Toss the Bride by Jennifer Manske Fenske Page A

a tad because a perfect summer breeze is making the warm morning very comfortable. Maurice stands across from the parking lot, keeping an eye on his watch. He has changed into his suit, and I might be a little off, but I think his heart is beating like crazy. I believe we’re going to get away with this one.
    At the very last minute, a chauffered car pulls up to the curb and Camille and a man whom I assume is Gwen’s father step out, both dressed for the ceremony. A van stops behind them and out jump six or seven men who look as if they were just pulled off of a construction site. Camille waves them into the sanctuary. All of the guests turn, talking stops, and we wait. Maurice grimaces and takes a hesitant step toward the church. He probably senses this is beyond him by now.
    Within minutes, the burly men reappear carrying the decorations from inside the sanctuary: candelabrum, ferns, and stiff little roses trailing white ribbons. They haul them down to the little park, squeezing past guests, and dump decorations in little heaps here and there. The poor fountain gets the brunt of it. I can hardly see the delicate burbling arc of water because of all the ferns piled on the edge. By this time, the guests are thoroughly puzzled and people start talking about the bizarre decorating scheme. Camille stalks down the center aisle to prop up a huge arrangement of gladiolas that has fallen over in the grass.
    â€œMaybe it’s a performance art piece?” I hear one woman ask another. Finally, a guest can’t hold back his laughter. Another one joins in, and then everyone has the giggles. I look around, wanting to laugh myself. Even the older folks are in on the joke. Everyone knows this is Camille’s crazy idea of a wedding, not Gwendolyn’s.
    Camille hears the laughter and looks around. I notice her coiffed hair is a bit wispy from the exertion of moving flowers. She breathes deeply and tries to smile, but she can sense that everyone is looking at her like she has lost it. Finally, she sits near her husband, who plainly wants to be invisible.
    Taking advantage of the moment, the miniorchestra begins the unfamiliar strains of a classical piece that I’ve never heard. I love it. I don’t know what it is, but it’s not Purcell or Wagner, and that’s good enough for me. The construction workers find their places at the back of the crowd and stand, arms crossed. One man still wears his banana-yellow hard hat.
    The bridesmaids, escorted by the groomsmen, walk slowly down the limestone church steps and cross the little park area. Due to the candelabrum stuck awkwardly in their path, the women each have to do a little dip and sway when they get to the fountain. It’s unorthodox, but it works. Traffic swooshes past on Peachtree Street, but it just seems to fit the occasion. The music changes and the guests stand. They turn around toward the church in time to see Gwendolyn and Jake walking hand in hand down the church steps. When they reach the bottom, they look at each other gently and pause. I know they do not hear the rattling of delivery trucks or the squeaking of brakes. They seem only to have this moment together. The construction guy wearing a hard hat gives a low catcall when he sees Gwen in her pink dress.
    Then, just as quickly, the couple walks forward, shaking hands and hugging guests who are crowded into the little park. I see Gwen checking out the wilted gladiolas and the pesky ferns, but she just sighs. She and Jake, too, have to sidestep the candelabrum and a few white flower arrangements. But after that, Gwen just gazes at her fiancé and they stand beside the fountain. I know she has decided to move past what her mother has done. I admire her.
    Everyone smiles and leans forward to hear what the pastor says. It is a lovely ceremony, and I am proud to have helped make it happen. Later, I will even save the program and a pink napkin printed with the couple’s initials. I will