Toss the Bride Read Online Free Page B

Darby’s wedding pictures came back from the New York photographer (who had been flown down to Atlanta on Darby’s father’s jet and was put up in a rented private home for the wedding week), I was told she almost hyperventilated. Apparently, the tall photographer got a few too many shots of the much shorter Darby’s dark roots cresting out of her blond curls. “He was looking down on me!” she wailed to Maurice. She compared her stripe of dark roots to a skunk or a zebra. Now, according to my unscientific count, about every second woman in Atlanta dyes her hair some color of blond. It’s a southern thing, which doesn’t necessarily mean it’s tasteful. Most women let their roots show way too long before they trot into the salon for a touch-up. One would think Darby would have taken care of a little detail like this prior to the wedding.
    Other minor picture snafus ruined Darby’s “whole wedding experience,” she told Maurice, who enjoyed telling me about it later over lunch. “She wants the whole thing redone,” he said, attacking his arugula salad.
    â€œWhat does the ‘whole thing’ mean?” I was horrified. I never wanted to see this woman again. At the reception, she cornered me in the bathroom and demanded I check her honeymoon luggage in the waiting limo to make sure her kiwi face cream was packed. When I found the monogrammed luggage and the favored face cream—which I did open and sniff, nice stuff—I also found a peculiar book tucked under her makeup case. Fixing the Loveless Marriage seemed a bit premature, but I’m not nosy. Anyway, when I reported that the face cream was packed and ready to go, Darby screwed her face into a picture of long-suffering resignation. “Oh that, I know that’s there. What I really need you to do is make sure my last broadcast is cued up on the DVD player in the limo. I want to surprise Trey when we pull away from the reception. We can watch my last interview together.”
    Darby “retired” from the news business when she married, to much ado. Before the wedding, she confided to Maurice that the retirement was a staged thing—“designed to encourage adoration of the talent,” she helpfully supplied—and after her first child, she would return to a morning show and tell stories about her offspring to an eager Atlanta public.
    Now it’s three months later and Darby has quietly returned to the air. There is no pregnancy, and Maurice has two different home numbers for the couple. Regardless of this, the “wedding” is rescheduled for tomorrow.
    I take Avery’s hand as we wind our way out of the park. He has great hands—strong and soft at the same time. I ask him if he would like to restage our time at the dog park, just to get it right. “I can have that woman bring her dogs back at exactly the same time. I’ll even tell her to wear the same outfit, if you’d like.” Laughing, Avery pulls me closer to him, and I wrap my arms around his back.
    â€œI’m so glad you’re not like those other girls you marry off,” he says. “That’s one of the best things about you. You’re real and different and not stuck on, I don’t know, material stuff.”
    â€œYou like that about me?” I look up toward Avery’s face. A mosquito whines near my ear, and I swat at it.
    â€œYup. And I like that you don’t hold what I have against me.”
    I assume Avery’s referring to his family money. “It’s not your fault that your great-grandfather made a fortune. You’re kind of my charity project. ‘Be Nice to Rich Boys, Inc.’ I do this out of the goodness of my heart.”
    Avery gives me a kiss, sighs, and leans down and whispers in my ear. I hold my breath and hope that I don’t smell like fancy tuna. There is the sound of a jogger softly padding by on the asphalt trail. I try not to