Toss the Bride by Jennifer Manske Fenske Page B

also tuck away a picture of the bride with the construction workers after the ceremony. The guy who made the catcall apologizes. Gwen tells him she loved it, but she is a married woman now and off the market.
    The reception at the Fox is divine, and the cake is scrumptious. Gwendolyn even gives me a little gift. “It’s a velvet flower pin made from vintage material,” she says with a smile. “I think they are going to be hot this year in the new store I’m opening in Midtown.”
    â€œCongratulations!”
    â€œThank you. It’s a wedding gift from my dad. My mom will come down there after she reads about it in Atlanta Magazine, I guess.” Gwendolyn shrugs, but I know she is hurt. Later, I will overhear her mother bragging to a guest, “Yes, she made the dress herself and already has quite the following with her design business!” I am glad to hear it for Gwendolyn, and I hope her mother says it to her before too long.
    Maurice ends up leaving the reception a bit early. I tell him to go, that I will make sure everything wraps up perfectly. I wave good-bye to Gwen and Jake as they leave the reception a few minutes later. She leans on her new husband’s shoulder, a little tired, while he shakes hands with well-wishers. They are happily in love and seem grateful their friends have stayed to see them off.
    I am filled with a desire to see Avery, so I speed dial him on my cell. We have the whole night to look forward to, and I think I will take him a piece of pink wedding cake. He should love it as much as I do.

5
    The Naked Bride
    I climb into Maurice’s silver sports car. Luckily, the air-conditioning in the tiny cockpit is going full blast. It’s a scorcher out here. I direct a little plastic vent toward my face. The Atlanta summer sun fills nearly every day with hot waves of light that hit your eyes, then skin, then lungs with humid persistence. Air-conditioning is vital to life.
    â€œSo, what does Carolina want now?”
    Maurice taps his fingers on the leather steering wheel and tilts his head to the side. “Oh, I don’t know. How about a wedding dress, for starters?”
    This day cannot get any wackier. We’re tossing Carolina in four days, and everything was pretty much under control until yesterday. As far as brides go, Carolina has been no worse than the rest. She’s hard to get on the phone, flaky about making decisions, and pouts when she doesn’t get her way. The biggest request she had was to allow her Aunt Gretchen to sew the wedding dress and bridesmaids’ dresses. Maurice was against it—he’s a hound for labels—but eventually caved in to pressure from Carolina’s family. They own a chain of local appliance stores, all indicators of a handy pile of money and referrals for Maurice.
    Aunt Gretchen was supposed to have been a big-time couture designer in her day. Carolina had a million stories about her aunt’s prowess at the sewing machine. “Every garment I wore as a child was made with her hands in her Parisian studio,” she was fond of telling me. I would just nod. My parents outfitted me at the local Kmart in Cutter. Some people have charmed lives.
    Carolina’s wedding-party dresses have been a major ordeal. Patterns were obtained and fabric ordered with no problem, but Carolina’s attendants—there are five women in all—live out of state. They have sent Aunt Gretchen their measurements and will cram their one-and-only fitting in right before the wedding. This plan seemed to worry everyone except for Carolina, who assured us that Aunt Gretchen was one of the best.
    I told Avery about this plan over supper last weekend. He was in a mood, a bit on the tense side. I figured he was just tired of hearing wedding stories. After all, it’s a lot of what I talk about because I am immersed in weddings all day long, and sometimes into the wee hours of the morning. Avery, on the other hand,