Free Toss the Bride by Jennifer Manske Fenske Page A

have discussed this with us beforehand? Or perhaps with Gwendolyn?”
    â€œOh, Gwennie won’t even notice. Look, you can hardly tell the difference in the white roses versus some other spiky thing she selected.”
    â€œHer tropical flowers were red and orange,” I say through clenched teeth. “I’m guessing she’ll figure it out.”
    Maurice gives me the most withering of warning looks. Since I think I might say something else, I slip away. I need to get to the bride before her mother does any more damage. I walk out of the sanctuary, and that’s when I hear the scream. It’s Gwendolyn.
    Gwen is racing down the hall toward me, holding a billowing white wedding dress in one hand. The lengthy train drags on the floor. A woman with a blow-dryer is giving chase. I follow them to the sanctuary. I can hear Gwendolyn screeching at her mother. She really gives it to her. I stand beside the red wooden doors to the sanctuary, unsure of whether or not to enter. Finally, I walk in just a few feet and pause under a stone arch.
    â€œYou cannot expect me to wear a dress that you have picked out, Mother!”
    â€œYou certainly will,” Camille says, eyeing the white dress draped over Gwen’s arm. Even though I’m some distance away, I can tell the dress is something Gwen would try on to humor her mother, but she would never, ever wear it. It has mounds of tulle and lace and bows and oh, it’s really dreadful. Gwendolyn’s pink dress may be loud to some, but she has designed it herself and it is brave and different and beautiful.
    â€œI will not wear it!” Gwendolyn’s short pink hair bobs as she says angrily, “Get rid of this now.”
    â€œYou’ll do it like this or there will be no wedding, dear.”
    â€œYou’re kidding, right? Since when did my wedding become your own personal bridal fantasy?”
    Camille is cool as she gives Maurice an apologetic look. “I’m sorry you have to see this, Maurice. Sometimes Gwendolyn is a little passionate.”
    â€œDon’t condescend, Mother.”
    Maurice clears his throat. “If I may offer a compromise.”
    The women glare at each other and ignore him. Gwendolyn says, “If you don’t take this dress away and get rid of that evil hairdresser you sent over, I will not be responsible for how this day turns out. Don’t push me, Mother.”
    It is then that I realize the hairdresser is in the sanctuary, a few feet behind Gwendolyn, clutching her blow-dryer. She looks pained, as if she were wishing she could be transported about three thousand miles away. “I could do a faux French twist,” she says in a whisper.
    Gwendolyn ignores this and then seems to notice the sanctuary decorations for the first time. A shade of rage passes over her face. I’ve never seen someone so angry but not angry. It’s like she’s moved past angry altogether. I really feel for her. If Avery and I ever get married, my mother would be involved, of course, but she would content herself with the reception menu or the bridesmaids’ dresses. She would not remake the entire thing. Of course, I know Mrs. Leland would be heavily involved. Mr. Leland would probably insist on paying for it, too. Not as an insult to my parents, but because he and Mrs. Leland would invite so many society-type people. A quaint, country wedding back home would not be the type of shindig the Lelands would go for, no sir.
    I watch as Gwendolyn touches a stiff little white rose hitched to one of the pews. She fingers a stalk of baby’s breath and then turns to leave the church.
    â€œGwendolyn! Don’t you walk away from me! Get back here right now!” Camille’s voice echoes throughout the ornate sanctuary. I can almost see the stained-glass images of all the saints frowning down on us.
    Gwen stops and turns, the white dress still in her arms. “I’m sorry you’ve had to waste so