The Wedding Veil(2)
My mother had been telling me for months that an April wedding in Asheville was risky. Snow isn’t out of the question, Julia, she’d reminded me over and over again.
But as I stood awestruck at the brick pathway that led to the conservatory at Biltmore Estate, admiring a field of tens of thousands of orange and yellow tulips, their faces turned toward the sun, it felt like snow was definitely out of the question. A long table sprawled in front of the brick and glass space, with a massive garland of roses, hydrangeas, and, of course, tulips running its entire length.
“It’s perfect,” Sarah, my best friend and maid of honor, whispered in this holy quiet. I nodded, not wanting to break the silence, not wanting to disrupt the overwhelming peace.
Sarah linked her arm through mine. “Are you ready?”
I nodded automatically, but what did that even mean? Could anyone ever be ready? My wedding wasn’t until tomorrow, but this bridesmaids’ luncheon was the start of the wedding weekend. While my fiancé Hayes and his friends shot skeet and drank bourbon and did whatever else a groom and his groomsmen did before a wedding, I would be here sipping champagne and eating tea sandwiches with my mother, my bridesmaids, my aunt, and the women in Hayes’s family—including his mother. Their difficult relationship made my feelings about this event complicated. What made them simpler was the woman responsible for the splendor of this day: my grandmother Babs.
Maybe a person couldn’t be responsible for the day—after all, no one could control the weather. But Babs was the kind of woman who seemed like she could. She—along with my aunt Alice, who was my wedding planner—hadn’t just picked the brown Chiavari chairs that went around the table and had umpteen meetings with the florist and agonized over every detail of the menu for this luncheon. She had actually, somehow, made this day a perfect seventy-two degrees filled with beaming sunshine and fields of impeccable tulips because it was my day. Even if she didn’t quite approve of the groom.
Babs never came out and said she didn’t approve. But I felt it. I knew.
My mother on the other hand…
“It’s here! It’s here!” she practically sang from behind me. I turned to see Mom and her twin sister coming up the path.
“So getting here an hour early to have a glass of champagne by ourselves didn’t really pan out, did it?” Sarah said under her breath.
“On the bright side, Mom looks like a glass of champagne,” I said.
She was wearing the most perfect champagne-colored sheath with a tiny belt at the waist and chic tan pumps. Aunt Alice was clad in an eerily similar dress in pale blue, but with a wrap. I hadn’t actually seen either of these outfits on my mom or aunt, but I had heard about them for months.
“They look gorgeous,” Sarah said. “And very well coordinated.” They had perfect matching blowouts, although Mom’s hair was much lighter, verging on blond, while Alice still made the valiant attempt to keep hers dark, even though it meant that covering her grays was a constant battle.
“Did I tell you about the PowerPoint?” I asked.
Sarah furrowed her brow, which I took as a no.
“Babs took an iPad class at the senior center so she could better assist with all the wedding details. She made everyone in the family send photos of their outfits—complete with shoes, accessories, and purses—for each event. Then she made a presentation and distributed it to the entire family to serve as a packing list. Let’s just say,” I added, as Mom made her way to us, “some of the first outfits we sent to Babs didn’t make the cut.”
Sarah burst out laughing. When it came to important family events, Babs didn’t leave anything to chance.
Mom smiled and leaned over to hug and kiss Sarah and me. “No, no,” she said, picking up on what I’d just said and imitating Babs. “Don’t think of them as cuts. Think of them as edits.”
Alice wrapped her arm around me. “Well, girls, we made it. It’s here. We’re all wearing the appropriate outfits. It isn’t snowing.”
“What is so wrong with snow?” I asked.
“It’s a logistical nightmare,” Aunt Alice said.
“Where is Babs?” I asked, finally realizing she wasn’t here. We had all gotten ready at the Asheville mountain house that had been in her family for generations, and I had assumed she would ride with Mom and Aunt Alice since Sarah and I had left early.
At that same moment I heard, “Girls, come quickly! You have to see this!” from behind me. One of the conservatory doors flung open and I saw Babs, all five foot two of her, in a navy knit suit, pillbox hat, and kitten heels, looking as though this estate belonged to her. She waved us over and we hurried in.
I’d been told we were having this event outside in the gardens, another point of panic for my poor mother and her snow. But as I stepped through the door, I realized that wasn’t wholly true. Amid the palms and hydrangeas, orchids, and birds-of-paradise, and—best of all—what must have been hundreds of butterflies, a small table held a chiller bucket with an open bottle of champagne and five flutes. Quick as a wink, Babs began filling the glasses and handed one to each of us. “I thought we’d toast our girl before we went outside for lunch,” she said.
I smiled, looking around at my four favorite women. Sometimes my mom drove me batty, but I loved her dearly. She and my aunt Alice seemed to be in a world-ending spat as often as they were getting along, but they were always there for me. Sarah was my ride or die. She had been since we were five years old, when she had stood up for me after I was wrongly accused of talking in class. Her job as a public defender was no surprise to anyone. And then there was Babs, who inspired me every day with her tenacity, her spunk, and, like any wonderful grandmother, her wisdom.