Gone With the Wedding

by Briggs, Laura

  *****

  Mathilda’s fears of citronella candles and lawn torch shortages had been unfounded. There was a blaze of blue and white candles on stands across the lawns, in decorative pots and holders on every table. Torches blazed along the pathways, a series of decorative paper lanterns strung across the party site like glowing cylinders of fireflies.

  Amy suspected they contained bug zappers of some sort, but didn’t want to know for certain and spoil the romance. Because romantic it was, strolling along below these glowing lights, her crinoline petticoats swishing with each movement. The smell of grilled crab legs and lobster, the expensive buffet the magazine sprang for on its final night in a pseudo-rehearsal dinner for Amy and her fiancé.

  She suspected it was because of the small size of the wedding, the number of guests confirmed not even touching twenty without counting the magazine staff there to supervise and photograph the event. Minus the dress and cake, the cost of flowers and renting this site of shabby elegance, there was only the on-site magazine staff to be paid, not a stampede of guests racking up costs for champagne or additional food, let’s say.

  The charm was what counted, she decided. The sound of bubbly conversation, of speakers playing a crooning love song in the background as one of the employees played deejay for the party. The bubbling glasses of champagne and seltzer punch lining the hors d’ouvres tables.

  It was perfect. Well, almost perfect. Greg was late, despite his promises to show up before the party started. The flight was probably delayed, making her wish he had bent his own rules just this once for the sake of driving such a short distance.

  “Congratulations, Amy.” Kay raised her champagne flute to Amy as she passed, then turned back to her conversation with someone from the photography staff. Beneath the canopy of lights, she could see the smiling faces of the magazine staff, her mother complementing a member of the catering staff on the stuffed crab rolls.

  Amy passed through these scenes to the path that stretched just beyond the party, leading to the water. There were fewer lights present, a handful of torches spaced at intervals, blazing fiercely in the darkness. The sound of crickets chirping, her heels crunching in the gravel, then falling silent as she crossed the grass to the shore’s edge.

  Hugging herself despite the warm air, she gazed up at the moon visible through the trees. Now is the perfect moment, she thought. In Antebellum, this would be the moment Antonia and Jackson met secretly after the ball. Now, it was merely the moment to imagine their reunion in her latest work. Meeting by firelight at a rebel camp, perhaps. Or in the darkness outside a makeshift hospital, where he was hiding as one of the scarred faces and deformed limbs therein.

  Oh, the possibilities. That was all she had in this moment of moonlight and gently lapping waves. Her eyes closed, as she tried to picture these scenarios playing out in the pages of her manuscript. The sound of wood scraping against rock made her open them again to see a boat drifting to the dock’s edge.

  “I must be late.” The real-life Jackson climbed out, stowing the oars beneath the bench. “The party’s not over, is it?” He held a bottle wrapped in tissue paper and ribbons–no doubt an engagement present–but it was the appearance of his figure in a tuxedo which held her attention.

  “No,” she answered, with surprise in her voice. “I just went for a little walk.” A lame excuse for standing here while music and food waited just beyond the darkness. He didn’t comment upon this, instead moving closer with his gift in hand.

  “I thought I’d drop this off and say hello,” he said. “After tomorrow, I figure you’re leaving for somewhere a little more ... grand. If I could’ve known what authors you read, I would’ve gotten you something along those lines instead of a vintage.”

  She blushed. “That was nice of you,” she said, gesturing towards the bottle. “I didn’t expect it. I mean, you didn’t have to give me anything.”

  He shrugged. “It seemed like a friendly gesture. Given that I couldn’t fix the air in that personal sauna you call a room.” They were only a little ways apart now, the bottle in his hands extending towards her. Her eyes, however, were raised to his own.

  “I should say thank you,” she answered. “For the boat ride. I know we didn’t get to know each other very well, but I ... I appreciated how kind you were.” The words seemed far from what she wanted to say as she gazed at him. The remembrance of the night in the conservatory, the look in his eyes as she gazed into them in the moonlight, was almost overpowering her.

  “You’re welcome,” he answered, softly. He hadn’t pulled away from her stare; lingering with a warm, intent expression that ended her self-possession in a moment’s time.

  She leaned forward and pressed her lips against his own. Fiercely. Taking him by surprise as much as herself–although he was the one who stumbled backwards beneath the force of their kiss and into the river’s waves.

  Their lips broke apart, leaving Amy tottering forward on the bank above. Had he kissed her back? That was what an ordinary love-struck victim would wonder, but Amy’s brain had no opportunity for that thought. Her eyes had popped open to the sight of Jackson up to his shins in water, a look of surprise on his face which was surpassed by her own look of horror.

  Without speaking, without even thinking, she turned away, hand clapped over her mouth in shock as she moved swiftly away from the river. What must he think of her? A woman on the eve of her wedding, kissing a comparative stranger in the darkness. Either he must think she was cheap or else fickle–or crazy, after all her romantic notions about this week’s events.

  Tears gathered in her eyes, turning the party’s lanterns to a glowing orange haze. In the midst of the party guests, she glimpsed a familiar figure moving through the crowd.

  “Amy!” Even without a clear glance, she knew his voice immediately. Greg had arrived, dropping his carry-on to close the distance between them. She stumbled in his direction, the high heels of her tan sandals sinking in the lawn as her legs trembled.

  She felt his arms around her, embracing her gently, her face pressed against the lapel of his jacket. If he noticed something was wrong, he didn’t say.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he murmured. “There was a delay in Atlanta. But I made it here.”

  “You did,” she answered. Forcing back her tears as she lifted her face with a smile, feeling his kiss on her cheek in response. For once, she was glad he didn’t kiss her lips, as if her betrayal was still lingering there.

  *****

  Dark clouds obscured the morning sunrise, a thick curtain of grey which did not allow the first light of dawn to appear as anything more than a faint glow. Amy felt as if dark circles had sprouted beneath her eyes, her hands trembling as she pulled on her robe and sat on the edge of her bed.

  It was not the moment for doubts. She had made a promise and convinced Greg to rush their lives to this point. Now, she was sitting here contemplating whether a spark–a mere minor attraction, probably–to a complete stranger was enough to postpone it all.

  This place was making her think crazy thoughts. It must be the peeling paint on the outside pillars, the cloud of mosquitoes which invaded her room, the wet blanket of summer air which permeated the mansion. It had somehow erased all her notions of Southern romance and charm, replacing them with a feeling that everything was going horribly wrong for her.

  “What is with this weather?” Mathilda Murray demanded. Her fingers clicked repeatedly on her computer keyboard, where the internet connection was struggling to stay alive. “I can’t get the weather site to pull up. Rain is the last thing we need today.”

  “Try the front desk,” suggested Kay. She was tucking the pearl-studded comb into Amy’s elegant hairstyle. The lacy veil trailed past the shoulders of the bridal gown, brushing against the spread skirts–no hoop, thank heavens, only a crinoline petticoat.

  Amy didn’t notice the bind of the corset’s strands this time, her attention focused on the reflection in the mirror. Was this her? This elegant figure
with such pale features and trembling hands?

  “All perfect,” said Kay, zipping the garment bag closed. From the doorway, Barbara watched, hands folded.

  “You look gorgeous,” she told Amy. “I can’t believe it–where’s my camera? I have to take a picture...” Her hands fluttered briefly to touch Amy’s shoulders, a few tears visible in her eyes as she hurried towards her room.

  Through the window, Amy glimpsed the flower canopy assembled on the green lawn, the satin ribbons traveling maypole-style down the sides of the ornamental trees. A row of metal chairs decorated with flowers, an altar eerily like the one in her dream with its heavy bower of roses and jasmine sprigs.

  A lump formed in her throat. She lifted her bouquet from the nearby sofa and slipped from the room while Kay was busy pinning a corsage to her blouse.

  Downstairs, Mathilda was waiting anxiously at the desk as Mr. Fairfax turned the dial on an antiquated radio. The stations buzzed and snapped through multiple stations, a flurry of music and snatches of words.

  “There’s got to be a weather report somewhere,” Mathilda challenged.

  “I’m sure there is,” answered Mr. Fairfax, comfortingly. “They’ll be issuing one out of Atlanta if there’s anything real dangerous expected, I assure you. Bound to be sudden storms if there’s a cool front movin’ in.” His countenance was serene as he turned the knob.

  “Maybe it’ll kill the mosquitoes,” grumbled the editor. Her words were the last ones which reached Amy’s ears before the bride gently closed the door behind her.

  A few members of the magazine staff were busy weighing down the white tablecloths and centerpieces as the wind from the incoming storm began tugging the fabric folds of the tent, whipping small objects with the snapping motion of a flag in a summer breeze.

  The same strong movement tugged the veil around Amy’s face, billowing her skirts as she strode in the direction of the landscaper busy securing the lilac blossoms to the wedding arbor.

  “Jackson,” she said. At the sound of her voice, he turned around.

  “Morning,” he said. He was gazing at her appearance with a look which seemed more significant than mere politeness–or was it her imagination.

  “I need to talk with you,” she said, avoiding his eyes with this speech. “About last night.” From the corner of her eye, she could see a shift in his posture to something more uncomfortable.

  “I didn’t read anything into it, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he began, in a hesitant tone. His eyes were fixed on the ground, she noticed, when she looked at him. A blush spread across her face.

  “I’m not accusing you of anything,” she answered. “I am ... accusing me of something. Of thinking about you–of wondering if you–”

  She stopped speaking, aware of how idiotic this sounded. She was also aware that he was gazing at her again, his hair being ruffled by the swift wind.

  “Of wondering if I what?” he asked. “If I was attracted to you?”

  She hesitated. “Yes,” she answered. “I guess so, yes. I’m imagining it, but it’s been driving me crazy, I think. And I need an answer, although it makes no sense to do this right now.”

  The veil was tearing away from her hair, forcing her to hold it on with one hand. There was a terrific crack of thunder in the distance, a faint roar from the storm which would surely drown out his response before she could hear it.

  “Amy,” he began, raising his voice to be heard above the winds. He had not called her Miss Pontelle this time, she noticed. Despite the lack of tender emotion in his voice, there was something in those hazel eyes which made her heart skip a beat.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, although she wasn’t sure what for, exactly. His face registered concern, his hands taking hold of her arms with a fierce grip that made her lose her breath with expectations of what might come next.

  “We have to go,” he said, his voice urgent.

  “Where?” she asked. “Are you saying–that we should run off together?” Her mouth had fallen open in shock–this was not the development she expected in even her wildest probabilities of how this would play out.

  “Amy, we have to get out of here!” It was in this moment she realized the urgency in his voice was not for their mutual attraction, but for something else. She looked behind her, following his gaze of concern, and saw dark clouds descending over the river in a strange, rotating motion.

  “What the–” she began, but never got the chance to finish. Jackson had seized her arm and spun her around, hurrying her along with him as he ran in the opposite direction. The magazine staff members on the lawn were also running, she noticed, sounds of panic audible despite the rumble of a train descending on them. Glancing over her shoulder, she caught a glimpse of some yet-unseen force lifting the white cloth from one of the tables, sending a shower of champagne flutes onto the ground in a heap of glass. The first row of metal chairs flipping backwards, propelling others along with them in a domino effect.

  “What do we do?” she screamed. Jackson shoved her into the narrow channel where the stream ran through the ornamental garden near the river.

  “Get under the bridge,” he shouted. He pushed her beneath the small stone arch, his body pressed over hers as they crouched there. She could hear a high-pitched whistle amidst the deafening crush of winds above them, so loud she could no longer hear herself think. The wind was tearing at her dress, as if sucking her body forward despite the pressure of the landscaper’s weight against her. His hands were clutching the stone supports with white knuckles.

  She glanced over her shoulder at him, reading the fear and determination in his features. Now was not the time to be looking into someone’s eyes for answers, she realized, with a sense of shame. They might be mere seconds from getting crushed by a piece of the Wild Egret–on the day she was supposed to be a mere hour from saying ‘I do.’

  She closed her eyes tightly as the sound raged around her, until it seemed as if an age had passed. The roar grew quieter after a moment, the pressure of Jackson’s arms around her relaxing slightly. She opened one eye.

  “Is it over?” she asked. Her voice emerged after a long second, as if it, too, had been hiding from the storm.

  “It is,” he answered. He crawled to his feet, then held out a hand for her.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  She nodded. Taking hold of his fingers, she let him draw her to her feet again, avoiding glancing into his eyes by looking in the direction of the Wild Egret. Where she beheld a scene not unlike the devastation of a wartime raid in the 1800s.

  The storm had passed over them and taken the wedding with it, apparently.

  *****

  White fabric tablecloths were strewn across the lawn, broken glass and shattered plates at intervals like missiles hurled from above. The long canopy had been stripped of its flowers, their petals scattered wildly, the twisted metal arbor caving inwards towards the ground.

  A metal chair was twisted around one of the smoke trees, peeling the bark from its trunk in a semi-circle. The rest of the seats were tossed on their sides across the wide lawn, as if bodies left in the wreckage. Thankfully, no actual bodies were in sight, Amy realized, through the tears which were threatening to obscure her vision.

  She had taken a few steps forward after climbing out of the shallow stream. Limping in the direction of the mansion, realizing that somehow one of her white heels had gotten lost in the melee, wondering if the storm had taken it as well.

  Jackson took hold of her arm. “There’s broken glass,” he said. The implied meaning in this was made more evident as he lifted her up, carrying her across the lawn.

  She was too tired to protest. Too numb to think of anything at all.

  The magazine staff was trickling forth from Wild Egret’s rear entrance: two or three had already attempted to pull the mangled tent over its poles again. She noticed the windows of the house were shattered, the plants in the conservatory lying in heaps of dirt and broken pots, as if the to
rnado had lobbed rocks at them in a carnival game.

  Jackson lifted the dragging edge of the tent’s white fabric and carried her inside, where a lone chair and table, amazingly enough, were still upright despite the rest of the missing pieces.

  “Here you go,” he said, gently easing her onto the ground. He stood there for a moment, lingering awkwardly as she gazed at the grass below.

  “I should go help,” he said. “Make sure everyone’s okay.” She didn’t say anything in reply, glancing up only briefly as he ducked outside the tent again.

  Sinking down in the chair, she buried her face in her arms at the table. Had she even thought of Greg in those few minutes of terror? Of anything besides concern for herself and the person cocooned against her beneath the stone arch? It was wrong, she knew. There was something terribly wrong with that.

  At this moment, Greg himself appeared in the lopsided doorway, his head tilted back with a piece of cotton pressed over his nose. His appearance was less disheveled than her own, proof that he had been inside when the twister passed over the grounds.

  “Are you all right?” she asked, seeing crimson spots on the cloth he was holding.

  “Nose bleed,” he answered, thickly. “You remember–sensitive. Air pressure.” That was all he volunteered at the moment. They were both silent again.

  She stirred after a long moment. “I can’t do this, Greg,” she said. “I can’t get married. This isn’t right.”

  He drew the piece of cotton away from his nose, lowering his head slightly. “Of course not,” he said. “This whole place is a disaster. We’ll just have to wait.” He plugged the cloth in place again.

  “No, it’s not just that.” She stared at her hands, noticing chipped nails from clinging to the stones. “It’s us, Greg. I don’t deserve you. I really don’t.”