Gone With the Wedding

by Briggs, Laura

  Too bad it wasn't Edward bringing the pitcher, she thought. "I'm fine," she said, weakly, drawing herself into a sitting position. The moment of doubt seemed to have passed as they helped her up.

  "I think we'll reposition the shot on the sofa downstairs," said Andre, after studying her shaky appearance. "We'll move the lights to the foyer and set up there– take twenty." He motioned Amy away dismissively as he turned his attention to the staff again.

  Afterwards, she lay on the bed upstairs and stared at the ceiling. Cold feet was natural, of course, and she expected Greg to feel that way after springing this idea on him, but not herself. She had been engaged for a year, presented with the opportunity she had dreamed about for a lifetime–so what on earth was wrong with her?

  "Amy?" The sound of her mother's voice made her sit up at once.

  "Mom," she said, springing from her bed and opening the door. In the hallway, Barbara Pontelle dropped her bags outside the door across the hall.

  "Mom, you're here!" She wrapped her arms around Barbara. A ground force she could cling to at this moment.

  "Of course I am! My plane was early, so I hailed a cab outside. All the better to be here and see my lovely daughter for a few extra hours before she becomes–becomes–"

  "Mrs. Willey," prompted Amy. "Remember? It's been over a year now and you still can't remember?"

  "Well, I always think it's Wiley," her mother answered, defensively. "It's only because I don't spend as much time in Atlanta as I should. This is all my fault, really, for not getting to know him better." She fumbled with her room key and unlocked the door.

  Her mother's classic psychological trick: make you feel guilty by blaming herself for whatever problem existed. Usually, Amy fell victim to the ploy, but not this time. After all, Greg had feelings which deserved defending, too.

  "Did you carry these bags all by yourself?" asked Amy, huffing slightly as she lifted an oversized duffel bag. What could be inside was a mystery to her, since her mother was only here for three or four days at most.

  "Well, they offered me help downstairs, but I didn't think I'd live to see the day he reached the top of the stairs," answered Barbara. "I just thought I'd save myself some time and trouble by doing it myself." She carried her suitcase across the threshold and placed it on the bed.

  Turning to survey Amy, she placed a hand on either of her daughter's shoulders. "So it's official," she said. "You're getting married. And getting to become Scarlett O' Hara for a day, just like you always wanted." Her smile was tender with these words.

  "I wanted to be Scarlett for more than a day, Mom," Amy reminded her. "But if that's all I get, I guess I'll take it." This tone of voice was more careless than she meant it to be, as if disguising other emotions.

  "Mom," she said, "Do you really dislike Greg as much as it seems?" She glanced at her mother. "Maybe it's just me, but you hardly ever mention him. You sounded like I was making a date with the Grim Reaper when I told you we were taking the next step."

  Her mother rolled her eyes. "I like Greg just fine," she answered. "It's just your attitude I don't like." As she said this, she popped open the suitcase on her bed and removed a stack of blouses.

  "My attitude?" echoed Amy. "What do you mean by that?" She sank down on the bed, arms crossed in dismay.

  "I just think this was a little last-minute. I know it's the opportunity of a lifetime ... but don't you think it makes your wedding seem more like a dress-up party than a serious ceremony?" Barbara eyed her with these words as she closed her suitcase again.

  "Greg doesn't think so," Amy answered. "He's fine with it. We both love history, so this was a perfect fit."

  "You mean he loves history," Barbara laughed. "I seem to recall that you just love the dresses and glamour of it all. You flunked history in sixth grade, as I recall."

  "That was a long time ago," Amy answered, defensively.

  "So what does Greg say about all this?" asked her mother.

  Amy's tongue was momentarily tied. What did he say about any of this? Only that it was lovely, of course. And that it was perfectly fine with him if this was what she wanted. Beyond that, nothing–not even when she told him that there was no possibility of guests in uniform or a major battle site for the reception or anything like that.

  "He just says it's fine," she answered, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. Although she wasn't looking at Barbara, she felt her mother move in front of her, placing her hands on Amy's shoulders again.

  "I don't want you to think I'm not happy for you." Barbara's voice had taken on its tender tones again. "If this is what you want, I am. All I want is for you to be happy." With that, she wrapped her arms around Amy and drew her close.

  They were planning to have dinner with Sophia in town–the sound of Sophia and Barbara laughing in a reunion conversation in the suite drifted to Amy's ears as she sat at the typewriter. She was supposed to be finishing her chapter, although no words came to mind. Her head suddenly seemed empty of any thought except the one of taking solemn vows in the very near future.

  There was a rap on the door, followed by one of Mathilda's assistants poking his head inside.

  "Thought you'd like to see the winning proof of your big photo shoot," he said, "courtesy of the editor herself." He handed a manila envelope to Amy.

  "The wedding dress photo is ready?' she asked, confused, as she popped it open. The messenger was already gone, leaving her alone as she slid the photograph forward.

  It wasn't the photograph of herself in the wedding dress: it was the shoot from when she first arrived. Four sultry models posed against a grey backdrop where she was the central focus, seated in the white and green gown.

  She was momentarily breathless, struck by her own appearance as if viewing a stranger superimposed in her place. The dark wig, the inscrutable gaze of her eyes, the tilt of her chin. It was as if Antonia Deleroe was peering back at her with all the moody elegance of a Southern belle.

  Strange, that she shouldn't know her own face at first sight. As if she had become someone else entirely these past few days.

  *****

  Until now, Amy had not understood the nature of Mr. Fairfax's warnings about mosquitoes. When she woke up the next morning, however, she was aware of a high-pitched, whining sound in the air above her blankets.

  Throwing back the covers, she caught one glimpse of the cloud of tiny insects hovering above before emitting a shriek and pulling them back over her head.

  Using the blanket as a shield, she sprang out of bed and closed the window–thus, ending further invasion from the colonies visible outside, but trapping the current menaces in her room.

  She needed spray–and an insect net–something to protect her. Her bare feet padded against the carpet as she exited the room and dashed to the desk downstairs.

  "Mr. Fairfax," she said, leaning against it as she caught her breath. "My room–is full–of mosquitoes."

  He released a little sigh of comprehension. "Ah, that'd be the drains," he said. "The river ditches are backed up again. That always breeds a lot of mosquitoes. Until they dig 'em out again, we'll be putting up with quite a number, I'm afraid."

  She stared at him with a look of incomprehension. "There must be something you can do," she said. "Some spray, some sort of insect trap–something."

  "I reckon you left your window open," said Mr. Fairfax, with a sympathetic tisk. "That happens to guests sometimes."

  "I left my window open because there's no air conditioning!" said Amy. "Can't you understand that? Now my room is full of stinging insects–this is far worse than the bees–"

  "Oh, well, the bees are just here when the wisteria's in bloom, mostly," said Mr. Fairfax. "Now, I do think we have some flypaper..." Reaching over, he rang the service bell. After a moment, he rang it again.

  "Edward," he called. "Where is that flypaper we keep handy?" He didn't seem to notice as Amy's forehead thumped against the desk, her shoulders slumping in defeat.

  Sophia's voice called f
rom the upstairs landing. "Amy!" she shouted. "I have bug spray–come quick!" She brandished the aerosol can in her hand as if warding off vampires with garlic.

  "I'm phoning all over town for more citronella candles and torches," grumbled Mathilda. "I don't know where I'll get enough to pull off tonight's party. I just hope after Renee and Elise drive around a fifty-mile radius we'll be able to pull off something halfway decent in these conditions."

  She was descending to breakfast with these words, already armed with an armload of article proofs and photographs as she swatted at the surviving insects. Amy, fully dressed was waiting in the hallway fifteen minutes after the annihilation of a hundred or so mosquitoes, now scattered in corpses across her rug and bed linens. Edward was fumbling with the cord of a vacuum cleaner in the slow process of plugging it in to remove their traces.

  She had phoned Greg extra-early, hoping to catch him before his flight. He answered on the third ring, his tone the business-like one he reserved for colleagues and the head of his department.

  "Greg," she said. "It's me. Amy. I just wanted to see if I should meet you at the airport this evening before the party. So we can see each other before the crowd arrives."

  She was hoping he would say yes, if nothing else so she would find herself arriving hand-in-hand as part of a couple instead of lingering in a crowd of semi-familiar faces, making conversation while she waited for him to complete the picture.

  "Don't worry about that," he answered, "I'll take a cab. That way you have plenty of time to dress and catch up with your mom."

  "If you say so," she said, reluctantly. "I just thought maybe we'd stop off for coffee or something, since it's such a short flight. You are leaving by three, right?"

  He could take a bus and be there more quickly, but Greg possessed an abundance of frequent flyer miles from conferences and lectures, a loathing for public transportation, and a reluctance to drive himself more than twenty miles from home.

  "Yeah, of course," he answered. "What did you think, I'd move my flight and be late?" In the background, she heard the sound of another voice murmuring, a series of unfamiliar sounds nothing like the rattle of paperwork and beeping printer of Greg's office.

  "Are you at work?" she asked. Picturing him grading the stack of remedial quizzes and viewing thesis outlines for history majors approaching their senior year assignment.

  There was a slight cough on the other end, one of Greg's reluctant 'tells.' "Uh, actually, I'm kind of meeting someone right now," he said.

  "Who?" she asked, before realizing that there was only one subject–besides this wedding–which interested Greg at this moment.

  "I'm at the auction house," he said, his voice lowered. "It's just a quick meeting, I swear. They put the sword on display today, I'm just making sure that authenticity is in order and that there's not any obstacle to making this bid–" His voice cut off momentarily; she could hear him speaking to someone in the background. "No, I'm convinced, Marty. Trust me, I am ..."

  A moment later, he was back on the line. "Listen, I have to go. Talk to you tonight, okay? Can't wait to see you."

  "Me, too," she answered. There was silence on the other end as Greg hung up.

  Barbara, amazingly enough, had slept through most of the racket. She was cold-natured, Amy knew, meaning her window had no doubt remained firmly closed against the winged invaders. Long flights always left her exhausted for half the day.

  “Do you remember what I said the other day on the stairs?“ Amy glanced at Sophia from across her plate of lemon-layered custard cake.

  True to her word, Elise had arranged for a cake-tasting the day before the wedding. The winner she intended to collect by five in the afternoon and have on display first thing in the morning. Sophia was thrilled by this aspect of preparation, the generous sample slices on the table ranging from coconut cream to a decadent chocolate buried beneath buttercream frosting and white chocolate truffles.

  Sophia licked her finger. “What did you say?” she asked.

  Amy toyed with her fork. “Right before I had that little fainting episode,” she said. If Sophia had forgotten, maybe it was no big deal. Maybe she only imagined saying those words.

  “About you having doubts?” With this statement, Sophia lowered her voice slightly, although Barbara had gone upstairs to retrieve her medication.

  “Yes,” said Amy. “Those words, exactly.”

  “Why?” Sophia asked. “Are you still–having doubts?” She asked this question, tentatively waiting for an answer.

  Her outer calm was melting more quickly than the custard on her plate in the warm atmosphere of the dining room. Amy felt her fingers trembling as she laid the fork beside her cake slice.

  “I don’t know,” she answered. “Yes–no–it’s just...” She trailed off, feeling tears gather beneath the rim of her eyes. “I don’t know what I think anymore. I’m starting to think I rushed into this without thinking ahead.” Her vision blurred the view of Sophia’s face, rendering her friend’s doubtful expression a haze of pink.

  “It’s a little late, Amy,” she answered. “You’re getting married tomorrow, you realize that?”

  “Of course I realize that,” Amy snapped. “That’s the problem. Now is not a good time to have doubts and I’m having them.” She didn’t say why. To say the other problem aloud, the problem of thinking of someone else, was not possible.

  “It’s just cold feet, maybe,” said Sophia. “Don’t do anything you’ll regret, Amy. Think about this before you–”

  “Hush,” said Amy, a sing-song voice emerging between clenched teeth at the sight of her mother re-entering the dining room. Barbara plunked down in the chair across from her, setting a bottle of pills beside her plate.

  “Well, where were we?” she asked. “I don’t know about your girls, but I think this butter pecan swirl is the winner.” She patted the plate in between them, the layers pieced together with fluffy ivory-colored icing.

  Attempts to finish her chapter were aborted later that afternoon in frustration. The more she typed, the worse it grew. Why wasn’t Antonia moving on from the ruins of Jackson’s hideout? Was she actually afraid of finding him? It didn’t make any sense. With frustration, she ripped the page from the typewriter and balled it up, tossing it across the room.

  It bounced off the door, brushing the skirts of the blue and white chiffon dress hanging there before landing in the pile of paper wads beside the dresser.

  *****

  As a child, Amy had formed a vivid memory of a tree in a public park she had visited once, whose limbs brushed the ground like a skirt surrounding it. She had crept beneath it and spent the whole afternoon there, assembling little rows of pinecones and pebbles like treasures in her "playhouse."

  The branches of the estate's magnolia were not quite that low, but they were low enough. Beneath them, head ducked low and hair snagged by a stray and sharp twig here and there, she had found a remote spot to tuck herself against the trunk, where only sunlight penetrated the thick, green leaves.

  Until her best friend found her. Sophia, who had a loathing of earthworms, grunting as she stuck her head under the branches, limbs on all fours.

  "Are you under here?" she asked. A pointless question, since Amy was immediately before her, her legs ending in a pair of red sandals visible even if her face was obscured by her knees. Sophia crawled forward, brushing aside the pine needle mulch and dead leaves as she joined Amy.

  "Talk to me." She poked Amy gently in the arm.

  "I'm fine." Amy's voice was muffled. "Just chilling a little before the big day."

  Sophia snorted. "You're not 'fine'," she said. "You passed out. You have doubts about your wedding. This is big stuff, Amy."

  "No, it's not." Amy lifted her face and brushed away some of the debris clinging to her bangs. "I just had a crazy dream, that's all. And a weird week, and the two of them together are conspiring overtime in my imagination."

  "This is about the handyman." Sophia studied her intentl
y, a witness to the scarlet blush on Amy's cheeks.

  "No, no," said Amy. "Nothing like that. He's a stranger. Just a nice, very attractive, very sensitive stranger, whom I will never see again after this experience is over."

  "Sensitive," repeated Sophia, whose lips had threatened a smile during the use of the word 'attractive'. "More sensitive than Greg?"

  More sensitive? Amy pondered the truth of this statement. For all of his personal sophistication and charm, Greg had never woven a tapestry of grand gestures or sentimental moments out of their courtship, it was true. Whereas, Jackson ... well, there were aspects of his understanding, even from a bogged-down houseboat existence and handyman's career, which suggested he didn't treat those moments as casually.

  But why did she think that? Why was she thinking about any of this as if it mattered?

  "He's a different kind of sensitive," she answered, vaguely. "I'm just a little ashamed of myself. This place has gotten into my head. Probably because Greg isn't here, reminding me why this whole thing is so important."

  Sophia sighed. "Why is that?" she asked. "Why couldn't you guys just elope? That's what we all expected from you for the past few years anyway. You could've tied the knot ages ago if you had."

  Ages ago. Sophia was right. Amy buried her face in her knees.

  "Let's just forget it," she said. "There's a big day on the horizon and as you pointed out, it's been in the making for awhile. I need to clear my head of everything else so I can concentrate on the only moment that matters."

  "The big declaration," said Sophia, crawling out from beneath the branches. "Or maybe the kiss afterwards, right?" With a wink, she stood up and strode towards the hotel again.

  The wrong kiss threatened Amy's thoughts now. One that had never happened except on paper, in a scene that had never needed Greg's help or expertise to come into fruition. Only there was something wrong with Antebellum's characters' faces, something familiar about them which made Amy banish them from her mental sight.