The Bride Wore Dead

by E M Kaplan

  To her, the wedding was a sweaty blur, but it had to be even worse for the bride. During the ceremony, a trickle of perspiration had run down the side of Leann’s face. Josie was close enough to see it, even though she was the tenth and last-minute bridesmaid whose calla lily bouquet had started to droop. Calla lilies…weren’t those funeral flowers?

  Through it all, however, Leann had been smiling and happy. Her blonde hair bobbed in a pile of ringlets on top of her head, woven with baby’s breath, a masterpiece straight out of the most posh Pinterest boards. Her full veil and long dress were white and layered—as Josie could have guessed before seeing them—as was the many-tiered wedding cake. Leann’s dress was low-cut with a snug, beaded bodice that pushed her ample—and sweaty—cleavage into two perfect peach-colored pillows. She was a frothy white vision, an angel. Beside her, Peter loomed straight and broad, his teal cummerbund smooth and flat across his trim waist. At no time during the rehearsal or wedding had he acknowledged Josie from their previous barroom encounter. Or maybe he just didn’t recognize her.

  A tiny, be-robed old priest, officiated the ceremony, leading them in sitting, then standing, then more sitting, then kneeling. The world had swirled into a sweaty teal and lavender mess by the time the old priest asked Leann and Peter to repeat their vows. Yet, the ceremony progressed, and no one passed out. A success by all accounts.

  The church was a pointy-headed Romanesque structure built in the mid-1800s. Imposing for its time, it was now dwarfed by a crowd of shiny modern skyscrapers. And no AC, of course. Josie stared at the closed doors with longing. Surely, a cross breeze or two was worth a few bugs?

  Inside the church, the pews flowed back from the altar in two waves, standard formation that even a stranger to the interiors of religious edifices like Josie could recognize. A great, red rug lolled down the center aisle like a hungry tongue. Josie clutched the arm of her assigned groomsman—a clean-shaven, tanned guy, doused in citrus cologne, generic in his tuxedo among the other nine male attendants. They lock-stepped up the red tongue to Pachelbel’s Canon in D.

  Leann’s mother was in the front row, her lips moving in prayer, with no Mr. Ash in the picture. Susan told Josie that the family had broken up when Leann was eleven or twelve, and that Mr. Ash had been bad news, so now he was persona non grata. Divorce Catholic style sounded ominous. How did that work? Josie looked closer at Mrs. Ash and realized, like a stage mother, she was mouthing the vows to herself. She nodded a cue at each change in the ceremony. Josie cast her sweat-stung eyes around the church, wishing for a painless end to it all. How fitting, she thought, to be in a church, asking for mercy.

  Finally, at the end of it, the geriatric priest looked up and pronounced the couple husband and wife. He prompted himself from a slip of paper saying, “I am pleased to introduce to you Leann Ash-Williams and Peter Williams.” Somewhat anticlimactic after all that Latin and incense. There was a chaste kiss, and then a mass exodus.

  #

  Josie weathered the reception line, taking the moist hands of guests into her own soggy hand. Under her skirt, her pantyhose were sliding down with the perspiration rivulets running down the backs of her knees. If quizzed later, she wouldn’t be able to identify any of the people whose hands she had shaken in that reception line. It was ridiculous, really. If she’d had the tiniest bit more energy, she might have fidgeted. But the heat deflated her.

  When they were released into the reception hall, she tried to make a beeline for the restroom with a mind to peel off her hose and wipe the sweat off. Halfway there, the bride’s mother intercepted her.

  “Hello. How are you?” Mrs. Ash said, or rather, sang, not really inquiring after Josie’s health, though Josie was tempted to tell her. Mrs. Ash didn’t pause for a response before she said, “You did such a beautiful job.” Josie just wanted to get out of her sodden hose. She wanted to find Susan, who had run off with friends who were happy for the newlyweds. Josie only wanted to find her name card on the tables. She needed a glass of water. Or three fingers of gin.

  “Thanks,” Josie said, wondering why Mrs. Ash was raising her eyebrows. Had she just missed a question that required an answer? Just in case, she added, “It really was a…wedding to remember.” Taking a step to the side, she expected Mrs. Ash to move on to other more familiar or prominent guests. There were members of Congress in attendance, for crying out loud.

  Josie had met Leann’s mother for the first time at the rehearsal the night before. Mrs. Ash was a small woman with hair dyed somewhere between white and blonde. In a floral print dress and stilettos, she blared her singlehood status. As artificial as her facade was—her heavy makeup and cloying floral perfume—Josie couldn’t dislike her. She had a wide eyed way of blinking that made her seem simple and sincere to the point of naivety, something her daughter had inherited with less artifice.

  “Leann is so fortunate to have such wonderful friends like you.” Mrs. Ash blinked, her eyelashes in uncontrollable, perpetual flirt mode. “To be with her very best of friends on this wonderful day. And everything has gone off so smoothly. A mother really couldn’t ask for more. I think she was so beautiful, so perfect.”

  Josie looked down in front of her at place card with the missing bridesmaid’s name on it. She turned to Mrs. Ash, “Oh, you must think that I’m—”

  “No, no. I know who you are, dear. It’s been so wonderful to have you as part of the wedding party. I understand perfectly who you are—” She leaned in and whispered, “You’re Josie Tucker, and I know you don’t like to make a big fuss. You know, about who you are.” She smiled with that blinking, simpleton’s stare. “Don’t think that I’m going to ask that you review the meal here tonight. But you must know that I’ve had the chef from the Four Winds supervise the catering. And surely you’ve tried the hors d’oeurves?” Mrs. Ash looked around for a waiter.

  “Oh. No.” Josie protested, hoping she wasn’t going to be plied with food. Please, God, no.

  “And for starters, we have a lovely endive salad with crème fraîche,” Mrs. Ash said pronouncing it with an exaggerated throaty r-sound “And pineapple dressing with just a hint of dill. I’m sure you’ll be able to taste that hint with your refined palate. Then there’s a stuffed game hen with pistachios. You’ll be pleased with the presentation. I know that’s one of your favorite things—the colors and the aromas. And if you wanted to, you perhaps could mention in your column…”

  “Mrs. Ash, I appreciate your…attention, but I don’t do society events.”

  “But before you say no, my dear, you must try the sweet little treats that we’ve prepared.” Mrs. Ash waved her hands to get a waiter’s attention. Instead of a waiter, a tall thin woman stepped away from the crowd and came toward them. “There’s Greta,” Mrs. Ash said with more dread than pleasure. She wilted as the groom's mother came nearer.

  Tall and thin, Greta Williams was steel personified. Instead of choosing a matching color for a mother-of-the-groom dress, she wore a navy blue suit, the fabric heavier than linen and not insulted by a single wrinkle. Her sheer force of will seemed to keep her suit crisp. Pinned against the solid darkness of her suit was a single, creamy rose—simple and stark, like a man’s boutonniere. She hadn’t sweated a drop, and the old saying about squeezing blood from stone came into Josie’s mind. Greta Williams seemed like a person who rarely, if ever, was pleased about how things were going. She made Mrs. Ash look frivolous and cheap.

  “Lydia, come and speak to some of the other guests. They’re asking for you.” Mrs. Williams gave Josie a cursory, dismissive look that seemed not to miss a thing.

  “Be sure to try the goat cheese wraps,” Mrs. Ash whispered before Greta Williams led her away.

  #

  Josie sighed in relief, dropping into her seat. Digging in her microscopic teal handbag, she foraged for antacid tablets, blaming Drew for saying what she already knew about her stomach and her stress level. And for him not showing up like a white knight to save her from this horrible wedding, forcing he
r to brave it alone. And for making her wish he were there for other reasons. Like maybe he cared about her. She pulled the tablets out of the ridiculous bag, hoping no one would see the restaurant critic nursing an upset tank. Too late to hope that they didn’t see her looking like an idiot.

  Annnnd too late to sneak the tablets. One of her tablemates had slid into his seat. With a raised eyebrow, he said, “Before the meal is even served?” He noted her embarrassment with a half-smile and flagged down a waiter for two glasses of wine. “I guess this is the requisite singles table,” he said, scrutinizing the place cards and exchanging two of them so he could sit closer to her. Which flattered her.

  “And for people in the wedding party who have to be put somewhere, but not because they like us in particular,” Josie added, taking a small sip of wine. Wine and antacid, a winning combination.

  “Ouch. That one hurts. Maybe a little too close to the truth,” he said. His engaging smile showed off straight white teeth. Long limbs marked him as being on the groom’s side—maybe a cousin of some kind. His deep tan looked natural, not orange from a tanning bed, and his forehead was high and intellectual, not that she believed in physiognomy. He had a streak of the Greta Williams steel in him, for sure.

  Susan plunked down between them. “Are we sitting boy-girl, or does it matter?” she asked. Josie’s tablemate looked away, letting his smile fade. What a fascinating and rare occurrence—a man was more interested in her than in Susan. Josie felt like she’d won a contest she hadn’t entered.

  “Here’s a tasty morsel,” he said, putting an hors d’oeruve in his mouth, but flicking his eyes toward Josie. Her neck flushed with heat.

  Under the table, Susan stepped on Josie’s teal-colored pump.

  Josie leaned close to her and whispered, “Where the heck is Benjy? He’s supposed to be escorting us. I just got pounced on by Leann’s mother. Now she’s going to force-feed me her flaccid goat cheese whooziwhatsits.”

  Susan looked around. “Don’t know. He was hanging on me just a minute ago. I had to foist him on an old guy who was giving out investment and mutual fund advice. Little did he know that Benjy is the last person on earth who would be investing in the long term. He doesn’t have two pennies to rub together.”

  “If he did, he’d open a farm and try to breed baby pennies,” Josie said. “And aren’t you supposed to be sitting at the table up there with the bridal party?”

  The bride and groom sat at a long table, which was mounted on a platform about three feet above the other tables. Leann and Peter fed each other small bites of food, exchanging kisses when guests clinked their silverware to the glasses. The first five bridesmaids and groomsmen flanked them on either side.

  Wedded bliss. Josie stared at them. A lot of guests were doing the same, watching the newly married couple. It was a publicly private moment that seemed nevertheless to involve the entire reception hall.

  “Lovely, aren’t they?” the man at her table said into her ear, just to her. He had gotten up to refresh his drink and had swapped seats again to be next to her. He sat back, his posture liquid, his lips shining from his last sip of drink. She gave him a puzzled but amused smile. He’d loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his crisp, white shirt.

  “I traded my seat with the flower girl.” Susan waggled her fingers at the little girl sitting up at the table. In the chaos of the appetizers and drinks, Mrs. Ash might never notice one flower girl out of place in her perfect, choreographed celebration. Josie spied the mother of the bride mingling, her checks flushed under a heavy layer of stage makeup.

  #

  Susan leaned in close, “If you skip out early, I want to go with you. You take me with you, you hear? Do not leave me here.”

  “Now why would you think I would do a thing like that,” Josie said grinning. “According to Mrs. Ash, I have about seven courses to get through. Never mind the goat cheese wraps. And the palate-cleansing Tums.”

  Susan narrowed her gaze. “Just let me know when you want to go.”

  Josie nodded at her, and almost teared up. That was Susan through and through—loyal to the core—even though social events were her thing. She shined at them, made connections and lasting friendships. Like sitting next to someone in an art class one day.

  “Are you crying?”

  “Weddings make me maudlin,” Josie said, turning away for a second. She swiped at her mascara. Crap. Major smudging.

  Their table filled up when two couples seated themselves after cautious scrutiny of the name cards. Susan took over. “Hi. Let’s introduce ourselves—I’m Susan. I’ve known Leann since college. I met her when we took a dance course together. She was very good at it, and I—as I may later demonstrate on the dance floor if we’re forced to do the Macarena—was very bad.” Which was both true and a lie. Susan was a weird contradiction, a dance class graduate who couldn’t make her studied moves translate to a wedding dance floor.

  The table’s attention fell to Josie. “I’m Josie. And I seem to be wearing the same dress as someone else here. How mortifying.” She received some polite laughter for her effort.

  Josie’s first tablemate spoke next, “I’m Michael Williams,” he said. “The groom’s older brother.” Oops. More than just a streak of Greta Williams. Josie corrected her earlier assessment, flustered.

  A man in an unfortunate brown suit leaned toward his wife and whispered sotto voce, “He’s the gay one.” His wife rolled her eyes and heaved a long-suffering sigh. Michael, who had dipped his finger in his drink, was drawing a figure-eight on the tablecloth. Eyes downcast, he clenched his jaw, which made Josie doubt he was gay—otherwise, why would he react that way? Plus, there was that definite, but odd chemistry between them.

  “I’m Bill Lake and this is my wife, Wendy,” the next man said. A bank teller or high school guidance counselor, Josie guessed, from his conservative blue but ugly suit. “I dated Leann when she first got to college.” Susan nodded at Bill in recognition. Bank teller, Josie settled on. Bill’s wife, a timid woman, smiled, but didn’t say anything for herself.

  “I remember you,” the brown suit told Bill. “I’m Doug. Doug Campbell, the guy she dumped for you. I went out with her when she was in high school.” He gave Bill a challenging look, bitterness and wounded ego still lurking. And he’d already visited the open bar, it seemed, from his flushed face and tight grip on the highball in his meaty hand. Doug was thick around the middle in his brown suit and unfashionable shirt, not the kind of guy Leann would be attracted to now. Maybe she’d floundered from bad boyfriend to bad boyfriend. Who had invited them? Wasn’t it weird to have such a parade of exes at a wedding? A funeral maybe, but not a wedding.

  The woman next to Doug elbowed him in the side. “I’m Larue Campbell, the woman who won Doug away from Leann. And what a prize he is.” Tanned with deep wrinkles around her eyes and mouth, Larue had a tough look, though her eyes were bright and lively. Laughter, a little too loud, erupted around the table.

  Josie wanted to ask Susan if Leann had invited her exes as a gesture of goodwill. Had Mrs. Ash wanted them here so she could show off? Or had the groom gathered them to triumph over them? And why had the two losers shown up? As she mulled this over, she almost missed the rest of the introductions.

  The next occupants at their table were young girl cousins—Josie didn’t catch which side of the family they were from. Theresa and Angela, who gabbed celebrity gossip, rapid-fire, about a young movie star who had disappeared, according to the magazines. The young star was rumored to have gone into rehab, but Josie stopped paying attention. The last movie she’d seen starred a talking pig who spoke only French, and she had vowed she’d never give another buck to Hollywood.

  The table splintered into smaller conversations, and the tension soon dissipated with the deliberate apathy of strangers forced together. Next to her, Michael was silent while Josie worked on her wine. She leaned closer to Susan to whisper, disguising her cattiness with a wide, practiced smile. “Why are Lea
nn’s ex-boyfriends here?”

  “No idea. I’ll see what I can find out,” Susan whispered back, then raised her voice to normal level. “Incidentally,” she said, “You’re not the only member of the press who’s in attendance this evening. There’s Joe Armstrong. He’s looking good.”

  Josie glanced around to find her social climbing former coworker, some-time ex-lover pressing Mrs. Ash’s hand in a two-palmed shake.

  “If I didn’t know so much about him, I would date him.”

  “I’m glad I could save you the trouble,” Josie said.

  “He is an attractive one, though, isn’t he?” Susan was still appraising Joe Armstrong’s broad, dark looks.

  “Don’t let the hundred-dollar haircut fool you,” Josie said. “If he had a few more brains, he’d be kissing up to mother of the groom, not the bride.”

  “Touchy!” Susan said.

  “I don’t suffer jerks well.” Josie still cringed at the thought of having been all lovey-dovey with Joe Armstrong for a couple of months, including one or two weekend getaways.

  As soon as he’d realized that she didn’t have his social drive, he dropped her like a rock. No, she didn’t want a seasonal condo in Tahoe and a live-in maid. No, she had no interest in taking golf or tennis lessons no matter what bigwig she might end up talking with on the links or the court. No, she didn’t want to get her hair and nails done weekly because the right people could really appreciate a quality manicure or dye job when they saw one.

  She could trace their breakup back to a conversation over dinner. They had just gotten back from a weekend in Las Vegas. “Look at that woman’s roots,” he’d said. They had been at a very nice café where the staff knew Josie well. They were having a fine, simple dish of mussels gratin, nice and garlicky—nothing like being at the point of a new relationship where you can eat garlic and not feel self-conscious. Staring with rapt attention at the woman with lightened hair, he’d said, “Now, that is a quality dye job.”