One Bride Too Many: One Bride Too Many / One Groom To Go

“Can’t I just…”

“It’s the only way everyone will hear you in this huge room.”

Lucinda’s way was always the only way. Tess had an urge to mutiny, but after the honeymoon, Lucinda would be back at the mall, her lunch buddy and walking partner. Most brides became real people again after their big day.

“I hate mikes.”

Lucinda was impervious to pouting unless she was doing it. Tess went to the head table and located the dreaded instrument, which the groom’s father was kind enough to test by blowing into it. The result was a whining whistle.

“Here you are, little lady.”

Next he’d pat her head!

“Eh, ladies…girls…women…” The mike made her too nervous to remember what was politically correct.

The band was taking their forty-third break, and conversation prevailed.

“Can I have your attention? Please!”

“Talk up a bit, little lady,” her coach prompted.

“The bride is going to toss her bouquet!”

That got them. Tess wiggled her tongue trying to get enough saliva to finish the announcement.

“Eligible women go to the grand stairway,” she directed, surprised when the groom’s dad took the microphone away from her.

“Come on, gals. Who’ll be the lucky little lady to snag the bouquet?”

Tess crept away before he thought of doing an interview on why she wanted to be the winner. In fact, she didn’t. She’d caught the bride’s bouquet at four previous weddings, mainly because she could be trusted to return it to the newlyweds. Obviously the magic didn’t work on a skeptic like her.

Judging by the stampede, Lucinda had invited an army of unwed women, although some of the throng gathering at the foot of the stairs had to be women looking for love the second or third time around.

The foyer was large with striking black-and-white checkerboard tiles on the floor. The walls were loaded with cloudy old oil paintings in heavy gold frames. Lucinda had gone to the top of the stairs so she could descend dramatically, her train hooked up to avoid a tumble. Her dress was ivory silk with an overskirt of antique Belgian lace from her grandmother’s wedding gown. Tess had never seen a bride who didn’t look beautiful, and Lucinda was no exception. It was the glow, not the trappings.

It was her job to announce, “Here she comes!” and whip the crowd into a frenzy. She intended to stand to the side and avoid the crush, but women jockeying for position outflanked her. She found herself squeezed in on all sides, threatened by a tall girl’s bony elbow to her right and a pair of spike heels backing into her. Tess’s silly bow had come untied again, but she was too squashed to reach behind and redo it.

She caught a glimpse of Lucinda nodding at her from the top of the stairs, her signal to make the big announcement.

“Here comes the bride!” she called, not that everyone couldn’t see that.

A woman with jet-black hair gave her a hard hip thrust on the left, but Tess couldn’t escape the press. They’d boxed her in on all sides.

Lucinda was descending with much-practiced stateliness. She threw from the halfway point, putting enough oomph into the toss to give the bouquet some spin.

Tess put out her hands defensively with no thought of catching it, but the flowers were coming directly at her. Hands were everywhere, reaching, grabbing and snatching. She heard an ominous rip and was nearly knocked off her spike heels as two contenders got their hands on the delicate arrangement of exotic blooms.

Neither woman would let go. They pulled until they split the prize, tearing the orchids away from the wiring. Tess heard another tearing noise and knew she was in trouble.

The crowd thinned with a mix of disappointed grumbles and good-humored laughter. Tess found herself standing alone with her skirt hanging limply on the tiles behind her. The wretched satin streamers had been torn loose, taking the back of the skirt with them. She knew the semi-transparent petticoat wasn’t enough to conceal a view of her pink bikini panties, and a couple of the groomsmen were strolling her way. She knew they’d noticed when they stopped and pretended to study one of the dark old oil paintings on the wall in front of her. Freddy, a pale blond, freckle-faced guy pretending to be an art lover, had already tried to corner her in a Sunday-school room at the church. He had breath like a sewer and at least seven arms. She’d rather get sucked into quicksand than let him get his hands on the part of her anatomy that was now hanging out of the ruined dress.

Reaching behind and grabbing a handful of satin, she tried to bunch it together enough for modesty’s sake while she edged her way out the door. This reception was over for her.

She felt the jacket descend on her shoulders before she saw her rescuer.

“Let’s go,” Cole said, putting his arm around her shoulders to hold his suitcoat in place.

“Gladly!”

“Crazy ritual. I’d rather take on a wolf pack than get in the middle of a scramble for the bride’s bouquet.”

“I wasn’t trying for it,” she said. “I was in charge of getting the women together.”

“You certainly did an admirable job,” he teased, pushing open the door with his free hand.

Spotlights lit up the front entrance, and lightposts illuminated the whole of the parking area. A few smokers lounged on the steps enjoying the wonderful June evening, and a tipsy couple were doing something that resembled dancing on the asphalt drive.

He guided her toward the car, keeping his jacket firmly in place with his arm. She was happy to see her little compact, which was as out of place between a Mercedes and a Lincoln as she was at this reception.

“I owe you,” she said. “This makes twice you’ve rescued me.”

“No thanks necessary. Do you have your car keys?”

“Yes, and I can actually reach them this time.” She dug into the little purse and extracted them, rather pleased when Cole took them and unlocked the door for her.

“About owing me,” he said as she slid out of his jacket and onto the car seat. “There is one little thing you could do for me.”

“What?” She was genuinely surprised that Cole Bailey could need anything from her. If truth be told, she was hopeful that the favor involved spending more time with him.

“You’ve always had a lot of girlfriends, if I remember right. Do you still?”

“I guess. I’ve never given it much thought.”

“Are some of them…I mean, do you still have some sweet unattached friends who’ve never been married?”

“I don’t exactly run a club for old maids.” She was liking this less and less.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound…”

“Weird?”

“My intentions are honorable.” He smiled ruefully. “I’d really like to meet some nice women.”

“Is that why you crashed the reception?”

Surely this man could get a date in a convent if he put his charm to work! She was far more puzzled than pleased by the prospect of playing matchmaker for him.

“Weddings are usually a good place to meet…people.”