Gone With the Wedding

by Briggs, Laura

  It was true enough, given the feelings she had allowed to slowly creep into her thoughts the last few days. In those terrifying minutes, it had ceased to be an excuse and become fact.

  “Amy, what are you saying?” Greg had lowered the cloth in seriousness now. “Are you crazy?”

  “If I had gone through with it today, I would be so ashamed of myself,” she answered. “I know you don’t understand. It just hasn’t been the same these last few days. Something’s changed me.”

  “Into what?” He was clearly confused, traces of pain in those incredulous tones. “It was a storm, Amy, not a–a sign.”

  There was no ring to hand back to him. It occurred to her that she never even planned to purchase a wedding ring for him. Did he have one for her in his pocket? Until now, she had not even given it a moment of curiosity. A strange thought, since they were now moments from the original hour of their wedding.

  “We could talk about it when we’re in Atlanta again,” she said. Her voice was low and timid, aware that things were not going to improve once they were home again. When she looked at Greg, she could see the first signs that he, too, understood. He turned away from her.

  “I should go,” he said. “Let you have some time to figure things out.” He left the tent, moving towards the hotel again with his shoulders held in a position which Amy recognized as a sign of frustration. He passed Edward, whose slow figure was visible scraping the remains of her wedding cake smashed on the steps of the mansion. Elise had no doubt been carrying it forth triumphantly when the funnel touched down.

  It was too late to change things now. She had passed the point of no return. With her face buried in her arms, Amy allowed herself to cry as stormily as the winds which had carried away the contents of this tent and her dreams of an elegant wedding.

  *****

  In her room, she stepped over the broken pieces of glass scattered across the floor as she collected the pages of her manuscript. Several had been pierced by shards of broken pane, pinning them to the surface of the opposite wall.

  Her laptop, on the other hand, was unscathed in its carrying case.

  Slipping the pages in her bag, she zipped it closed. She had changed out of the damaged wedding dress, into a blouse and skirt again, two solid leather loafers on her feet. Tucked in the front case of her laptop, a bus ticket printed off the website downstairs at the reception desk.

  Crossing the hall to Greg’s room, she rapped on the door and received no answer. When she knocked on her mother’s, all she heard was the sound of a vacuum cleaner on the other side. Fumbling for a moment, she slipped a note between the door and the frame, where Barbara was certain to see it when she opened the door.

  Of course, the wedding was cancelled–everybody was aware of that–but she wasn’t ready to admit the deeper reasons why in person. It was better to sneak away before her defenses crumbled altogether beneath her mother’s questions.

  An open bedroom door had allowed paper debris to scatter across the carpet. She crept towards the Magnolia Suite, aware that Mathilda was on the other side.

  The editor was seated on the sofa, a glass of something obviously from the liquor family in her hand as she gazed out the shattered windows. The sketches and photographs, the articles for the issue on regional Southern elegance scattered all around her by the force of the windows.

  “It’s something, isn’t it?” she said. Aware of Amy’s presence in the doorway.

  “Yeah,” she answered. Stepping across the threshold, she avoided a design book, its pages scattered on the floor.

  “You’re leaving, of course,” said Mathilda. “No sense in trying to put things back together today. Unless you plan to run off to the local Justice of the Peace.” She glanced at Amy, her expression shifting subtly at the sight of the bride-to-be’s face.

  “Um, there’s probably not going to be a wedding anytime soon,” Amy answered. Mathilda studied her intently, silent for a long moment in response.

  “I see,” she answered. “I guess maybe there’s been a change in the weather overall.” She turned towards the window again, taking a sip from her glass.

  “I’m sorry,” said Amy. “I want to thank you for everything you’ve done. I’m so sorry for all of this–” Her voice cut off abruptly beneath a tide of emotion.

  “You couldn’t help the weather,” Mathilda answered. “As for the rest of what you’re suggesting–it’s not like it matters now, does it?” She rose and set her glass on the table.

  “We’ll salvage the rest of the issue, don’t worry,” she answered. “As for your part–send us that book excerpt, will you? We have to have something to go with that Southern belle photo if we don't have a dream wedding to write about.” With a brief smile in Amy’s direction, she began gathering up the remains of her work.

  Amy turned to leave, glancing one more time in the direction of Greg’s room, where all was still silent. She wondered if he would call her when he returned tonight, or wait a few days. She wondered if when all of this was over, if they would be right back where they started–or not even friends anymore.

  There was no sign of Jackson as she crossed the veranda to her waiting cab. The driver peered out the window, craning his neck to see the damage curving around the house’s lawn, the twisted tree limbs and debris of paper and wood. With one final glance in the direction where Jackson had walked off earlier, she climbed inside the cab.

  “Bus station, please,” she said. The driver shifted into reverse and began pulling down the driveway.

  “Bad storm, huh?” he said. “Hit a few places in town, too. Good thing nobody was hurt–but I’m guessing it left a real mess here, huh?”

  “You have no idea,” she answered, with a sigh.

  *****

  “It’s you,” Antonia said. “I know it is you. Don’t deny it, Jackson.” She followed the wounded soldier as he limped hurriedly away from her. His injuries slowed his movements, so much so that she caught him by the arm and faced him.

  “Do no refuse me,” she said, her voice breaking. Her hand touched his face, the scars which he was endeavoring to hide beneath a scarf wrapped around his face as if for warmth.

  “Antonia,” he whispered. “Please go. I can’t have you here. Can’t have you see me like this.” He tried to turn away, even as her arms clung to him.

  “I will never leave you,” she said. The iron had entered her voice with these words, her face white to its very lips as her eyes burned darkly. “I will never go. You know that I won’t– you know that you can’t make me.”

  He stared at her, the first sign of weakness visible in his own features. He spoke no protest, nothing but a cry of longing as she embraced him in the midst of the muddy road traversed by the war-weary refuges around them.

  Amy’s fingers paused above the keys of her laptop, her breath suspended as she read these words, rereading them to herself under her breath. This was it: the end she had waited for, had envisioned a hundred different ways before now.

  This moment was anticlimactic to her after so many weeks of work and waiting. Would it have been different if it had been typed on the old Remington in the plantation guest room?

  Usually, this would call for a celebration, but it was unlikely, since she and Greg had only distant speaking terms these days. He still sent her research for her book, still answered her questions about names and dates in history, but there were no more luncheons or dinners.

  While he didn’t bring up renewing their engagement, she didn’t expect it to be mentioned. She suspected that he was working on moving past it as well as herself, buried in work and interests until the wound healed.

  In the first few weeks of fall, she tidied the manuscript and mailed it to her editor. She sent Greg a thank-you gift for his research efforts and rearranged her collectible ceramic figurines from the MGM classic film. She watched a marathon of documentaries featuring romantic sites in the U.S., turning it off when it reached the episode about southern locations. She made peace w
ith her mother, who was more disappointed by her daughter’s pain than her actual failure to reach the wedding vows.

  At the end of September, the envelope arrived in the mail, addressed to her from the Wild Egret. She popped it open, expecting to see a newsletter or a bill for some sort of room services– the attempted air conditioner repair, the vacuuming of the dead mosquitoes.

  Instead, she found a letter.

  Dear Miss Pontelle, it began, I am sorry that your stay at the Wild Egret was apparently not the best experience in Southern hospitality. As you know, we’ve been endeavoring to improve the place a little for its future as a popular tourist destination. That’s why I want to invite you back as our personal guest to stay as long as you like, in hopes of erasing the first impression the Wild Egret has made.

  Sincerely, Mr. Sawtelle

  “I’m thinking of taking them up on the offer,” she said.

  Over the phone, she heard Sophia’s cry of surprise. “What on earth for?” she asked. “Amy, you were miserable there! Your wedding was ruined, you broke off your engagement, you spent a whole week being melted by humid temperatures–what could possibly make you want that kind of punishment?”

  “They feel bad about it,” Amy answered, defensively. “At least, the Sawtelle descendants think I should let them make it up to me for their bad plumbing and cooling systems. Maybe they think I’ll give them some free PR or something.”

  She knew there was a strong possibility that Jackson’s houseboat had already floated off to another site, especially after what had happened. The slim chance that he hadn’t, however, was pulling her with the slow and strong persistence of a magnet.

  “I can’t believe this,” said Sophia. “Celebrate your book’s finish in Hawaii or something, but don’t go back to that place. I think it’s affecting your brain.”

  “It wasn’t so bad,” said Amy. Who, in her mind, was picturing the first moment she glimpsed the house through the cab window. “I can’t blame what happened on the place, you know. And it had a certain charm in spite of it all.” Maybe it hadn’t been the Southern mansion of her fantasies, but it had been as close as she would ever be to such a dream.

  “Just don’t call and complain to me if the roaches start eating you,” was Sophia’s reply before hanging up.

  Roaches? For a split-second, Amy wondered what all creeping and crawling horrors had failed to visit her own room the first time. There was still time to reconsider, of course. But there were reasons enough not to change her mind, even if she didn’t want to speak them aloud.

  She packed her bags and bought the bus ticket, watching the scenery of Georgia’s countryside and sleepy towns roll past before she arrived at the station. She hailed a cab and began the final stage of her journey to the Wild Egret all over again. It might have been the first time she was ever here, except for the first signs of autumn in nature, the subtle change of the seasons which all of the human senses detect in the first few weeks of transition.

  As the cab wound the final curve to the Wild Egret, she saw the house once again through the window. Her eyes widened, her lids blinking once or twice as if to dispel an imaginary picture from their sight.

  The house was ... different. Not just the new glass in the windows and veranda doors to replace the storm damage: the very essence of the house seemed different. Majestic pillars glowing white in the late afternoon sun, a smooth marble structure flawless and in perfect repair. A polished light fixture hanging in massive proportions above the door, the perfectly manicured lawn sloping onwards to a series of elegant flower beds blooming with fall plants.

  As the cab rolled to a halt, she opened the door and climbed out. Her eyes detected no sign of the weathered paint or subtle decay of age which she had grown accustomed to in her weeks here before. Was it her imagination? Or a trick of the lighting?

  The sound of a door opening turned Amy’s attention in the direction of the front entrance. A man in a perfectly-tailored suit had emerged, gazing at her expectantly as he stood in position to greet her. Not the hotel’s manager, but Jackson the gardener.

  She stared at him. “What are you doing here?” she asked, when she found her voice.

  “Waiting to greet my guest,” he answered, with a nonchalant shrug.

  “Where’s Mr. Fairfax?” This response was croaked out after a hesitation.

  Jackson raised his eyebrows thoughtfully. “He retired,” he answered. “Last month. Lot of years on the job, we thought it was time he had some relaxation.”

  “Edward?” she ventured. Jackson thumbed in the direction of the house.

  “He’s polishing silver in the kitchen,” he answered. “I’ll get him for you if you want. ‘Course, it’ll take awhile, so you’ll have to be patient.” A faint grin began creeping into place with these words, as if he was enjoying himself.

  “Are you–” she began.

  “Funny thing,” he continued, “the local chapter of the Confederacy Civil War Reenactment Society wasn’t too keen on having a Union captain’s name in their regiment, even if it was Sawtelle. So I have to drop it when I’m with them. And I never did go by Jim much as a kid, either...”

  “Mr. Sawtelle,” she said. “I didn’t realize. That is, I–I don’t know what to say.” She felt helpless at this moment, as if she were stranded here with her luggage before this pristine structure and the well-dressed man in its doorway.

  He held out his hand. “Do you want to see the rest of the improvements?” he asked, softly. “We made a lot of changes. New air conditioning, new pipes, restored antiques–the works. New management to greet visitors, too. Without the muddy boots and gardening gloves.”

  She pinched her lips inwards as she listened, not daring to meet his eyes yet. “I thought it was pretty great the way it was,” she answered. “The same goes for the new manager.”

  She felt his hand close over hers, pulling her close. “I was hoping if you came back, you might say that. That you might take to the place with a little more time.”

  It was impossible for her to take to it any further, since it had been love at first sight. The vision swimming in her tears a moment ago had been her idea of Tara; the man in front of her a vision even better than the fictional Jackson in uniform Antonia first laid eyes on.

  In response, Amy closed the distance between them, letting her hand rest on his shoulder, her cheek almost touching his own. “I should have brought my hoop skirts and ball gown,” she answered, her voice teasing even as it trembled. “I won’t fit in here like this.”

  “You’ll do just fine,” he answered. As if they were in a novel and not standing in present-day reality, he tilted her back and kissed her.

  Arms wrapped around his neck, eyes closed, as she allowed this moment to enfold her with the comfort of happily-ever-after, the thrill of love’s confession, the unmistakable reality of Jackson’s arms and touch.

  It was real, this moment of herself in a swoon-worthy kiss, on the veranda of a beautiful Southern mansion. All that was missing was a breeze fluttering her flowing ball gown and a rugged uniform for Jackson–although these were details she would gladly part with for this moment. For once, the screen would not go black, nor would the cover close on this moment. She would live it out to the fullest and to all the equally real ones beyond it which awaited her in this place.

  Excerpt from the bestselling, lighthearted romance Late to the Wedding

  Rain drops speckled the car’s dusty hood, a blip of lightening flashing in the distance. “How do you moderate this thing?” Evelyn asked, studying the faded labels for the temperature selections. “Is there a secret code, a special rotation, like a safe?”

  The only answer was the wind whistling loudly against the windows, which seemed helpless to block any kind of noise from the outside. She glanced over to find her driver seemingly oblivious, eyes narrowed at the dark scenery ahead. “How do you work the air?” she repeated, this time at a volume he couldn’t possibly miss.

  “Not by screaming
in my ear, when I can already hear every word you say. Including the one’s you murmured in your sleep this afternoon. His name’s Jared, right?”

  She gasped, losing her grip on the map laying across her knees. “That–that’s eavesdropping! And everyone knows dreams don’t mean anything, anyway.” Her face was flaming as she turned back to the dashboard. “Are you going to help me with the air, or should I roll the window down?”

  “Stop fiddling with it,” he said, batting her fingers away from the knobs. “You’ll make it worse. I know all the car’s quirks, and you’re only confusing its system by changing the settings every two seconds.”

  “But it’s freezing in here.” She inched the switch towards the heating side, a worn red stripe giving a clue to its purpose. “I keep expecting to see my breath.”

  “Quit exaggerating.” A blast of wind jerked the car to the side, edging it over the center of the road. “Besides,” he added, “I’ve got a jacket in the trunk if you’re really that cold. The next time we stop I’ll get it out.”

  Lightening crackled, the old Sedan struggling to regain its correct lane. “C’mon,” Brian muttered, spinning the wheel around. His foot tapping against the brake as a sizable tree branch blew across the road a few yards ahead.

  Evelyn waved her hands in front of the vent system. “I think it’s working. Or maybe it’s just getting weaker.”

  “Turn it off, alright? You’re gonna burn us up putting on the heater and I don’t–”

  Whump!

  The sound of a dead chicken hitting the windshield.

  Their screams were simultaneous, with Evelyn digging her fingernails into his arm, as the car swerved towards the ditch. It skidded back onto the road seconds later in a wild U-turn motion, Brian whipping the steering wheel hard against the force of the ever-increasing wind. The motor picked up speed in time for a sudden downpour of hail, which dinged against the metal vehicle like a torrent of ping pong balls.