Toss the Bride by Jennifer Manske Fenske Page B

one of our brides. It cost nearly a thousand bucks.
    I nestle the tiara into Carolina’s hair, which I’ve twisted into a passable French knot. Then, with Donna’s eager hands, we lift the illusion veil up and over Carolina’s head, allowing the satin grosgrain ribbon edges to flutter down over her back and shoulders. Donna gives me a nervous smile. It’s not every day that someone like Maurice comes into her store. She’ll probably talk about this for weeks.
    Donna pushes the dressing-room door open and Carolina walks out slowly. Carolina’s mother looks up from her date book and smiles. Even Carolina seems fairly interested in her reflection. Maurice gazes at me with a certain amount of pride or maybe just disbelief. We have made Carolina look like a bride.
    All of the images a woman is hit with over the course of her life make this moment different from any other. Sure, I’ve seen hundreds of dresses before, but this one is special. Maybe it’s because the dress fits Carolina just perfectly. Maybe it is because we are desperate for a dress—any dress—for this wedding. Or maybe it is because I want to wear one of these myself.
    I wonder what has happened to me. I used to care more about getting a good tan or reading the latest women’s magazine. Being with Avery started out as a lark. He was funny, sweet, and caring. We talk about all kinds of things, and I feel like I can tell Avery anything. Well, almost anything. The one thing that’s starting to matter most he just doesn’t seem to understand. I shake my head slowly as Maurice frowns. I should be beaming, not thinking.
    â€œSweetie, this is a very nice dress,” Carolina’s mother says, crossing her legs and letting one leather mule flop off her foot. “What do you think?”
    â€œI guess it will do.” Carolina has a pouty face. I decide not to care.
    Maurice takes this as a yes. “Donna, please wrap this up. We’ll use the same veil and the tiara I brought in.”
    â€œWe have several nice tiaras—” Donna offers helpfully.
    â€œThis will do, thanks.” Maurice is on to other tasks. Donna backs away, chastened.
    Our hope was to find five bridesmaids dresses at O’Dell’s, but Carolina refused them all. “Tacky” was her judgment, so Maurice and I put our heads together. We need to find five dresses of varying sizes to match the wedding party. No bridal shop will have that many dresses on hand. Usually, they have only a sample size from which you order the real dress.
    Carolina is exhausted, so we stop at a little coffee shop for a pick-me-up. While Carolina’s mother chastises her for the fifth time that I’ve heard for being so silly about the dresses, Maurice and I huddle at a corner table. I suggest one of the better department stores at Phipps Plaza. This gets Maurice thinking, and I know he is on to an answer.
    â€œWe’ll go to Rent-A-Gown. Perfect!” Maurice almost cackles.
    I gasp. He cannot mean it. There is no way Carolina and her mother will follow us in their sleek foreign sedan out to the strip mall–ringed bargain highway where Rent-A-Gown is sandwiched between Hot Tub Heaven and a warehouse that sells unfinished furniture.
    â€œThey’ll never go for it.”
    â€œThat’s where our natural genius comes in,” Maurice says. “Here’s what you do. Call that French café off Juniper. You know, the one with the vines and the murals. Get Elise to reserve the small room in back.”
    â€œWhere we had Darby’s shower?” I sigh. Dealing with the French owner was such a big pain.
    Maurice nods. Then he tells me to invite Carolina there in two hours. “Send them out on errands. Make something up. I don’t care.”
    There isn’t time to drink our lattes, so we leave the two women and jump in Maurice’s sports car. Maurice drives fast, talking on his cell all the way. He