Louisa Stratford parked her silver Mercedes in the circular driveway in front of her parents’ home at Crown Pointe Place. Opening the car door, she headed for the house, already missing her signature jeans and ankle boots. At her mother’s urging, she had donned one of the few ultraconservative outfits hanging in her closet—a chic blue-and-gray-plaid woolen skirt and coordinating blue cashmere sweater.
‘‘Hello, dear!’’ Mother called as she emerged from the front door. ‘‘Shall I drive today?’’
‘‘My car’s warmed up,’’ Louisa said. Making note of her mother’s prim navy suit and pumps, she went to open the passenger door and waited for her mother to get settled in the front seat.
When they were on their way, heading north on I–25 to Denver, Louisa absentmindedly slipped in an old Sheryl Crow CD, one of her favorites. ‘‘I’m exhibiting my art students’ work in two weeks, so I can’t be late for class today,’’ she said, hoping to keep their outing as brief as possible.
Suddenly, the plaintive wail of Every Day is a Winding Road blared into the car, and she quickly poked the eject button. ‘‘Sorry about that.’’
Off to a classic start, she thought, restless, even preoccupied. She was eager to meet with her students again, having grown weary of the wedding preparations, more than a full year of them already. Each week’s schedule of events, teas, and luncheons was a reflection of her parents’ tastes, but she had learned from her childhood to acquiesce to Mother’s wishes to avoid making waves.
Her dream wedding—hers and Michael’s—bore little resemblance to the plans being carved out for them. Both families had decided their children, their only offspring, deserved something of a gala to die for. Well, Louisa was dying all right, and it had nothing to do with the composition of the gift sachets—satin or netting?—for three hundred dinner guests, nor whether the reception china should be rimmed in gold or silver.
Gold, her mother had insisted, with full endorsement from Ms. Tyler, the wedding planner. The reasoning was linked to the gilded birdcages with large satin bows tied to their gleaming posts to be positioned strategically along the wedding aisle. No mere candelabra or flowers with simple bows along the aisle, no. Nothing ordinary in this wedding. And because the embossed invitations were also gold, it was only fitting the dinnerware be etched with the same.
On the other hand, the groom had early voiced his humorous opinion to the bride, but the notion of saying vows before a justice of the peace was out of the question. Not with his family connections. And hers.
In fact, Michael paid little mind to their wedding plans. If anything, his primary interest seemed to be the exotic honeymoon cruise package. She smiled to herself. Typical guy.
‘‘Driving a little fast?’’ her mother commented as Louisa navigated the wide streets of Littleton, a suburb of Denver, to the appointed boutique.
She tapped the brake. ‘‘Sorry.’’
Today’s quest was to select gifts for the bridesmaids and junior bridesmaids, as well as the guestbook girls—why three? Louisa knew the answer all too well. Everything was about Daddy’s prestigious law firm. It was essential, as it had been explained to her, that the upper echelon of her father’s company—their up-and-coming progeny, at least—be well represented in the Stratford/ Berkeley wedding, whether Louisa and Michael had ever made their acquaintance or not.
At least I chose my own maid-of-honor, Louisa consoled herself, smiling at the thought of Courtney Engelman, her outspoken, even cynical, but fun-loving college friend.
The addition of bodies had begun to aggravate her, including three of the supposedly ‘‘charming’’ yet nameless flower girls whom Mother had lined up without her knowledge until just recently.
Sighing, Louisa parked in front of the boutique, then pulled her keys from the ignition.
‘‘Darling.’’ Mother turned and touched her arm lightly. ‘‘Is something the matter?’’
Louisa sighed again. ‘‘I’m fine . . . maybe a little tired.’’ Not only was she tired physically, but weary of attending to the infinitesimal details of a full-weekend wedding celebration, from calling to double-check room reservations at Denver’s most exclusive hotel, the Brown Palace, for out-of-town guests to a zillion and one bridal showers in her honor—both lingerie and household— all happening in the next two weeks. Not to mention the post-wedding announcements to be sent to newspapers on the never-ending list: the Denver Post, for their present location, the Chicago Tribune, where most of Daddy’s side of the family lived, the Los Angeles Times, where Mother’s people still resided, and several more small-town papers her parents had decided were a ‘‘must send.’’
Why did we hire a professional planner at all? she wondered, wishing she and Michael might have arranged a simple but elegant wedding.
‘‘We mustn’t tire you out, darling. You tell me when you’ve had your fill, all right?’’
Louisa forced a smile.
Growing up in opulence, Louisa was accustomed to the niceties of life. But once this wedding hoopla was past and she and Michael returned from their honeymoon—once the hundreds of thank-yous were properly addressed and stamped, with the proper return address label on the proper day—the life she now led was going to screech to a halt. She had little interest in kowtowing to the almighty dollar. Daddy’s riches hadn’t brought joy to Mother’s heart or peace to her perfect plastered smile. Oh, they were content and at ease with their friends and societal functions, but deep down weren’t they as frustrated as everyone else on the planet, well off or otherwise?
However, in the midst of this crazy and contrived world, Louisa knew someone who had long embraced a simple and unpretentious life. A young woman who knew well the meaning of genuine beauty, laughter, and love, although without a boyfriend at the present time. Annie Zook understood how to live to the fullest and on very little means monetarily, or so Louisa assumed. The Zooks supplemented the sale of cow’s milk and butter by raising peacocks, and from the honest and caring letters Annie wrote so frequently, Louisa had enjoyed a front-row seat to the Plain life—the daily routine on the back roads of Paradise.
Perfect name for a honeymoon resort, Louisa thought, smiling.
While her mother paid for each of the two-hundred-dollar bracelets to be presented to the attendants at the bridesmaids’ luncheon in a few days, Louisa wandered toward the lace-covered bay window. She looked out to the horizon, past the flurry and cacophony of traffic, and considered the Pennsylvania barnyard where Annie often ran barefoot up until the first frost, bringing home their herd of cows twice daily and feeding the peahens and their chicks. She closed her eyes and visualized the fall plowing which was happening this week, with the help of Yonie, Luke, and Omar, the three younger Zook boys.
A ‘‘closet’’ artist, Annie also had a surprising knack for word pictures, even though she had only an eighth-grade education. The real-to-life descriptions in her letters helped Louisa envision the foreign world of the Old Order Amish.
Her curious connection to Annie Zook all these years had created within her a yearning for a less-complicated life, even though it was clear that brokenhearted Annie was caught in an ominous situation with her secret love of art, which was forbidden by her strict church community. A train wreck about to happen, she thought, wishing she could do something more than write letters to support her friend.
‘‘She’s as trapped as I am . . . in a different way,’’ she whispered into the air, thinking how ironic it was that she had not been able to pry herself away from her parents’ wishes for her own wedding. Just as Annie had not been able to please her parents by abandoning her art and joining the Amish church.
‘‘Louisa,’’ her mother said, tugging her back from her reverie, ‘‘let’s have lunch. Somewhere wonderful.’’
Conscious of her mother’s anticipation, she surrendered. ‘‘Sure, if you like, Mother.’’
Her mother waved at the thirty-something wedding planner, Katrina Tyler, who was pulling into the parking lot. ‘‘Why don’t we head downtown to the Brown Palace Hotel and kill two birds with one stone?’’ Mother suggested. ‘‘Would you like that?’’
Translation: Why don’t we sample the reception dinner entrée?
‘‘I’d really rather not.’’ The words tumbled surprisingly off her lips.
‘‘Beg your pardon, dear?’’
Pardon, indeed . . .
Louisa shook her head. ‘‘Can’t we trust the head chef, the wait staff, Ms. Tyler, and everyone else you and Daddy have shelled out tens of thousands of dollars to, to get it right? To make my wedding day the perfect memory. Can’t we, Mother?’’
Her mother’s brow pinched up and her tone turned icy. ‘‘We’re scheduled to meet the caterer there.’’
‘‘I’d much rather grab some fast food. I’ll ask Katrina to meet us at—’’
‘‘The luncheon is already set, Louisa.’’
Why didn’t you say so? She glanced over her shoulder and noticed the boutique owner’s face crumpling while whispering to the clerk.
Louisa turned to leave and politely held the door. She forced herself to slow her pace and wave at Ms. Tyler when she opened her car window and called a perfunctory greeting. ‘‘I can drive if you’d like,’’ the wedding planner offered.
‘‘I’m driving!’’ Louisa said. ‘‘We’ll meet you there.’’ She matched the dignified slow tempo of her mother’s stride. Everything these days—everything—was a corresponding link to the Stratford family name and fortune. The way things were expected to be. All the years of finishing school—how to walk and not to, how to point toes, cross legs at ankles, how to present oneself perfectly in public . . . whether dressed in scanty swim attire, tea-length tailored suit, or floor-length evening gown. She knew the drill.
‘‘I’ll spring for burgers, okay?’’ she said, making one final attempt when they were settled in the car. ‘‘We could eat them on the way. Consider it appetizers.’’ She snickered at her own mouthy joke.
‘‘Far too much fat for a bride who must fit into her size two gown.’’ Mother said, shifting into her most-determined mode.
‘‘I’m not worried about clogged arteries or zipping up my gown. You never saw what I ate during art school.’’
‘‘Well, we fed you the very best food growing up.’’
The very best . . . How often had she heard that?
At Seventeenth Street, they pulled up for valet parking at the Brown Palace Hotel, and Louisa was told they were lunching at Ellyngton’s, the place to be seen and home to the ‘‘power meal.’’ Maybe Michael might wander in for lunch with his attorney pals. She could only hope so.
After all, she thought wryly, we’re on the brink of marriage . . .
When they were settled at a window overlooking Denver’s lively financial district, Mother suggested the baby greens and three-tomato salad on the starter section of the menu, to which Louisa quickly agreed. In doing so, she would improve her chances of ordering what she really wanted for her main course, which was neither the spinach and wild mushroom salad nor the lemon-marinated salmon. The Angus burger would satisfy her hunger. She had enjoyed it before, several months ago when Michael had met her here during his short lunch hour, to discuss a prenuptial agreement his attorney had drawn up. She’d found it to be rather annoying at first but was informed of the ‘‘necessity’’ of such an agreement, as explained to her later by Michael’s private attorney. And, silly her, she should have figured this might happen, with the amassed Berkeley fortune being ‘‘old money,’’ unlike her family’s more recently acquired wealth. After cooling down, which took a few days, she had signed on the dotted line, with a wink and a nod from Michael, who assured her there was ‘‘no need to worry.’’
Now she reached for her glass of sparkling mineral water, studying Katrina, who had taken her checklist out of her briefcase. No older than thirty-two, this wedding planner was earning her keep. She would not derail with an impertinent approach and had way more style than her predecessors. She also possessed the single most important ingredient of all: the ability to persevere.
Yep, Ms. Tyler will cross the finish line.
Later, when Mother and Katrina ordered identical desserts of apple beignets with lingonberry jam, Louisa went for broke with the black bottom pie, having chickened out on the burger and ordered a chicken entrée instead.
But it was following the meal, when the schmoozing with the caterer started, that Louisa stifled her opinion. She followed Katrina’s lead, feigning interest in the reception entrée options: Filet Mignon, Roast Prime Rib of Beef, Chicken Edgar, Chicken Italia, Sesame Seared Salmon, and Herb-Crusted Haddock. Or a trio of three to please all palates.
After an hour and a half, she was no longer able to sit demurely by. She glared up at the chandelier, fidgeting idly with her smart phone and keys, wishing she dared call Michael. But his day would be demanding as always, tied up with important clients, as a busy junior partner at a competing law firm some miles from her father’s.
Mother continued to deliberate the selection of ivory versus ecru linens, now kindly conferring with Katrina on the matter. Louisa let her mind drift away to the perfect daydream . . . to gorgeous Michael, who planned to drop by her apartment after work tomorrow evening. Together they would grill the steaks marinating in her fridge, but he would insist on making a walloping big Mediterranean salad while she stir-fried his favorite snow peas, oyster mushrooms, young asparagus spears, and strips of red and yellow bell peppers. Once dinner was over, she would share what was troubling her, confiding her dire frustration, asking if it was too late. Too late for what, babe? To make their mark on the most important day of their lives. Or, better yet, to go back to the drawing board and do it their way. He would assure her, pull her into his arms, and fervently kiss away her stress, while Muffin, her blue-gray cat, would blink his green eyes all curled up on Louisa’s funky secondhand black-speckled Garbo sofa.
A good dose of sanity . . . soon! She could hardly wait.