It’s Sunday morning, and let’s just say the empowered mood I felt when I made my list last night has evaporated like the morning fog. Right now, I’m feeling less than Christian. Yesterday was not one of my better runs as a godly girl. In fact, it was pretty pitiful. My attitude toward Emily has come back to haunt me this morning, and I pray for forgiveness. The funny thing is, I mean it!
“I promise I’ll be good, Lord.” Granted, He’s heard that from me before, hundreds of times, and if ever there was a reason to question my good intentions, it’s a day spent with Emily. With that little prayer offered up, I feel better. Call me an optimist, but I’m hopeful for the day. I put on my Seven jeans, some magnificent heels, and a Boucle jacket I got on sale at Bloomingdale’s. My look says I am fashion-savvy, completely capable of making solid, en vogue decisions. I am not in need of a wedding dress selector. I am a confident woman, moving forward!
I’m a confident woman who’s a little late as I hustle into the back row of the high school auditorium where my church is held. The music is loud and washes over me like a steady heartbeat, bringing me into a connection with Jesus. A connection I need so desperately this morning. I let it rain over me and soak in the reminders of His sacrifice for my pettiness. It’s overwhelming, actually. Saved by grace. If that miracle wasn’t created for me, well, I can’t imagine a more perfect candidate.
After a sermon on loving others as myself, I am ready to face Emily Novak. I pull up to Kevin’s doorstep with my shoulders straightened and my personality tamped down like fine espresso. I visualize myself as Mother Teresa and ring the doorbell. There she is, my Calcutta street urchin: Emily.
“Is that what you’re wearing?” Emily asks with a tinge of disapproval.
Good morning to you too, Emily. How are you this fine morning? Only it doesn’t come out quite that way. “Is that what you’re wearing?” I retort, looking at her springtime dress straight out of a matinee showing of Grease. The skirt is only missing the poodle. I want to turn around and show her my Seven label. I want her to get a good look at the Marc Jacobs stilettos. This is fashion, girlfriend. Get out your pork-bun- covered notepad!
“You’re wearing jeans to hit some of the area’s nicest hotels?” Emily’s brow wrinkles in disgust.
“I’m wearing Sevens,” I correct as I turn around and thumb the label. “This is California,” I explain. “We like to dress our jeans up, but we’re the casual state, second only to Hawaii or maybe Florida,” I say in an upbeat weather forecaster voice. I even sweep my hand across the sky like it’s a blue screen.
She puts her palms on her chest. “I am dressed casually as well. But my dress says that I care about appearances and that these meetings are very important to me and my marital future.”
Peachy. “Okay, well, you’re not the one getting married, and I’m not changing. Let’s go, shall we?” I say, avoiding any further discussion. One small step for Ashley Stockingdale, one giant step for false, behind-the-back womanhood.
We get into my convertible, and I have the top down because it is a gorgeous California day. I can tell this is not going over well with Emily and her hair-sprayed, beribboned ponytail. Without even a com ment, I lift the top and slowly latch it closed. Taking the high road! Are you noticing, Lord?
“My brothah passed on your feelings about the country club, so we’re heading to the Fairmont Hotel first,” Emily announces while looking at the slightly stained notebook and showing me the blank line next to “Location.” “We have a meeting with the director of catering.”
“I’d really prefer to decide on the wedding’s location first. San Jose is awfully far for most people, and I’m not sure I’m a Fairmont kind of gal.”
“What’s wrong with the Fairmont?”
“Well, nothing, but I’d like to get married outdoors, not in a hotel, since we don’t really have access to the church.” The idea of getting married in the high school auditorium with gum under the seats and teen-angst graffiti is not something I’d find romantic, even if that is my “church.”
“Y’all can get married by the pool there at the Fairmont. It’s on the foh-th floor and overlooks the park across the street.”
“Can people swim while we’re getting married, or will they close it off?”
“Well, they have to keep the pool open for guests, I would think.”
I shake my head. “Not liking that idea. What if some kid comes and does a cannonball in the middle of the ceremony? Or worse yet, if Pamela Anderson takes a dip while your brother tries not to be too distracted to say, ‘I do’?”
She scratches out the Fairmont name, putting way too much pressure on her pad. “There, you happy now? You have such a fatalistic attitude, Ashley. How is anyone supposed to make you happy?”
Can you disappear? Bad Ashley. Sorry, Lord, really trying here. “What’s next?”
“The Duck Pond in Palo Alto,” she says excitedly.
“Have you been there?” I ask tentatively.
“No, but I saw it on the map and it sounds just perfect, right by the Bay, and—”
“It’s next to the sewage plant, and about four times as many ducks live there than is humane. It smells like something died, and you can barely walk from all the . . . Well, you get the picture.”
Emily harrumphs and again scratches her pen with virulence. “So where would you like to go, Ashley? It seems to me you have the perfect weddin’ in your head, yet you don’t offer anyone suggestions as to what that is. Would you care to share your infinite knowledge?”
“Well, it’s hard because there isn’t that much locally. But I want to keep it local because of the people Kevin works with.” I gnaw on my lip, thinking. Churches aren’t a big commodity in the Bay Area unless they’re universalist, or transcendentalist, or something else that allows people to be “spiritual” but have no real relationship or accountability.
“We’re burnin’ daylight, Ashley. Where should we go? My plane leaves at seven.”
I can’t help a glance at my watch. Eight more hours. I can certainly do eight more hours.
“If I have to exchange my ticket, I won’t be very happy. I do have a life back in Atlanta, you realize. I’ve been out here workin’ tirelessly, but I really must get back to—” She stops here. Yeah, kinda hard to come up with an excuse when you’re unemployed.
“No, no, you don’t have to exchange your ticket,” I assure her. “We’ll be done in plenty of time. I’m quite decisive. It’s what makes me good at what I do. No dillydallying and all that.”
“So where to?” Emily asks. “I’ll need to call and cancel all these appointments.” She takes out a cell phone, and I keep driving. I see I’m frustrating the daylights out of her, and at this juncture, she’s got good reason to be annoyed.
“I’ve got it!” I twist the car around and head to Stanford. “Stanford Chapel. How could I dream of anything else? The painted dome ceiling, the historic architecture, plus Stanford is where we met!” The Fountain Creamery, where I looked at Kevin and drooled like an oversized mastiff. Who would have ever thought he’d have this incredible blind spot for a valedictorian geek? “That’s it; I’m settled. Let’s go make the arrangements. See? I told you I was decisive. I just needed the right motivation.”
“Stanford’s on my list, Ashley, but accordin’ to their coordinator, whom I called from Georgia, there’s a two-year waitin’ list to get married in that chapel. I doubt my brothah is willin’ to wait that long. I know my parents aren’t. They’re hopin’ for grandchildren by then.”
I shake my head. “Stanford. August 21,” I say with conviction, and I mean it. I’m visualizing myself as a bride on the raised altar straight out of classic design, backed by stained-glass windows. Everything to make you believe you’re in Europe being married in one of the oldest churches. It’s perfect.
We drive in silence as she ponders the two-year dilemma, and I blissfully ignore the facts and concentrate on how to make it happen. We reach the palm-tree-lined street that ends in the magnificent chapel. It’s like being in the middle of Rome, and it’s so odd that you can see something every week of your life and not really see it, or its incomparable beauty, until it matters.
“It’s a bit easier if you’re Catholic.” Emily chooses now to be the voice of reason.
“Well, I’m not converting for the ceremony.” I laugh. “We should pick the reception hall. I’m thinking the Stanford Park Hotel.”
“Ashley, you can’t pick the reception hall without a place to get married.”
“I told you. I’m getting married at Stanford Memorial Chapel.”
“I’m your weddin’ coordinator, and I can hardly allow you to disregard the facts surroundin’ the availability of certain venues.”
“Sure you can. We just have to make the venue happen.” A wedding coordinator’s job. I look ahead at the exquisitely painted church in the distance. “You haven’t known me very long, Emily, but I’m pretty persistent when I’m determined. I feel in my stomach that this is it. This is just like going after a patent. You find a way.”
“You must be persistent if my brothah is marryin’ you. I didn’t think he was the marryin’ type, and I certainly never thought he’d marry a Yankee.”
I choose to ignore this. Good Ashley!
Emily waves a paper in my face, which I push out of the way to keep my eyes on the road. “Look, it says right here in my notes that the chapel doesn’t consider postgraduate work to meet the full-time student criteria. Which makes Keh-vin ineligible to marry there.” She stuffs the paper back in the notebook. “Since you didn’t go to Stanford, I’d say that lets you out completely.”
“Where there’s a will, there’s a way. Do you know how much I’ve spent at Stanford Shopping Center over the years? That has to let me into some kind of club.”
Emily proceeds to rattle on about my spoiled, immature self for the next few minutes. She sounds like the Charlie Brown teacher. Wah wah wah, wah wah wah, wahhh. “It’s just ridiculous,” I tune back in to hear her finish.
“I agree, but I see myself here,” I say, looking toward the grand, painted facade. “You want an extravagant Southern wedding. I want the California version, and I can’t afford the Olympic Club in San Francisco, so this is the next best thing. Besides,” I add dreamily, “this is where I met your brother. That day was like magic.” Except for the part where I found out he was dating someone else. That sucked.
“I find it odd your parents aren’t payin’ for this weddin’.” Emily crosses her arms and waits momentarily for a response before launching into the rest of her attack. “Your budget borders on paltry. I know you’re under this illusion that you have good taste, Ashley, but, my dear—”
“Lots of people pay for their own weddings when they get married a little, um, older,” I falter. “I think my parents gave up hope on me, and they have a beautiful den that they enjoy every day. My dad watches football on a television so large that it makes you want to attach the speaker to your car’s window. I’m happy for them.”
“I can see why they gave up hope,” Emily mumbles under her breath.
I park the car, and we get out and walk into the Spanish-style courtyard below the Stanford Chapel. Just being here makes me feel like dancing, and I skip across the cobblestones. “The hills are alive!” I sing in falsetto.
Emily is mortified and retreats to the car lest anyone thinks she’s with me.
“With the sound of muuu-sic . . .” I continue, sort of chasing after her and trying to grab her hands. She covers her face with her hands. She slinks back into the car, and I run to the window. “Emily, you’re in California! There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. It’s not like we’re driving a domestic car or something really humiliating. Get out and sing with me! This is a town that has a makeshift memorial to a mountain lion. The poor mountain lion that shut down three schools! Do you think they’re going to notice us singing?”
“We have work to do. I’m going to call my brother and tell him you’re not working with me.”
“Brother? Not brothah?” I clarify.
She taps her fingers on the ledge of the window. “Ashley, get in the car.”
I smirk at her but come around to the driver’s seat. “I am getting married here,” I say as I slide into the seat.
“Of course you are, darlin’.” Emily opens her notebook. “The Stanford Park Hotel. Your meeting with them isn’t until tomorrow. I didn’t think it was really a possibility.”
I start the car. “Emily, I appreciate that you’re trying to help, but we’re not going to get anything accomplished if we pretend nothing is wrong. You don’t want me to marry your brother. I can appreciate that, but it’s not your decision to make. You’re going to have objections to whomever he picks, so just give it up to the Lord that you can’t change things, and accept me.”
“I’m doin’ my very best,” she says through gritted teeth.
Well, that’s something, anyway. I drive away from my dream wedding scene. “Will you call the chapel, or shall I?”
“I’ll call them, but, Ashley, what you’re askin’—”
“It’s my wedding. Humor me. If they say no, we’ll go to plan B, okay? If we end up at the Duck Pond, we’ll just go tea length.”
We get to the hotel. We’re way early for the appointment, like by a day. And it’s Sunday. Need I say more? They look at us like we stepped off the red planet, thrust a business card toward us, and send us on our way.
“That was productive,” I say as we get back into the car.
“This is why I took care of things on the weddin’ gown, Ashley. I wanted to know your dreams were settled. Your schedule, traipsin’ off for unknown countries, hardly helps. I’ve never worked with a bride who had such an impossible schedule.”
I could mention she’s never worked for a bride before or that her short tenure in a floral shop does not a wedding coordinator make, but I hold my tongue.
“Go back to that last part. My dreams? Emily, I don’t even know what this dress looks like, and how many brides have ever not selected their own gown? That’s just . . . well, it’s a little odd, Emily. I can’t believe they do that in the South. I may be naive on Southern customs, but I think I can take a leap on this one.”
“I was goin’ to surprise you, but I think it’s time you saw the reason I’ve canceled your gown order. I know you’ll be pleased.”
I scan her expression, trying to see if she really has tried to make me happy or if it’s just another one of her ploys to show her air of superiority toward me. I can’t tell. My heart is pounding. “You’re going to let me see it?” You do realize this does not mean I’m wearing it, I add silently.
“You’ve seen it before,” she says like Willy Wonka, bursting with enthusiasm. Am I going to get an Everlasting Gobstopper?
My breathing lengthens, and I close my eyes like I’m about to witness morgue pictures or the like. “I’m ready.”
She thrusts a full-color photo at me. At first, I’m just speechless. I open my mouth, but I’m like a beater car. There’s nothing, just sputtering. I blink a few times to see if the image changes. No such luck. The gown is . . . it’s huge! I think three of me could fit into it. Carefully weighing my “out-loud” options here.
“Do you recognize it?” Emily asks. “It’s the weddin’ gown that Scarlett O’Hara wore to marry Charles Hamilton! An exact replica I had created especially for you. The moment my brothah announced your nuptials, I had him get me your size. Of course, we’ll have the seamstress at the wedding shop fit it to you perfectly.”
I’m still looking at her, waiting for words to come.
“I’m havin’ fresh magnolias, peonies, and blue hydrangeas—the hallmark of a good Southern bouquet. We’ll have parasols for the bridesmaids, invitations with tea-stained papers, white doves. It’s going to be perfect, Ashley!”
“For whom? Perfect for whom? And why is the gown yellow?”
“It’s not yellow, Ashley. It’s tea-stained French satin. Thirty-one yards of it, not counting the handmade silk leaves.”
“It has leaves,” I say, looking closer.
“Aren’t they gorgeous?”
“I don’t know what to say. I can’t afford this, Emily, and I wouldn’t want to. It couldn’t be less my style. Maybe you’ll save it for your wedding.” I hand it back to her. “Besides, Charles Hamilton died. I can’t think that’s a very good omen for a wedding.”
“Charles Hamilton wasn’t real.”
“News flash! Neither was Scarlett O’Hara.” That was apparently not the thing to say.
She grabs the page and tucks it back in her notebook. “This entire exercise is futile. Take me home. You’re an impossible bride to work with, and I shall nevah do this job again. I’ve put countless hours into y’all’s weddin’, and all I’ve heard is your ungrateful heart lashin’ out at me. I know my brothah, Ashley. He loves the South. He loves his heritage, and the least you could do is allow him to have the weddin’ we’ve talked about all these years. You’re impossible!”
“Scarlett wasn’t exactly sweetness and light,” I say to lift the mood. Um, no. Not working.
“You have your first fittin’ tomorrah at the weddin’ shop. If you choose not to go, I’ll tell my brothah that I wipe my hands of this entire fiasco.”
“Really?” I ask a little too enthusiastically.
“Take me home, Ashley Stockingdale.” Uh-oh. Emily actually has tears running down her cheeks. I see in her face that perhaps she honestly thought I would appreciate this help. Maybe her upbringing allows her to believe that all women want to be Scarlett O’Hara—that we all thrive for the red dirt of Tara to fill us. I don’t know.
“Emily, you don’t mean that. I’m sorry. We have a lot of work to do. Your brother loves me. I love him. We just don’t want to get married like we’re living in 1861.” I crinkle my nose. “That is when the war started, right?”
She sighs. “It’s like he’s completely forgettin’ his roots. For California, of all places!”
Roots. I’m not thinking Southern slave owners with that term. “Surely, not all Southerners have a Gone with the Wind theme. There has to be some reason you see this as the perfect wedding.”
“Ashley, I’ve told you before. We’re from Atlanta, your name is Ashley Wilkes Stockingdale, and your dog is Rhett. It’s written in the stars, don’t you see? This allows my family to be a part of your day. To see that they’ve raised their son with a heritage he loves and honors.”
I stick my head out the window, look up at the sunshine, then gaze back at her. “I don’t see it in the stars,” I joke. “Kevin and I are Christians first. We want a godly ceremony in an ungodly place. We don’t want to be laughingstocks. He’s a surgeon. I’m a lawyer. We have reputations to maintain, and I’m afraid dressing in costume is just not going to go over well with our colleagues.”
“Reputation? You were singin’ and flyin’ through Stanford’s courtyard. What could I possibly do to you that’s more humiliating?” Emily asks.
I take a deep breath and proceed to tell her, “I want to have my own dress at the ceremony. I don’t want a fancy string quartet with gentle pluckings in the background. I’d like a swing band with lots of Glenn Miller. Maybe I have more of a World War II background in mind than the Civil War.”
“I suppose it doesn’t matter what I want!” Emily rants.
Bingo!
“I want both families to be comfortable and happy at the ceremony, Emily. You have to believe that.”
Something changes in Emily’s expression, and it turns dark as a thundercloud. “We’re not goin’ to be happy, Ashley Stockingdale. That would be impossible. Because we aren’t marryin’ at the trailer park with lots of glittery cleavage showing, which would seem to please your aunts!”
Oooh, that was below the belt. I’m literally so stunned that someone would make such an ugly accusation publicly, I can’t even answer. Granted, I don’t want people talking behind my back, but if they’re going to say this, I guess I do. Please, talk behind my back!
We drive in silence for a long time. I can hear Emily sniffling, but I can’t think of anything to make her feel better. I mean, giving in will only strengthen her power over me. Over us, and I can’t do that. Because if I do it now, I do it for a lifetime. I pull up to Kevin’s house, and Emily gives one last sniffle.
“Tomorrow is your fittin’. If you’re not goin’, I suggest you call Hannah and explain yourself.” She slams the door and turns around once again. “And you tell your roommate to stay away from Matt Callaway. He’s mine!” She stomps up the steps and slams the door.
I hope Kevin wasn’t sleeping.
“I’m not going after her,” I yell up to God. “I tried to be good.
I’ve said everything I can say to her.”
But there it is, the guilt. Okay, Lord. I drag myself out of the car, walk up to the door, and knock. Emily opens the door, visibly shaken. “What’s this about, Emily? Are you willing to give me the same freedom to plan your wedding? Carte blanche and all that?”
“Keh-vin should be marryin’ Amy, and he knows it.” Emily slams the door in my face, and I’m standing on the porch wondering where I go from here. Amy? Now there’s a name I haven’t heard mentioned before. Maybe Amy is this fabulously gorgeous Southern belle who knows how to drink sweet tea and eat fried chicken with dainty fingers. Amy. Arin. Ashley. Hmm. I’m seeing a theme with my fiancé, and it is not A-OK with me. I turn and slowly head back to my car, deciding that I will definitely deal with the subject of Amy tomorrow when Emily is long gone. After all, tomorrow is another day!