Chapter One
I've imagined my wedding dress since I was a little girl. It's an elegant shantung sheath with cap sleeves, a sweetheart neckline, and tiny seed pearls sewn on the cinched bodice . . . Seed pearls, hah! Now that I'm standing in the bridal boutique, something has snapped. Girlfriend, I want satin, yards and yards of it! I want sequins and crystals and a bum bow the size of Brazil, leg-o'-mutton sleeves, and a train that practically explodes onto the scene. I want something that screams, I'm the bride! lost in a snow flurry of white. Bring on winter, baby! Ashley Stockingdale is getting married!
Okay, really I just want to tick off my future sister-in-law. Emily Novak, jobless in Atlanta, is here in Silicon Valley to make sure the wedding day runs smoothly. Granted, she has no experience in this field, but that doesn't seem to stop her at any junction. She is the expert in her own mind, and apparently, that should be good enough credentials for all of us. That, and the copy of the Wedding Planner by Martha Stewart is supposed to impress me. Three days I've been searching for the perfect Tussy Mussy. Until three days ago, I didn't even know what this silver piece of hardware was, but it is apparently quite important to "brides in the know" such as my Victorian ancestors and now me. It's a bouquet holder. As in, you hold it in your hands, and no one sees the design anyway. The first rule of good fashion is it should definitely be noticed. Am I right?
I hear Emily clap her hands, and I feel myself cringe at her entrance. "No, no, no. Who brought this gown to you? It's completely wrong. Hideous!" She stretches the word to its full three syllables with more than a hint of Southern drawl.
I swivel around. "It has a butt bow."
She sighs extensively. I seem to make her sigh a lot. "Ashley," she says, as though someone has expired. "My brothah has a reputation in Atlanta. His bride will be splashed across every society page in Georgia. This simply will not do."
"But I like it. It says, Baby got back. You know what I'm saying?"
"I have no idea what you're sayin'. A Novak bride should be above reproach, and that means, at the very least, elegant style. Classic. Think Jacqueline Kennedy, Princess Diana, Jennifer Aniston."
"Jennifer Aniston?" I ask, hearing that old Sesame Street song about how one of these things just doesn't belong.
"The point is, Ashley, you want Keh-vin to gasp at the sight of you, to draw in his breath and never forget the moment. That dress is truly forgettable, but don't worry. I've got everything taken care of."
I beg your pardon. This dress is anything but forgettable. Apparently my good hair days have not spoken for me to Emily. I have impeccable taste in clothing. I could easily be a stylist instead of a patent attorney, but Emily is so fun to mess with that I can't help myself. I want to try on the pink gowns, the blue ones, maybe even the golden, shimmery yellow one. I want Emily to imagine me as a satin Easter egg floating down the aisle, stealing her brother from good taste forever. Oh sure, you're thinking I'm immature, but I dare you to waste three days on a bouquet holder and tell me you'd feel any differently. I've had patent processes move quicker than this.
She clings to that Martha Stewart ringed book like it will unlock all the secrets of humanity. She has it tucked inside a Coach leather folder, trying to make me think she comes up with all this brilliance herself, but the truth is she's a paint-by-number wedding planner and Martha holds the color code.
The fact is, I want Brea. My best friend should be here, but I know getting a babysitter for two kids under two is virtually impossible. Especially in the Silicon Valley, where kids are considered dirt with noise. I know Brea would be enjoying my tacky fashion show with vigor and bringing in more for me to try on while we giggled and added sparkle-encrusted tiaras. But Brea is busy, lost in a sea of diapers and spit-up from her babies, and Emily is shockingly free. Go figure. Besides, Kevin is anxious for me to get to know his sister. She doesn't have many friends back home, and gee, isn't that a surprise?
"Ashley! Sorry I'm late." I hear Brea's voice, and I want to run to her and kiss her feet. She takes one gander at my gown, and I see her smile ever so slightly. "That is gorgeous! But I think it needs a few more bows on the sleeves. It doesn't really announce you enough. Let me go look on the racks."
"Stop! I'll go look," Emily shouts and leaves in a huff.
Brea and I fall into a wave of giggles. "Check out my bow." I turn and let her see that not only is my train covered in satin ribbon bows, but also that one special, prominent bow is probably a foot in diameter. "Am I hot or what? Name a man who could resist me." I shake my bonbon with vigor.
"You have to try on one of the pink satins. Did you see that fuchsia number on the clearance rack?"
Do we think alike or what?
"Poor Emily, she's endured enough. I think it's time we got down to business. Besides, I'm annoying Hannah the shop girl. I just had to have my protest moment. I'm fine now. What was I thinking to have my future sister-in-law as my wedding coordinator? Who am I, Jessica Simpson, that I need a coordinator anyway?"
Hannah, the shop's manager, is from my church and is a complete doll, but even she has her breaking point. I almost want to buy this gown to put it out of its misery, like the Charlie Brown Christmas tree.
"The shop is never going to sell that number anyway, even on the clearance rack. You're doing it a favor to try it on." Brea crinkles her nose at my gown. "They probably got it free from an up-and-going designer. Does Emily know you already ordered the Vera Wang and that we're actually here for bridesmaid gowns?"
Tsk. "Sure, bring on the guilt. I was having a perfectly fine day until you had to remind me to grow up. Age is relative, you know."
"You're terrible, and you have to live with this woman forever. You're marrying into her family. The wedding is the least of your issues. You should be thinking about your first wrinkle--or egad, stretch marks, and how they'll fight to hand you the plastic surgery cards. Gosh, they're all like walking ad campaigns for Extreme Makeovers."
"Emily will be back in Atlanta before the weekend's up!" I do a little jig. "I'm going to be good now. I was just entertaining myself until you got here." I slink out of the gown. The black-velvet Elvis painting of wedding wear, if you will.
Kevin, my fiance, is from big money in the South. His father is a prominent surgeon and attends the proper functions that a good family should. This is why Kevin is in California, hoping to avoid this lifestyle and focus on his first love: medicine. I'm beginning to think the distance to Atlanta is not nearly as wide as I once thought. Perhaps there's a surgical opening in South America.
Emily enters the oversize dressing room with a multitude of boring gowns that say, I'm elegant and don't have a mind of my own, nor a speck of vision. Now, I'm a realist, and I've seen my mother's wedding photos. If they taught me anything, it was this: always go classic, never trendsetting. Otherwise, you risk looking like Carol Brady to the next generation.
"Emily," I say softly. "I've actually already ordered a Vera Wang gown. I just wanted to make sure it was the right one today." I yank my suit skirt back on.
"We really should have picked the gown first. And in fact, I did pick the gown--to go with the theme. I was waitin' to show you the style as the grand finale."
"I'm missing something," I say. "I'm the bride, and you picked the dress?"
"I had to. To pull off the theme."
"Theme?" I croak. I'm afraid to ask. I'm having prom flashbacks.
"Your name is Ashley Wilkes Stockingdale. Your dog is Rhett. Your husband is from Atlanta, the home of the great Margaret Mitchell. Your theme has to be Gone with the Wind."
Um, no, actually it doesn't. "You know, Scarlett and Rhett didn't exactly part on the best of terms. I'm thinking maybe that's not where I want to go with a wedding theme." I'm all smiles. I could be head cheerleader at the moment. "Right?"
"Ashley and Rhett are forevah in love, as you and my brothah will be. I'd love to see you walk through raised swords of Confederate soldiers."
"But I'm a Yankee," I say with the utmost seriousness. I'm a "Yankee"? I'm a patent attorney living in Silicon Valley in the new millennium. Something about this conversation is making me forget that reality. "I mean, I'm a native Californian. Beach, Hollywood, movie stars." Granted, I live nowhere near these things, but I'm reaching here.
"We won't hold that against you, that you're a Yankee. The Confederate uniforms won't clash with Keh-vin's tuxedo, like a Union soldier's would, aftah all."
Help! I look to Brea. My gaze tells her, I think she's a crazed lunatic. Help me!
"I think what Ashley is trying to say is that this is not the wedding she imagines for herself," Brea says. "You understand how a bride dreams of her day, and I've never actually heard of a wedding planner selecting the gown."
"Well, my brothah is the groom. He has some say too." Emily only sounds very Southern when she's getting angry. Look out for the accent.
"Kevin never said anything to me about soldiers at the wedding." I can't imagine my Dr. Kevin Novak, pediatric surgeon at Stanford's Lucille Packard Children's Hospital, hoping for a Confederate wedding, but then, maybe we haven't known each other long enough.
"Ashley, a weddin' is about mergin' two families together." Emily threads her fingers. "Our family is Southern and proud of its heritage. Just because your family is without history does not mean we should forget our roots. W...
