Free Toss the Bride by Jennifer Manske Fenske

the exact nightmare of what Gwen—my funniest, most creative, and favorite bride ever—did not want at her wedding. All over Atlanta today, brides will walk into churches and rented halls just like this one. They will love it. Gwendolyn will not.
    â€œWhere are the tropical flowers? You know, those imported hothouse blooms with the sticky thingies?” My words are coming fast. I’m not making much sense. “And the sari scarves for the ends of the aisle? The light pink candles on silver sticks?” I look at Maurice, but he seems to think I know the answer. “And who in the world put these ferns in here? There’s no room for the wedding party to stand near the altar!” I forget my usual whisper-in-church voice, and my words bounce off of the stone walls. I stalk up and down the smooth, polished center aisle.
    â€œMacie, I have no idea of what happened here. While you were with Gwendolyn, I was minding the caterers over at the Fox. At least that room looks correct. But this, this is going to push Gwendolyn over the edge.”
    I stand, mouth open and heart racing. I simply do not know what to do. Gwendolyn’s offbeat sense of style was going to make her day unique. That’s what every bride seems to want, but few follow through with it. They say they want it to be different, but in reality they desire ferns and rented candelabrum and the fancy caterer who was written up in Atlanta Magazine last month. I know they will pick the same readings, hymns, and Bach tunes as the bride before them.
    I’ve often thought that someone should open a wedding consulting business called Textbook Weddings. Brides would have a limit of three alterations to the preset schedule. Straight out of the box, each wedding would be the same. How perfect! This sanctuary would be the perfect one for Plan C—A Classy Wedding. I get chill bumps up and down my arms and look over at Maurice.
    â€œI simply don’t know what happened,” he is saying, more to himself than me.
    â€œI confirmed everything with Stella’s Blooms last week. They even told me how the tropicals were coming in on their own plane.” Gwen may be different and unique, but she is still wealthy.
    â€œWhat are we going to do, Maurice?” I say, glad that he’s the boss, not me.
    â€œWell, I’m going to get on the phone with Stella and raise some—”
    Maurice stops in midsentence, not because we are in a house of God, but because Gwen’s mother has arrived. From the way she tilts her head and gives a sparse smile from the back of the church, I would say she is triumphant.
    â€œOf course,” Maurice says to me softly. “Here we have our answer.”
    Gwendolyn’s mother has ruined her daughter’s wedding, and it hasn’t even started yet. I inhale and turn to face this woman who obviously loves common ferns and tacky bows more than her almost-married daughter.
    â€œHello, Camille,” Maurice says, stepping into his smooth wedding-coordinator role. Although he is wearing his casual wedding-day outfit of a cotton shirt and pants, he acts as if he has donned the most elegant suit paired with custom loafers. Maurice oozes grace under pressure.
    â€œYou like what I’ve done with the place?” Camille asks in low tones. Her mouth curls around the words, reminding me of a bad television villain.
    Maurice asks, “Where are the flowers we ordered for Gwendolyn? The sari scarves? Her pink handmade candles?”
    Camille pulls at the lapel of her beige jacket. Her mother-of-the-bride dress hangs in the bride’s room near the pink wedding dress. “I’ve made it no secret that I do not share my daughter’s penchant for shocking displays. I decided that I simply could not afford to have the family embarrassed by her—what would you call it?—unwashed bohemian tastes.”
    Nodding, Maurice crosses his arms. “But don’t you think you might