Gone With the Wedding Read online

  "Surely you can get an extension on the deadline for something like this," said the editor. "I mean, we're talking your wedding, major publicity–bringing your book to life, for heaven's sake!"

  "Surely I can," said Amy, weakly.

  *****

  Her lunch with Greg was at two, since he managed to correct the conflict with the antiquities dealer. When she arrived, he was waiting for her at their usual table, glancing up from his menu with a pleasant smile.

  He was attractive; the sight of his smooth chestnut hair and faint dimple in one cheek had caused Amy's heart to swivel in his direction at their first meeting. His style, an artistic form of "messy business formal," was the casual contrast to his meticulous concentration and preoccupation with his work.

  "Hi, sweetheart," he said, rising to kiss her cheek as she joined him.

  "I'm surprised you're here so early since you had that antiques thing happening," said Amy, who was vague on details regarding his transactions.

  "And miss lunch with you? Absolutely not," he answered, sitting down again.

  She blushed. "Nice to know," she answered, her eyes tracing the familiar smile which curved his lips.

  "Besides, he cancelled," said Greg. "Which I think is for the best, since I have to make sure Henderson isn't rivaling me on this. I mean, can you imagine losing out on General Jeb Stuart's sword to some hackneyed World War One expert?" As he asked this question, his cell phone trilled beside his plate.

  Amy's brow furrowed. "Greg, there's something we need to discuss," she said. Until now, she hadn't figured out quite how to broach the subject. It was understood, of course, that they were supposed to be planning a wedding–eventually. Planning a wedding in the next two weeks might seem a little fast to him after this slow-and-steady approach.

  "Greg Willey here–no, I can't make it until three at least," he said, startling her until she realized he had answered his phone. "Uh-huh. No. I'm having lunch with my fiancé. Call back by three-thirty." He snapped the phone shut.

  "So what did you want to discuss?" he asked.

  "You know how we've been thinking about planning our wedding?" Her fingers crumpled the edges of the narrow breadstick on her plate, a subtle gesture of nervousness which went unnoticed by her. "Well, I got this very interesting once-in-a-lifetime offer from somebody to plan it for me. A magazine feature at this amazing southern mansion."

  "A southern mansion?" he repeated. "You mean, like Rhett Butler's home or something?" He tucked his napkin in his lap.

  "Sort of," she answered, vaguely. "The catch is–and the whole thing is totally paid for and planned by these people–we have to get married in two weeks." This last bit she hurried into the open, as if hoping it would escape his notice.

  "I know it's sooner than we planned," she continued, drawing a quick breath, "but things like this just don't happen, Greg. It's perfect, it's the whole Southern elegance package with the gorgeous setting, the gorgeous dress, a completely catered event. There's probably even a uniform thrown in if you want one."

  He was staring at her–not with the look of pop-eyed horror or incredulous shock she had anticipated, but with a look of blank confusion. It lasted a minute before he shrugged.

  "Well, sure," he answered.

  She stared. "Sure," she repeated. "Then you're good with this? We can get married–at this gorgeous plantation."

  "We were going to do it anyway, right?" he answered. "Why not do it now instead of eventually? It would mean you'd finally get out of that cramped apartment of yours and we could plan that Gettysburg honeymoon we talked about."

  The smile on his face was so genuine that she didn't even breathe a sigh of relief, as if this was destiny clearing a perfect path for them. "I'm so glad you're open to this," she said. "Then let's do it."

  "Let's do it," he answered. His smile had grown bigger as he gazed into her eyes, the two of them locked in this mutual look of love which ended as another expression crossed his face.

  "Just one thing," he said, reaching for his water glass. "I won't be able to take much time off short-notice from the university–and, of course, that sword auction is coming up and it's down to the wire. I've been waiting all year for this opportunity and I'm this close to the final bid."

  He took a sip, then set the glass aside. "But other than the few days I need to be here, I'm yours to command."

  "I'm sure that's no problem," said Amy, "I mean, its' just a few days, right? So long as it's not the wedding day." Inwardly, she felt a twinge of disappointment over this slight setback. Wouldn't the southern elegance be more romantic if there was, well, two people sharing the experience? What if Greg's business delayed him for three or four days instead of–well, however long it took to buy a Civil War sword.

  "Just let me know what days and I'll be there–rehearsals, whatever," he said. "Scout's honor. I'll have my cell phone with me twenty-four seven."

  "Perfect," she answered.

  *****

  The first time she and Greg met, it was over a seafood luncheon where they discussed her blog's epic story. The next few meetings were much the same, taking place either in Greg's office or her own apartment, where the conversation gradually shifted from writing errors to her antebellum passion, then, naturally, to his Civil War fascination–and thus, dawned their research relationship.

  It might not have progressed into more, but somehow it seemed ... well, natural to be around him. It was comfortable, despite the fact she found him attractive and knew more than one woman in his acquaintance was pursuing him. They, however, did not have a reason to ask him over almost weekly for Chinese takeout and long conversations about Southern history.

  One evening, when he was in the midst of highlighting passages from her manuscript, he glanced up at her with a look that anticipated a question–no doubt about her spelling choices, she assumed.

  "Are you free on Friday?" he asked.

  "Friday?" she repeated. "Uh, I was going to work on the manuscript when I got off at the coffee shop..."

  "I didn't mean for the book," he said. He plucked the seam in his trouser, adding nothing else to this statement verbally, although Amy was swift enough to piece together the rest.

  They saw each other socially more often afterwards; in fact, they began to reserve tables regularly at some of Atlanta's best restaurants–something more affordable to Greg's credit card than her own the first few months–and see movies together on the weekends. When Amy's book was released, it was with Greg she celebrated first, with an impromptu bottle of champagne at his apartment.

  It was casual, fun, and very relaxed, something which Amy's former coworkers and current friends claimed to envy, although she suspected this was just their way of complementing something other than Greg's handsomeness. She didn't think anything serious was likely to happen between the two of them, either.

  "So what do you think about us...making things official?" This was the question Greg popped on her one evening.

  "What?" Amy raised her head from the map spread across her coffee table, one of Greg's vast collection which happened to depict a part of Georgia she was including in her novel.

  Greg drummed his fingers against the state border. "I mean...talk about getting married." These words found their release on a slow tide of breath emerging, as if the only means of speaking them was in the form of a sigh. There was a nonchalant expression on his face, eyebrows slightly raised above a nonplussed gaze.

  Amy was blushing to the roots of her hair. "I can't believe this," she answered, a slight stammer in her voice.

  It came as a surprise to her, one big enough that she couldn't look at his handsome face at this moment. Sure, they spent a great deal of time together, but she knew she wasn't the prettiest girl in his circle of friends and probably shamefully possessed the least knowledge of major battle sites of any of them.

  "What did you think this was about?" His voice sounded slightly hurt.

  "I just didn't think–I'm just surprised. Not in a bad way
," she assured him. The feel of his fingers touching hers actually sent a tingle through her skin at this moment. "I–I would like that. I would love that," she corrected.

  "So would I," he answered, nodding along with her words. There was a slight shrug of his shoulders at this point, then they were both absorbed momentarily in the map again.

  Talk of honeymoon destinations followed in the months afterward–he for Gettysburg, her for New Orleans–of whose apartment they would eventually choose, of what kind of venue they preferred. They got as far as possible invitation designs once, although they never reached the stage of an official announcement, of a ring on her finger and a champagne celebration of their coming nuptials. Instead, they celebrated with a one-year anniversary of takeout boxes and a map marking the capture of famous Civil War spies, as if recreating the same night as before by accident.

  *****

  "Sophia, guess what? No, you will never, ever guess I'm getting married at a Southern mansion in Georgia–in two weeks!"

  Amy's excited phone rant was drowned out by a shriek on the other end from Sophia, who had been her best friend since high school and one of the few people who didn't mind a friendship relegated to emails and occasional visits.

  "Ohmygosh! Amy–who is he? Does he own a Southern mansion? How did you meet? Oh, this is unbelievable!"

  Amy's forehead furrowed with confusion at this response. "It's Greg," she said, hesitating. "Who did you think it was?"

  "Oh. Greg. Of course." Perhaps it was her imagination, but Sophia sounded disappointed.

  "We're still engaged, you know," said Amy, who sounded slightly irritable in her response. That fact had hardly been a secret, having been common knowledge among friends and family for over a year.

  "Yeah, of course," repeated Sophia. "But does it matter? I mean, you're getting married! And in some big Southern romantic spot like you've always dreamed about. So spill the details before I go crazy waiting!"

  Sophia had sat through countless movie nights of Vivian Leigh and given Amy paper dolls depicting Margaret Mitchell's characters for her eight birthday. Although not the undying enthusiast her friend was for this particular story, she shared her "romantic at heart" syndrome with a vengeance.

  "Well, it's totally covered by Southern Elegance magazine, whose editor is apparently a huge fan of the book," said Amy. "They're planning it, they're paying for it, and all they want is to cover it in their next issue."

  "So you'll be on the cover in some gorgeous white gown–"

  "–at one of the most romantic sites in the world, yes," interrupted Amy, although herself on the cover was a bit of a stretch. "This house is huge–it's called Wild Egret, with these gorgeous pillars and a view of the river–and we get to stay there for a whole week."

  "You mean me?" Sophia gasped.

  "Yes, you!" said Amy. "You're my maid of honor. You'll be in some Scarlett O' Hara gown, walking down the aisle ahead of me and Mom–"

  "Your Mom must be dying over this," said Sophia. "Imagine you getting to do this. It's the chance of a lifetime!"

  Amy's mother wasn't as thrilled as she had hoped–in fact, her reaction was similar to Sophia's at first, until her daughter's enthusiasm convinced her that this was exactly what she wanted.

  "It just seems so...rushed," said Barbara, after hearing the initial announcement. "Are you sure you're ready for this?"

  "Mom, I've been engaged for over a year now," said Amy. "Of course I'm ready for this. We talked about it and decided it's perfect. Why wait when you can have everything you want by just saying 'yes' right now?"

  Her mother's biggest–and only vocally expressed–criticism of her relationship with Greg had been the longstanding nature of their engagement. Why wait? she had asked, countless times whenever she reunited with her daughter.

  "Well, when you put it that way, of course," said Barbara, although this faint reply lacked any substance with regards to her feelings on the matter.

  Much to Amy's disappointment, the full week was out of the question for her mother and only possibly for the maid of honor after a great deal of persuasion applied to the principal of the school where she taught. In fact, the wedding itself at this last-minute point was out of the question for all but a handful of friends and family for herself and Greg, including the possible loss of the best man to a minor surgery appointment.

  But it was worth it. Worth it for this one breathtaking experience that would be hers alone. Hers and Greg's, that is. It didn't matter how many old college friends must decline or whether her agent already had a conference to attend in Tucson, so long as the handful of people who really mattered were there. And not just for the experience of seeing her in a hoop-skirted wedding dress, either.

  She perused the mansion's website and the growing emails of preparations from Mathilda the editor, who had arranged for Amy's transportation to Wild Egret and for information packets to be mailed to the wedding guests.

  "I hope this isn't too soon for you," said Mathilda, over the phone. "It was a last-minute idea and I just ran with it...I had assumed that you planned to be married sometime soon since you announced the wedding–"

  "Of course," said Amy, hurriedly. "I mean, I've been engaged for over a year. I definitely planned to be married in the near future. Or at some point in the future, at least." She cringed with these words.

  A reception on the lawn, an elegant tea for the reception, a catered Southern cuisine menu for the rehearsal dinner the night before–it was dazzling, the more she learned about her future a few short weeks from now.

  Wild Egret was an authentic Southern mansion, she learned from its history page, only recently reopened to the public as a tourist destination. Elegant grounds, an inlet from the river passing mere yards from its gardens, spacious rooms still decorated with period furniture. The pictures were arranged in a slide show which played across the screen of Amy's computer.

  "It's the only mansion available in this part of Georgia, which is where our whole issue is based for next month," Mathilda had explained. "We tried for something a little more famous, but no dice. We've got fairs to cover, a garden tour and horticulture show– in short, we were pressed for time in finding something. So even though it would disappoint me, I understand if you say no."

  "No?" said Amy. "Why would I say no? It's perfect–it's beautiful. Believe me, I can't picture anything more amazing than this." She was staring at the photograph on the mansion's website, the stately black-and-white sketch from a historic homes book, the photos below of the original lobby when it was reopened to the public as a hotel sometime in the 1920's.

  She had tried to phone Greg to share the details and the website address, but his phone was busy for the rest of the afternoon–no doubt with the antique dealer who was arranging his purchase. She fell asleep after redialing for the fourth time, dozing with her head mere inches from the images of Wild Egret's glittering ballroom.

  *****

  Amy's first glimpse of the Wild Egret was through the windows of her cab as it traversed the long driveway to the mansion. On either side of the lane were thickly-grown hedges of lilac and bright azaleas, towering trees with thick green foliage, obscuring the house until a sudden gap in this green wall revealed a glimpse of the manicured gardens and the house itself.

  Three stories. Smooth white pillars like ancient columns perfectly preserved. Windows glinting in the sunlight, dazzling her eyes. In the distance, the sleepy curve of water flowing like a tributary to the river's branch. Weeping willows along the bank; thick, dark magnolias encroaching upon the mansion's seat, a pink cloud of crepe myrtles and smoke trees like a rosy haze in the sunlight.

  It was gone from view in a matter of seconds, but it had taken Amy's breath away. Her reflection in the taxi's window glass revealed wide eyes and a speechless expression, as if she were Antonia herself confronted with her lover after months of separation.

  The taxi rounded the driveway's curves and stopped before the house steps. The wide veranda was occupie
d by spotless white wicker furniture and antique side tables, Amy couldn't help but notice, all but hidden by the abundance of rich green foliage and bright blossoms springing from or hanging over antique gardening pots.

  "Here we are, Ma'am." The cab driver parked, then glanced at her expectantly. Amy fished a handful of bills from her purse and pressed them into his hand.

  "Keep the change," she said. She climbed out, waiting as he removed her rolling suitcase from the trunk before he drove away. Armed with her luggage, she stood before the imposing and elegant mansion steps.

  Taking a deep breath, she moved towards the front door and pushed it open.

  The sunlight in the lobby was filtered through heavy drapes of antique velvet and southern lace panels so delicate they resembled wedding veils in themselves. Polished wood furniture, antique floral prints and chintz covers, painted ceramics and crystal vases filled with cut flowers. Framed antique portraits in oil depicting the original family who owned Wild Egret, she supposed.

  It was breathtakingly perfect; she might have lingered here longer, had she not become aware of a service desk positioned where an antique sideboard or sitting area might have once stood. Behind its surface was a man in a well-pressed suit and tie, studying an open ledger.

  She crossed to the desk. "Reservation for Miss Amy Pontelle," she said. The clerk looked up with a smile, his face revealing several prominent and fine lines despite the reddish-brown hair parted in a concealing comb-over. A nametag affixed to his lapel read Mr. Fairfax.

  "Miss Pontelle," he said. "We have you right here, I believe..." He turned the pages of the ledger, revealing sweeping handwritten lines which matched the soft and polite tones of his Southern accent.

  "You are in the Savannah Suite," he said, taking a key attached to a velvet cord, one of several hanging on a board behind him. "Named for the birthplace of Louisa Sawtelle–she was the first lady of Wild Egret."