Toss the Bride Read Online Free

produce the hour and minutes of any given day, she acts delighted, even overjoyed.
    I nod to my now-empty plate and tell Mr. Leland that I enjoyed the fish.
    â€œThere’s a secret to grilling the perfect fish,” he says mysteriously.
    Avery and I wait, expecting more. Mr. Leland returns to his grill. It’s a shiny stainless-steel number built into a little alcove on the veranda. To the side is a wood-fired brick pizza oven. A French door leads to the real kitchen inside.
    â€œAvery,” Mr. Leland says, “remember that chef we had out to the house when you were, oh, I don’t know—how old were you?”
    â€œYou’ll have to be more specific, Dad,” Avery says, a smile on his face.
    â€œThe guy who liked fish with every meal? Chef Pack-asomething.”
    â€œPackanac. He was written up in all the foodie magazines,” Avery says. “He taught Dad how to grill and sauté every type of fish. But if he didn’t like the way something turned out, he’d toss it into the bushes. Plop! Over the edge of the veranda.”
    â€œWe were picking rotten fish out of the azaleas for weeks,” Mr. Leland says. “You were just in high school, right?”
    â€œDad! I had already graduated from college when he was here.”
    â€œAh, well, it seems like you’re still our little boy, Avery,” his mother says idly.
    A welcome breeze moves across the veranda. I tap my toes on the wooden planks under my feet. I’m restless tonight.
    Sensing my mood, Avery puts down his napkin and smiles at me. Right then, I love him in one of those perfect moments you have when you’re really lucky. His green eyes are kind and his hair lifts up a bit in the late-afternoon breeze. I think: I want to be with this man. But Avery does not talk about this kind of thing. Tennis, fish, even architecture, Avery will gab about all night long. But get him to discuss the future? Of us? Forget it.
    â€œLet’s get out of here,” Avery says. “Want to walk in the park?”
    We love Piedmont Park. It’s Atlanta’s version of Central Park. Tall office buildings, condos, and hotels surround the playing fields and trails. It’s hard to believe I live here sometimes. In my hometown of Cutter, Georgia, a five-story office building is a big deal.
    We zip down to the park in Avery’s convertible. From his neighborhood in Buckhead, it takes about fifteen minutes. We park on a side street and enter the park through one of the stone gates off of Piedmont Avenue. Since it’s summer, it’s still light out. Too late, I realize I should have sprayed on mosquito repellent. It’s getting on toward dusk, and my arms and legs will become a feeding ground. Avery’s wearing pants, so he’s less likely to be bothered.
    â€œDog park?” he asks me, and I nod. We turn toward the old bridge.
    Piedmont Park has an off-leash area for dogs and their owners. I love to walk in through the double gates and watch all the dogs play with one another and with their humans. Poor Avery has stood in there with me for hours. I seriously want a dog, but I figure there’s no point in getting one until I’m married. I want to pick one out with my husband. Avery has never owned a dog. I find this to be a serious flaw. I grew up with them, like they were furry brothers and sisters. In fact, the last two years are the longest I’ve ever gone without a dog in my life.
    As we walk, I play a little game and count the number of weddings Maurice and I have had in the park. There, over by that fountain near the gazebo was a nice small one. I like those. Small-wedding brides usually have a sense of decency. There are no celebrity singers or hand-embroidered cocktail napkins. The outside brides are, on the whole, a little more reasonable. Sure, they have money, but they want to put it toward their honeymoon climbing in the Alps or camel-trekking in Africa. I’ve never