Free Toss the Bride by Jennifer Manske Fenske Page B

much money, and I really wish I could have enjoyed the flowers I ordered and that someone presumably paid for. But since I can’t, because of you, I am not going to show up here today in a few hours. I’m going to call Jake and we’re going to get married elsewhere.”
    Camille inhales so deeply I fear she will turn purple and fall to the floor. I picture her mean heart breaking onto the unyielding Lutheran tiles of the sanctuary. “You are being ridiculous, Gwendolyn Leigh. Your father and I have worked very hard to give you all of this and you will show up like a good girl and get married here.”
    â€œMother, I have never been a good girl.”
    â€œYou will not do this to me,” Camille says and presses her lips tightly together. “Think of what people will say.”
    I take a second and picture Jake, the fiancé. He’s probably at home, getting ready to get out of bed. I see him there, scratching his shaggy hair, wondering what time he should get showered and dressed and when exactly it was that Gwen wanted him at the church. Jake is an artist and a die-hard trail runner. If you want to find him, you have to check out his studio behind his house or his favorite park, Sweetwater Creek, a few miles west of town. He refuses to own a cell phone—something I find courageous in this town of people just panting to communicate—so he can be hard to track down. When Gwendolyn tells him what has happened, I know he will back her up. He probably will not even care where they get married, as long as they do. He’s that kind of guy.
    My watch beeps the hour: it’s 8:00 A.M. I get a queasy feeling because the bride is not dressed, she’s redefining the word angry, and there’s this little problem of where the actual ceremony will occur. At least the reception is taken care of, thank goodness.
    â€œMother, if you could just see that I’m different and accept that, this day could have been very nice. As it is, it’s over for me. But I am going to get married to Jake today, even though I know you think I could do better to marry a lawyer or a bank president,” Gwendolyn says.
    â€œHow is that artist going to support you and children? Have you thought about that?”
    Gwendolyn drops the white dress to the floor. Her mother makes a little whimpering cry and grabs for it. “That’s a Marie de Valledor!”
    â€œAnd my dress is a Gwendolyn Coldren. If you would just take a second not to be such a snob, you would see that it’s very nice. I’ve already had one order for the exact dress from an Emory student for her wedding next year.”
    If this bit of information changes anything in Camille, I can’t tell. She looks as uncompromising as she did when she walked into the sanctuary. Gwendolyn turns and rushes out, her pink hair making a streak through the solemn room of stone statuettes and stained-glass saints. I follow her. If she wants to change the wedding location, I will have a lot of work to do.
    In the bride’s room, Gwendolyn is crying just a little as she holds her cell phone up to her ear. “Jake, just come get me. My mother has really—I can’t explain it right now. Please come.”
    I walk in slowly, giving her space.
    â€œNo, we’re getting married, but just not here. You should see the place. It looks like something every Atlanta bride would die for,” she says, rolling her eyes over at me. I nod in agreement. “And there’s this horrible dress. And a hairdresser. And who knows what else. She’s taken over my wedding—on my wedding day!”
    Gwendolyn hangs up and turns to me. “We’ve some details to work out. Are you up for it, Macie?”
    I say I am. This day is getting stranger by the minute. I wonder if Maurice would approve. He’s no doubt smoothing things over with Camille. With someone as prickly as she is, though, I think even Maurice will have a hard