Gone With the Wedding Read online

  Gone With the Wedding

  By Laura Briggs

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2013 Laura Briggs

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  Table of Contents

  Start of Book

  Other Books by the Author

  "Antonia knew that if she looked back, she would see only the desolation and despair which lingered in the ruins of Swan's Nest. Burned ashes of rebel pride and fierce yearnings for the happier times which seemed an age ago.

  In her mind, the picture of its glories shone beneath the undying sunlight of memory. As vivid and vital, as deeply woven into the fabric of her beating heart as Jackson's love and devotion."

  Amy closed the book in her hands after reading these words aloud, a slight tear edging her voice. The gratifying applause from her listeners, an assembly of local literature critics and book club representatives, made her heart swell with pride once again, although she had grown used to the reception of fanfare over the past few months. Ever since the first time she read a glowing review or saw The Antebellum Heart on display in a bookstore window or first saw the twin posters which flanked her right now at the head of the room–the book cover of Antonia's wind-swept countenance in her signature gold ball gown on one side, her own flayaway blond curls and smiling-but-business-serious countenance in an author's black-and-white photo.

  "Thank you for joining us today, Miss Pontelle," said the event's host, the head of Atlanta's chapter of the Historic Fiction Society. "Before we conclude, there are a few questions from some of today's participants..." Her eyes scanned the room, her lips hesitating before selecting the lucky questioner from the hands raised in the air.

  "Hi, I'm the president of the Southern Sweethearts online book club and a huge fan, Miss Pontelle. Is it true that there's a new book in the works? Our readers would really love to know if the rumor's true." The woman beamed at Amy from her seat, her sweater and tweed skirt perfectly matched, the author noticed.

  "Well, my publisher won't let me give away too many details," answered Amy, with a little smile that encouraged a few chuckles from the audience in response, "but I will say that I'm as eager as anyone to know if there's a happily-ever-after for Antonia and Jackson."

  Another hand shot up, ushered into speech by the event host. "Did you have any inspiration for the setting and the scenes of Swan's Nest?" asked one of the few men present.

  "No," answered Amy. "That is–I've never really had a chance to visit most of the South's more fascinating mansions. Not that I haven't wanted to be one of the guests in Swan's Nest more than a few times." Another ripple of laughter came from her audience in response, although this was an admission which Amy hated to make. It made her seem less genuine, she felt, that her work had so little inspiration in the actual scenes of the historic South's elegance.

  "In your interview with Atlanta Today, you said that research isn't your strong point, but that some of the book was inspired by your own experiences," chirped up a woman in the front row. "Would those experiences be a real-life romance, by chance?"

  For a brief moment, Amy's smile dimmed. "Let's just say that my romantic life is as happy and normal as the average reader's–and very separate from the fictional lives of my characters," she answered.

  It was at this moment the paper's photographer chose to snap her photo, which, when Amy clipped the article from the paper a few days later, was relieved to see it didn't reveal any sign of regret on her face.

  *****

  "Look at me!" Amy's eight-year-old self had spun around the room in dizzying circles, reveling in the twirl of green and white skirts and a long green ribbon trimming the waist. Sure, she was the only girl her age who owned a plastic wire hoop skirt–or even knew what one was– but a difference like that didn't faze a true romantic at such a tender age.

  Her heart had been gone with the Wind–the novelized version–since her earliest memories. For Halloween, she dressed in broad skirts and floppy straw hats and sewed her own version of the green velvet dress at thirteen. Instead of moody pop star posters, Rhett and Scarlet graced the head of her bed in a framed reproduction of the original theatrical poster. Pictures, clippings, ceramic figurines, jewelry boxes and paper dolls: nothing was too kitschy or cliché for her obsession.

  Grown-up Amy Pontelle hadn't changed; at least, the interior of her apartment hadn't changed, although she was forced at some point to admit that hoop skirts and layered petticoats were impractical for everyday life. College-age Amy had collected antebellum novels and Southern romances, devouring them as the fuel which fed eager fantasies of romance amidst epic battles and elegant ballroom waltzes beneath magnolias in bloom.

  Daydreams had become a manuscript after college, with Amy hunched over the keys of her laptop in her cramped Atlanta apartment. Dreams of an elegant plantation house and adventures of escaping slaves and spies from both sides became a more concrete story crafted between shifts at the coffee house and ventures to bargain bins and retail aisles for the necessary supplies of life.

  It had begun as mere fantasy fiction for Amy, who blogged her stories with enthusiasm after work and during breaks. It evolved into something more serious, not just because of genuine interest from her first handful of readers and fans, but because it was the catalyst which had evaded Amy's yearnings for years. Antonia's plight as a young woman torn between her family's pride and her lover the spy grew epic, its scenes of glittering society life and war-torn struggle painted with bold strokes as Amy sank deeper into its world. Until one of its early drafts found favor with someone in the publishing world and suddenly The Antebellum Heart was no longer a mere fantasy.

  "There's a definite sense of Mitchell in your work," said the editor who polished the final draft of the manuscript. "You can tell you're really a fan."

  "Thank you," said Amy, with a modest shrug although she was deeply flattered by this remark. "It just...came easily to me, I guess. The characters and their motivations." Fantasizing about them, I mean, she mentally substituted.

  Because fantasy was the right answer. It had built most of Amy's youth, most of her adult life, making reality seem more like a secondary existence. Jackson, the Deleroes of Swan's Nest, the conniving Captain Lerieux, were more than just clichés from genre fiction in her mind. She wanted them to be real, just as she wanted to run across the lawn of that stately mansion with her silk skirts fluttering in the wind.

  Because Amy didn't just want Antonia Deleroe to be real. She wanted to be Antonia Deleroe.

  The background of her computer was a random internet photo of a gorgeous Southern house which Amy secretly envisioned as the setting for Swan's Nest, although she had no idea what its actual name was or where it was located. Propped open beside her was a notebook in which she had scribbled several notes about Antonia and Jackson's reunion, alongside doodles of weeping willows and a badly-drawn Abe Lincoln sketch.

  Her phone rang, prompting Amy's first instinct not to answer it; checking the screen, however, she flipped open the phone at the sight of Greg Willey's number.

  "Greg," she said. "Can this be quick? I'm in the middle of a scene–" It was a business call, she knew, although he had plenty of reasons to call her socially. For some reason, however, he hardly ever did.

  "It's about your email for information on Atlanta regiment uniforms," said Greg, whose voice was interrupted b
y a crackly-paper sound in the foreground. "I found the photos you wanted, but my scanner's broken. I'm thinking I may have to wait a couple of days and scan them off at the library before sending them to you. Or I could just loan you the book–"

  "Which is quicker?" asked Amy. She envisioned Greg behind his university desk, no doubt arranging the little lead figurines on one of his fold-out battle maps, his research books propped open around him with various highlighted passages on great generals and secret military campaigns.

  "Well, they'll both take some time. I guess I could bring the book to lunch one day–we are having lunch this week, aren't we?"

  "We are engaged, aren't we?" Amy shot back. "Yes, we're having lunch, Greg. I called and told you I'd meet you at the cafe at one o' clock on Friday. That is, if this chapter works out." There was a slight note of worry creeping into her voice with this statement, as if the daunting nature of her next manuscript was making itself known.

  "I'm sure you did and I just forgot," said Greg. "Where's my calendar? Oh, wait, here it is. Yup, you're penciled in...along with that auction house guy I'm supposed to meet. Uh-oh. Looks like a conflict–gotta call you back." He clicked off the line, leaving Amy listening to the silence of disconnection.

  Greg Willey was an associate professor at Rudling University and a professional proofreader on the weekends–which was how Amy first made his acquaintance a few years ago, when he had offered her advice on tweaking her grammar and style structure on her blog. He had become her professional researcher by default when the manuscript became a project in earnest. A Civil War history extraordinaire, he knew every detail from major battles and minor theories, collected books by the hundreds and genuine memorabilia with a fanatical devotion which almost put Amy's Scarlett obsession to shame.

  It was the history connection–and Amy's dismal research habits–which kept them associated professionally and, eventually, in a deeper personal sense. While there was no ring, per se, there was an understanding between them in the sense that a legal connection would be formed to seal these feelings in a permanent relationship. This romantic understanding had existed between them for over a year, although making headway on the subject of where and when was a process much slower than compiling information for a manuscript.

  She flipped through Greg's notes on the subject of Atlanta's architecture, taking note of the penciled-in hints on points of invasion and key landmarks destroyed by fire. He didn't call back, a sign that his discussion with the auction house employee had pulled him in deep, as she had anticipated. Switching her phone off, she turned her attention to the onscreen description of a tattered roadside inn somewhere outside Atlanta.

  Only three items survived the flames which consumed Swan's Nest; now they lay in Antonia's battered carpet bag. One was the family Bible, the delicate list of proud Deleroes inscribed by countless genteel hands in elegant script, from the generation which rose above mere cotton planting to a wealth which her young mind could scarcely comprehend as destroyed. The second, a cheap hand mirror, seemed a mockery of such times with its blackened glass and gilded handle twisted beneath the heat of flame.

  The third item was the dress which she had last worn when dancing in the elegant ballroom. The last time she had felt Jackson's arms around her before the night he vanished into a world which she could not enter. Her name and her family pride forbid it; as much as the words he had spoken in such low and urgent tones had barred her forevermore from following in his footsteps...

  *****

  On Thursday, Amy had an interview scheduled with a daily feature writer from the Atlanta Voices section of the paper. At the library's local history reading room, a woman hardly older than Amy herself arrived armed with a digital recorder and a camera and very few questions regarding the book itself. Prompting Amy to wonder if this particular writer was actually interested in the story or merely in featuring the author's personal life.

  "Your fans, of course, are aware that the sequel to Antebellum is in the works," she said, after a few warm-up questions about the book's overall theme. "A lot of them, however, are no doubt wondering why you chose to be a writer in the first place." She smiled expectantly at Amy across the table, where the author in question was busy trying to appear professional despite her pasted-on smile.

  Why? In truth, Amy had given this question very little concrete definition in her thoughts. "I just love southern literature," she answered, after exhaling a deep breath. "And I feel that there's no better way to dream than on paper, since that makes it a little real, if you will."

  "Do you do anything in particular which inspires you? Any experiences or hobbies?"

  "I go for walks," said Amy, whose mind was racing for some sort of appropriate answer. "I read books. I–I spend time speaking and blogging about this genre of..."

  "What about your personal life?" persisted the interviewer. "You seldom talk about your own relationships and experiences, leaving readers curious about whether you've found a happily-ever-after or are sort of ... dreaming one up in these books."

  Amy's cheeks flared red in response. "Well, I'm engaged," she volunteered, a little more hotly than she intended. "I suppose that's what most people consider a happy ending in a relationship." She was careful to keep her smile in place as she spoke, her right fingers twisting the empty space on her left ring finger automatically as if there were really a metal band there– or to hide the lack thereof from another's eyes.

  "Engaged? Your readers will be excited to hear that news. Any resemblance between the lucky fiancé and your hero Jackson McCormack?"

  "Of course not," Amy laughed. "Jackson is fictional. There isn't anyone like him in real life." If there was some form of wistful longing beneath that laugh, she was careful to keep it hidden.

  "I'm sure your fans can't wait to congratulate you–and can't wait for that sequel book, either."

  "Neither can I," answered Amy.

  ******

  She was sleeping in on Friday morning when the phone rang. Fumbling up from beneath the covers, she wondered for a brief moment if she had missed her shift at the coffee shop before remembering that she hadn't worked there in over a year. It was probably her mother calling, who never remembered that Friday was the one day that Amy indulged in complete rest.

  She snapped up the phone. "Hello?" The sleepiness in her voice created a croaking effect.

  "Is this the author Amy Pontelle?" A woman's voice was on the other end, but not her mother's: it was a high, exuberant female voice, with certain authority beneath its chirpiness.

  "Uh-huh?" Amy answered, although her mumble was already lost beneath the caller's tide of speech.

  "This is Mathilda Murray, Editor in Chief at Southern Elegance magazine. I trust you've heard of it."

  "I have," answered Amy, feeling somewhat confused. Were they wanting an interview with her?

  The editor plunged on. "I won't lie, Miss Pontelle–I am a fan of your book to the core, so when I read your interview this morning, only one thing popped into my head: Antonia's wedding."

  The bizarre nature of this declaration caught Amy off-guard. "What?" she answered.

  "Your wedding– the wedding of your readers' dreams–an authentic antebellum recreation at one of the most elegant Southern mansions available. All expenses paid, all arrangements made courtesy of Southern Elegance magazine and its creative design team. What do you say, Miss Pontelle?"

  Amy's mouth was open, but the only sound issuing into the mouthpiece of her phone was a garbled gasping sound between a shriek and a scream. She clapped a hand over the receiver, her body performing a small, hopping dance of excitement. The winning lottery ticket, the ten millionth customer–they couldn't compare with this, an all-access pass to the land of her dreams.

  "Just picture it: you, walking down the aisle beneath scented bowers of lilac and jasmine, waltzing to a full orchestra, bridesmaids dressed like Scarlett O' Hara–"

  "Are you serious?" Amy's voice had emerged, in high-pitched, quavering t
ones, from its hiding place.

  "Dead serious, Miss Pontelle–may I call you Amy? Like I said, I'm a fan of your book and the only price we would ask is exclusive access to your wedding and the behind-the-scenes process for our summer issue."

  It was a moment more before Amy's brain processed this request and the reason behind it: her impromptu retort to the interviewer yesterday, the visions of her big day inspiring this generous offer. In the midst of her pounding heart, she could see the same vision with the clarity of a child envisioning Christmas morning. Yards of lace and silk, floppy-hatted bridesmaids, a row of soldiers in grey and blue flanking either side of the aisles–

  "Well? Are you interested?" The editor's voice interrupted her thoughts.

  "I–uh, yes," said Amy. "Yes, I would love that. More than anything in the world." She sank onto the sofa as these trembling words escaped. Not envisioning yet the part where she explained all of this to Greg, only envisioning her fantasies coming alive with a swiftness beyond her comprehension. Was this real? Was she still asleep and dreaming?

  "It would have to be in the next few weeks, of course–"

  "That's no problem," answered Amy, more hastily than she intended. "That is, I can be ready whenever–"

  "Then we'll start making arrangements and make this happen. My assistant will phone with a number where you can contact me at any time and we'll get the contact information for your agent–"

  "Oh, but–" Amy hesitated, the doubts in her mind no longer content to be shoved aside. "But there's a little–a little hitch," she ventured. "That is–my next book is in progress." She winced inwardly in reaction to this statement as opposed to the words she had meant to say, namely, that she had no idea if her fiancé would agree. Chicken, she scolded herself.