden fixture in the center whose head only moved on command.

  "All right, one more–one more... and there." Andre lifted his finger from the camera's button. "Beautiful, ladies, we're all done here." The models ceased to strike their intimidating poses and climbed down. Amy attempted to slump, something prevented by her sucked-in midriff.

  "Not all our working days will be like this, just so you know," said Mathilda, who steered her down from the platform and towards a waiting Kay.

  "Really?" said Amy, attempting to draw a deeper breath. The editor laughed in response.

  "Heck, no! Most of them won't be nearly as fun." She released Amy, who was struck silent by this remark and incapable of reply.

  On the veranda, she gazed into a glass of sweet tea, ice cubes floating before her beneath a wedge of lemon yellow. The hot summer sun transformed the air above the lawn into a glittering haze, fanned by a shadow from one of the overhanging trees.

  It was beautiful. There wasn't a flaw in the place, despite Mathilda's little laugh about its "rat trap" status. She had just been dressed in a grownup version of the gown she adored as a child, which, while admittedly uncomfortable, was part of her dream, no? There was no reason for feeling this little sense of despondency that was hanging over her like the first signs of a winter cold.

  The sound of footsteps slapping up the steps made her raise her head, a smile on her face at the sight of Sophia's thick dark hair and generous figure beneath a Foreigner t-shirt. Springing up from her seat, she came in second in the race for embrace as her friend's arms closed around her.

  "This place is gorgeous!" squealed Sophia. "I can't believe we're here–I can't believe my principal gave me the week, off, either, but that's another story." When Amy released her from their bear hug, she dropped into the nearest chair.

  "Is that sweet tea?" she demanded. "And are those–"

  "–praline cookies? Absolutely," answered Amy. Her friend gave a little moan as she took a bite from one.

  "Is this heaven?" she asked. Amy giggled.

  "I think so, no matter what anybody says. It's lik
e something from a dream. It's like any moment now, Scarlett could descend from the staircase inside in that gorgeous red dress she wore in the movie." This reflection brought the photo shoot to her mind again with cringing clarity in its contrast.

  "So what have you been up to?" Sophia took a sip from a glass of tea she poured for herself. "Being pampered by the staff? Picking out bouquets?"

  "Nothing like that," admitted Amy. "I don't even know how big the staff is in this place. I get the impression that some of them may have ... moved on." Her glance flickered in the direction of Edward, who was very slowly laying out a second platter of cookies at one of the magazine staff's favorite tables.

  "Still, it has its perks here, right?" said Sophia. "All you need is some handsome Southern gentleman to sweep you up in his muscular arms and carry you across the lawn." She broke a second cookie in half and nibbled it.

  This scenario brought something else to Amy's mind, which she batted away uncomfortably. "If your room is next to mine, it'll practically be like a sleepover," she suggested. "We'll go through bridal magazines, maybe watch a movie on your laptop–you did bring your laptop? Or we'll use mine, since I'm taking up an alternative means of writing." She had already cranked a sheet of paper through the antique typewriter's reel, tapping out the first few words of her newest paragraph: In her room, Antonia gazed through the tattered remains of the curtains at the view so little changed by the bloodshed of battles...

  "I did," said Sophia. "And plenty of bug spray." She swallowed the last bit of cookie.

  "Bug spray?" repeated Amy. Sophia glanced up as she poured a second glass of tea.

  "When I called about arranging my room, the manager told me to bring it," she answered. "Something about the mosquitoes, I think." She shrugged her shoulders.

  Another little moment of dismay crept into Amy's thoughts, which she failed to squash as quickly as the first one. Why were all these details jockeying for a place in ruining perfection? Why were they chipping away at the fantasy just when it was becoming real? It wasn't fair; and it wasn't going to happen, no matter how many bug sprays or corsets appeared on the scene.