The Bridesmaid Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Prologue

  • 1 • - Something Old, Something New

  • 2 • - Speak Now or Forever Hold Your Peace

  • 3 • - With This Ring

  • 4 • - Here Comes the Groom

  • 5 • - Till Death Do Us Part

  • 6 • - Bridal Chic

  • 7 • - The Icing on the Cake

  • 8 • - Forsaking All Others

  • 9 • - You May Now Kiss the Bride

  • 10 • - One True Love

  • 11 • - In Sickness and in Health

  • 12 • - Who Gives This Woman?

  • 13 • - Impediments

  • 14 • - The Big Day

  • 15 • - Cold Feet

  • 16 • - Sacred Vows

  • 17 • - Always a Bridesmaid

  Copyright Page

  Mr. and Mrs. David Beaumont

  Request the honor of your presence

  At the total disillusionment of their daughter

  Abigail Lynn

  Beginning June fifteenth

  At the Dove’s Roost Chateau

  Watertown, Massachusetts

  And lasting until Abigail’s sister, Carol, gets married

  Or Abigail loses her mind

  Whichever comes first

  Please use the enclosed RSVP

  Prologue

  This is the story of a girl who believed in love—love at first sight and love that lasted until the end of time. She believed every person in the world had one person they were meant to be with forever and always. She even thought that maybe, one day, she would find the very person meant for her.

  But there was one tradition of love that Abigail Lynn Beaumont could never get into . . .

  Weddings.

  Abby was surrounded by evidence that love could last. Her parents, David and Phoebe Beaumont. Happily married family friends. And her favorite tried-and-true couple, Kermit the Frog and Miss Piggy. (Although that one, she knew, was ify, she really hoped those crazy Muppets could make it work.)

  But our heroine was also surrounded by evidence that weddings were the source of all evil. Her parents were the proprietors of the Dove’s Roost Chateau, one of suburban Boston’s most popular catering halls. There, young men and women came together to vow to love one another forever and ever. And there, mothers of the bride threw hissy fits over flower arrangements; fathers of the groom shook their groove thangs on the dance floor until their pants rode down. Grandmothers and great-aunts and first cousins once removed drank exceptionally large amounts of pink champagne and went onstage to deliver very, very embarrassing speeches. But none of them, not the mothers or the fathers or the grooms or the maids of honor or even the little flower girls, were half as bad as the brides.

  Brides.

  Before she had even graduated from kindergarten, Abby had seen a bride slam a door in her father’s face for suggesting that his daughter might want to powder her nose before the pictures. She had seen a bride reduce her mother to tears over the positioning of napkin rings. She had seen a bride throw a vase at her soon-to-be husband because he messed up her makeup when he kissed her. Abby couldn’t stand brides. She couldn’t stand the way they acted like the world revolved around them. She couldn’t stand the way they’d be smiling sweetly and preening for pictures and then seconds later be screaming at a waiter about the temperature of the miniquiches. She couldn’t stand the way all of them, all of them, seemed completely awful. But since it was unlikely that all of these brides were just naturally terrible people, Abby knew that meant only one thing—weddings turned ordinary women into Bridezillas.

  Abby is, at this very moment, attending one of these infamously awful weddings with her older sister, Carol. We join her on a cool evening in the autumn of her seventh year. . . .

  Abby and Carol Beaumont scurried under the gift table in the main dining room of the Dove’s Roost Chateau catering hall, otherwise known as their home-sweet-home, and peeked out from under the white linen tablecloth. That night’s wedding was in the process of unraveling and Abby’s heart pounded in anticipation.

  Already a big man had gone up to a skinny, dorky man and ripped off his bow tie. And the bride’s mother had stormed out.

  Abby watched her father get in front of the big man in an attempt to stop him from rushing the smaller man, who was red and sweaty and waving his arms like a cartoon character.

  “What’s going on?” Abby asked her sister, Carol. Carol was six years older and pretty much knew everything.

  “The fat guy is mad at the skinny guy because the skinny guy won’t pay for all the liquor the fat guy’s family is drinking,” Carol said sagely.

  “How do you know?” Abby asked.

  The bride was now crying in the corner.

  “I listened.”

  Suddenly the fat guy reached past Abby’s dad and grabbed a delicate china plate. Both Mom’s and Dad’s eyes widened as he pulled his arm back. Abby’s dad made a last-second grab, but it was too late. The plate sailed by the skinny man’s head and smashed against the far wall.

  Why do they always throw plates? Abby wondered. And why do they always miss?

  “Time to go,” Carol said, taking her hand.

  “No! I wanna see this!” Abby begged. She pressed her fingertips into the glossy wood floor.

  “You know the rule. If dishes start to fly, we’re supposed to go.”

  Carol dragged Abby, fingers squeaking on the floor, out from under the table. Another dish crashed, and together they ran outside just as the bride screamed, directly into her new husband’s face, “He’s ruining my wedding!”

  The sun was setting, and a stiff wind blew dried leaves across the freshly mowed lawn. This was Abby’s favorite time of year. Not only had soccer season just started up again, but also colder weather equaled fewer weddings. Fewer crazy strangers wandering in and out of her house, fewer creepy band guys grinning in her face and asking if she liked Mariah Carey songs, fewer crying brides with eye makeup streaked down to their chins looking like scary fancy-dressed clowns.

  When they finally reached the little clearing in the woods behind the yard, Carol stopped pulling and turned toward Abby. She looked her straight in the eye and put her hands on her hips like she always did when she was about to say something serious.

  “Let’s swear we’ll never get married.”

  “Never?” Abby squeaked.

  “Never,” Carol said. “If we ever do find our Prince Charmings, we’ll just stay boyfriend/girlfriend and spare everyone the drama.”

  “So no stupid speeches and no big scary dress and no flying plates?” Abby asked.

  “Exactly,” Carol said. “Do we have a deal?”

  “Yes.”

  Carol held her hand over her heart. “Okay, repeat after me. I, Carol Marie Beaumont, do solemnly swear that I will never get married and turn into a Bridezilla.”

  “I, Abigail Lynn Beaumont, do solemnly swear that I will never get married and turn into a Bridezilla,” Abby repeated, copying Carol’s pose.

  Carol reached for Abby’s small hands. “Now, remember what I told you about a promise made to a sister. . . .”

  “I remember,” Abby said. “A promise made to a sister is the most sacred promise there is on earth.”

  • 1 •

  Something Old, Something New

  Abby Beaumont was slumped in a chair in her mother’s office, trying not to look out the window. The sky was blue, the sun was bright. It was absolutely perfect soccer weather. She would have given anything to be outside chasing the ball around, but instead here she was in her mother’s froufrou office. Trapped.

  On one side of the desk was today’s VIC (Vomit-Inducing Couple), Kirsten
and Brock, looking very pleased with themselves in matching polo shirts. On the other side was Abby’s mom, dressed in a taupecolored suit. Her slim fingers were a blur as she excitedly described the menu options at the Dove’s Roost.

  “. . . and let’s not forget about stuffed mushrooms, now those are really a crowd pleaser.” Abby stared at her mother’s Ace-bandaged right wrist, trying to heal the sprain with the power of her mind. She’d been trying all day. So far, no luck.

  It was thanks to that wrist that Abby was stuck here in her mother’s office—a room she usually avoided for fear of being sucked into a Laura Ashley vortex from which she might never return. The previous weekend her mom had insisted on wrapping the bougainvillea vine around the chuppah herself instead of waiting for Abby’s dad to get home from Dell’s Wholesale Liquor Mart like Abby had suggested. Her father was nearly tall enough to do it without a step stool and loved taking care of the outdoor work. But her mother had wanted to get a head start, had told Abby to hold the ladder, had climbed up it and had then promptly fallen from the top rung while trying to reach the edge of the canopy. Abby appreciated her mother’s need to give her job 150 percent at all times, and she was glad the injury hadn’t been worse, but now she was being robbed of a perfect-for-soccer Saturday. It was just wrong.

  “And then, we want our first dance to be . . .” Kirsten stuck out one perfectly French-manicured hand like a stop sign. “ ‘Lady in Red!’ ” She reached over and clasped her fiancé’s fingers, the Rock of Gibraltar on her left hand flashing in the sunlight and blinding everyone in the room.

  “Even though she won’t be wearing red that night,” Brock said with a grin.

  “Of course not, silly.” Kirsten smacked his beefy shoulder with her free hand.

  “We danced to it the night we first met,” Brock went on.

  “I was wearing red that night.”

  “And I know you won’t believe this, but, you know how at the very end of the song? You know how he whispers ‘I love you’ really softly?” Brock leaned in toward Abby’s mother’s desk like he was about to share a prized secret. Abby’s mother was riveted. “Well, I swear I knew I was in love with Kirsten right at that very moment.”

  “And I knew I loved him too.” Kirsten’s grip on his hand tightened.

  “Oh! That’s so sweet,” Abby’s mother said with a wide smile.

  Stewardess, I’ll take that barf bag now. It was exactly this type of story that had inspired Carol to come up with the term VIC a few years ago. All the couples that came through the Dove’s Roost seemed to have one of these sugarcoated cheese bombs to drop and they all felt the need to share them. Repeatedly.

  “Abby? Did you get that?” her mother asked, turning in her big leather chair. “ ‘Lady in Red’ for the opening dance. We’ll need to tell the band.”

  “Oh, I got it,” Abby said with a tight smile, gripping her pen. “Lovely choice.”

  “Well, thank you!” Kirsten said. “You are so sweet to help out your mother like this.” She looked like she was about to burst into tears, that’s how touched she was.

  “Just happy to do my part,” Abby said with a big toothy grin. When no one was looking she glanced at her watch.

  Right about then she should have been down at Van Merck Park with Christopher and the rest of the soccer crew. If she were she’d be tearing down the sidelines, dodging and weaving, showing off the dexterous dribbling skills she had been working on all week long. But instead, she was stuck here, waiting for Kirsten’s inevitable morph.

  So far Kirsten, while far too chipper for this early in the morning, had shown no signs of scales or a giant green tail. But that would all change soon. Something would make her snap. Something always made the brides snap.

  “Oh! And I’ve decided I want the Hearts Entwined ice sculptures,” Kirsten said. “One for each of the stations at cocktail hour.”

  “A fine choice,” Abby’s mother said.

  Abby made a note. Hearts Entwined ice sculptures at four stations. One thousand dollars for frozen water. That’s responsible spending.

  “Ice sculptures?” Brock said. “Um, honey, I thought we decided not to go with ice sculptures.”

  “No, Brock. Your father offered to put in more money, remember?” Kirsten said slowly. “That means we can have the ice sculptures.”

  Brock laughed nervously. Abby found herself inching to the front of her seat. This was it.

  “I thought that money would be better spent if we put it toward our honeymoon,” Brock said. “We’ve maxed out the Visa as it is. . . .”

  “So? We have three more,” Kirsten said.

  “Do you really want to start our lives together that far in debt?”

  “Do you really want to have cocktail hour tables with no centerpieces?” Kirsten asked, her grip visibly tightening on his hand.

  “I’m sure there’s something else we can do with the tables,” Brock said, looking to Abby’s mother for backup. “Phoebe? What do you think?”

  “Oh, well, we can do some lovely things with the florist,” Abby’s mother replied brightly. “Or we can arrange the chafing dishes and platters in such a way that you won’t need decoration at all.”

  Brock nodded. “That sounds good, doesn’t it?” He looked relieved.

  “No decoration on the station tables?” Kirsten said. Her mouth hung open in stunned horror. She shook her head slowly and narrowed her eyes. “Are you insane? Do you want me to have a substandard wedding?”

  “No, honey—”

  “Don’t honey me! Lizzy Markowitz had ice sculptures at her cocktail hour!” Kirsten said, her face paling. “I need ice sculptures.”

  “Just because Lizzy had them? You hate Lizzy!”

  “That’s why I have to have them!” Kirsten stood up. “My God, Brock! You don’t understand me at all!”

  “It’s just frozen water!” Brock exploded.

  “Thank you!” Abby blurted out.

  “Abby!” her mother said through her teeth.

  Kirsten couldn’t have looked more offended if Abby had just suggested virginal white was not exactly her color. She burst into tears and ran from the office. Brock apologized and quickly followed. Abby leaned back in her chair with a sigh. She uncapped the pen again and wrote in her notebook.

  Brock: 1

  Bridezilla: 0

  “Abby! How could you say that?” her mother asked as Brock and Kirsten stormed out the front door onto the lawn.

  “What?” Abby asked, trying to look innocent. “I was just agreeing with the groom. I thought the customer was always right.”

  “Abigail Lynn, I know that sitting in on these meetings is not your idea of a good time, so I appreciate your offering to help,” her mother said. “But I would appreciate it even more if you wouldn’t antagonize the clients.”

  “Sorry, Mom.”

  Her mother went after Brock and Bridezilla and Abby headed for the foyer so she could watch from the front windows. Then Abby’s father appeared from around the side of the house where he’d been assembling the lattice arch for that evening’s ceremony.

  He gave them a questioning look and then said something, which Abby knew was probably “What seems to be the problem here, folks?” because that’s what he always said when something went wrong. He lifted his hand to his mouth and nodded in his concerned way as Kirsten did a dance of upsetness. Soon her father’s hands were on both their shoulders and he was saying something. Kirsten’s posture started to relax and Brock’s face became a less disturbing shade of red. Crisis averted.

  After a few more minutes Brock wrapped his thick arm around Kirsten’s shoulder and they walked toward their silver BMW. Abby sighed and let the drape fall back down over the window. Her parents were so good at what they did. How they managed to genuinely care about each and every couple that came through the doors of the Dove’s Roost, Abby would never understand. They were all so insipid, so spoiled, so obsessed with a ceremony that didn’t actually mean anything. And yet, as far
as Abby could tell, they spent so little time thinking about the eternal love that the ceremony was supposed to be about. All that mattered to them were color schemes, candle costs and whether to be announced as “Mr. and Mrs. Blabbedy Blah” or go the slightly more modern “For the first time as husband and wife, Blech and Blech Blabbedy Blah.”

  Abby was just about to run upstairs and grab her soccer ball when she heard squealing brakes on the back drive, accompanied by the telltale scream of an electric guitar. Abby smiled. Noah was here.

  She walked back through the main hall and into the catering kitchen, where Rocco and Big Pete were busy assembling the chicken kiev for that evening’s wedding. Little Pete—Big Pete’s nephew—banged away at the back of the catering fridge. There was a loud slam, followed by a cry of pain.

  “Oh, focaccia!” Little Pete came out from behind the fridge, a bandanna tied around his head, his thumb stuck in his mouth. He kicked the refrigerator door.

  As always, the food smelled amazing. Abby grabbed a carrot stick and dipped it in Rocco’s béarnaise sauce. There were a million drawbacks to living at the Dove’s Roost, but at least the food was good.

  “Abigail! That’s for the guests!” Rocco scolded her with a smile.

  “Put it on my tab!” Abby called.

  Rocco and Big Pete laughed, their fast fingers never once pausing as they worked. Abby shoved open the back door just as Noah Spencer, bakery delivery boy extraordinaire, started up the steps. He was holding two pink boxes that almost jumped out of his hands when he saw her.

  “You scared the crap outta me,” he said.

  “Just trying to help,” Abby said with a smile and a shrug.

  Her stomach was filled with that nervous-yet-pleasant tingling sensation she experienced every time she saw Noah. He was older, he was beautiful, and she’d had a crush on him since she was approximately nine and he’d saved her from a bunch of bullies on the playground at Van Merck. Noah had been riding his bike through the park, saw the fourth grade boys spinning Abby mercilessly on the merry-go-round and chased them off. From that moment on, Noah Spencer was her one and only, her dark-haired, blue-eyed knight in faded denim. But since he was older and beautiful and constantly treated her like a kid sister, she kept her crush to herself and did her best to treat him the way he wanted to be treated—like a big brother.