Fake Bride Wanted Read online

  “Ladies…you go on without us. We’ll catch up,” I say.

  The coordinator is buzzing around the room, talking through a headset all the while. Despite the fact that he’s multitasking, he picks up on what I’ve just said.

  “Oh, no!” he says, coming towards me. “It’s show-time in fifteen minutes. We need to get you out to the back garden, into the staging area like we practiced. Now.”

  I’m no Bridezilla, but desperate times call for desperate measures. I fix him with a stare that says “back off—I’m the bride here”. And I feel like I nail the look.

  The wedding coordinator scrunches up his lips. “I’ll give you five minutes,” he says, holding up five fingers.

  I raise an eyebrow and I hope that I’m intensifying the look.

  It works. He backs away.

  We’ll take as long as we take, I think. If my mother says she needs to talk to me, I’m going to slow down and listen. It’s not as though the wedding ceremony can take place without me, after all.

  The room clears out and my mother and I are enshrouded in peace and quiet for the first time all day.

  I take a deep breath. It feels good to be standing here, with my mom. I need to pause for a minute and center myself.

  Maybe that’s what my mom wants. Maybe that’s why she asked me to hang back.

  “It’s been a busy day, hasn’t it, Mom?” I ask. “Who knew that getting married would be so much work?” I’m trying to get a laugh out of her, but she seems to miss my joke entirely. She’s quiet.

  I wait.

  Now I know that there’s more to this moment between us. She really does have something to tell me.

  “Shelby, honey, I know that you didn’t have the easiest time…growing up. I was young…and I had a lot of growing up to do myself.”

  “I know that, Mom,” I say. “You did the best that you could.”

  “That’s my intention,” she says. “Always, honey. To always do the best that I can do for you. That’s why…I invited someone here to the ceremony. I talked with Julian about it, and he and I agreed that you had enough on your mind without stressing about this, too. We decided that it would be best to move forward without bothering you.”

  “What?” I don’t know what she’s talking about. Who did she invite?

  “Sweetie, when you and I talked—when you were in Amsterdam for the first time—I told you to focus on your own wounds. I told you to open up your own heart, and let the rest fall into place. I realized that I was still holding onto some pain of my own. I decided that I couldn't give you advice that I wasn’t taking myself. So, I worked on opening up my heart. It had been closed-off for a very long time.”

  I look at my mother. There’s a reason why I’ve always respected her. She doesn’t just talk the talk—she walks the walk.

  “My dad,” I whisper. “You contacted him.”

  My mother presses her lips together. She nods.

  “I did, sweetie. And you don’t have to feel any pressure to talk to him, today. Not with everything else going on. But I also know that one day, you’ll look back on this day, and be happy that he’s here. Does that make sense?”

  I feel like if I let myself really feel the emotions moving through my body, I’ll burst out into tears. So, I keep everything at bay. Just for now. There will be time for tears later.

  “Yes, Mom. That makes perfect sense. Thank you. I love you.”

  I wrap my mother in a hug. She’s shorter than me, and her body feels slight, but not as frail as it used to.

  I squeeze her. “Thank you,” I whisper again.

  “He doesn’t expect to walk you down the aisle,” my mother assures me as we part. “He’s just here to be here. You can take that as you will.”

  My mother leaves it at that, and I feel relieved that I can walk down the aisle to Julian arm in arm with my mother, as we’ve planned. After all, she raised me. The honor belongs to her.

  At the same time, knowing that my father will be in the audience makes me feel a sense of great peace. I know that there will be work to do, in the months and years to come, but that’s okay with me. My mother is my role model, and if she can find it in her heart to forgive him, so can I.

  I hold my elbow out to my mom and she slips her arm through mine.

  “Ready to get this show on the road?” I ask.

  My mother nods. “Absolutely. I’m sure the coordinator’s not too pleased with me for delaying you for a second time today.”

  “Well, he’s going to have to live with it,” I reply with a grin.

  It turns out that my devious, experienced wedding coordinator padded our schedule with an extra ten minutes, so we arrive at the staging area with time to spare.

  I can’t see into the garden where the ceremony will take place, but I can hear the excited buzz of guests. When the bridal party entrance song starts to play, the coordinator pushes my bridesmaids out towards the aisle like a mamma bird encouraging flight.

  “Go!” he whispers. “Chin up! Walk slowly! Soft smiles!”

  I step forward. My mother and I are still holding onto each other, and I’m grateful for that. I need her right now. I need her to be with me as I walk towards my new life.

  The song I’ve chosen for the bridal march begins to play. It’s a beautiful melody, an alternative to the traditional one, which floats through the air like a siren’s song, luring me forward. Even if the coordinator wasn’t waving me forwards frantically, I would move towards the garden. Towards Julian.

  I feel almost like I’m floating as we begin to walk.

  I have to admit that I was nervous about walking down the aisle. Will I be able to remember everything that the coordinator shouted at me during the rehearsal? I wondered. But now that it’s happening, it feels completely natural.

  I’m walking towards my destiny.

  We round a corner and the ceremony setting unfolds before my eyes. The chairs, guests, flowers, and altar are a blur. My eyes settle on Julian.

  It’s the first time I’ve seen him all day.

  My heart leaps in my chest. He looks perfect in a black suit, white button-up, and pale blue tie. He’s standing next to our minister, watching me walk towards him. I still haven’t gotten used to his attractiveness, and I’m not sure that I ever will.

  As I walk, I think: I can’t believe this man is going to be my husband!

  I feel so deeply happy. The smile that forms on my lips isn’t staged; it’s real. I don’t know if my coordinator will approve, but I don’t care. I’m too filled with joy to try to change it.

  I can feel the energy of the guests on either side of me, so I tear my eyes away from Julian long enough to glance at their faces. I see friends, colleagues from Vermaak, and many of the Meijer clan, who I’ve been getting to know over the past year. I scan the familiar faces, as well as the unfamiliar ones, looking for my father.

  Though I’ve only seen one old photograph of him, which I’d found hidden in my mother’s dresser one day when I was six, I recognize him instantly.

  He looks a lot like me.

  His brown, wavy hair is streaked with grey. He has my high cheek bones and my lean build. He sees me look directly at him, so he gives me a small smile and a nod.

  I return his smile.

  In that moment, I feel so complete. I’m ready to move into the next chapter of my life: the chapter as Shelby Meijer.

  A chapter of joy, adventure, and love.

  I look back towards Julian. He seems to have caught the interchange between myself and my father, and as I approach, he gives me a questioning look. He seems to be asking if it was all right that he and my mother worked together to arrange for my father’s presence.

  I use my eyes to tell Julian that it is good. I feel amazing. I feel ready.

  My mother and I pause several feet from the altar. She turns leans into me, kisses both of my cheeks, and then releases my arm.

  As she steps into her position among the bridesmaids, I step into place across from
Julian.

  I look into his eyes and feel such awe.

  I thought that I knew what it would feel like to stand here—I’d imagined it so many times, since I was just a teen. Now that it’s happening, I realize that it is a million times better than I ever hoped.

  Chapter 21

  Shelby

  “Let’s see the ring!” Julian’s aunt asks.

  I’m distracted, watching Fleur take a seat at table two. She’s with a man; I didn’t know she was seeing anyone. She hasn’t said anything to me yet, but I’m trying not to take it personally. I’ve been mostly tied up, what with post-ceremony photoshoots and then greeting guests that have traveled internationally to be here.

  “Oh, yes, the ring.” I hold my left hand out so that Julian’s aunt, Fleur’s mother, can take a look.

  “I heard that there’s a story behind your choice of stone,” his aunt says. “Something about the Meijer Ruby?”

  I laugh politely, unsure of how deeply into the story I want to go. Dinner is about to be served.

  “Yes,” I say. “Julian proposed with the Meijer Ruby first, but we decided that it wasn’t the right ring for us. It belonged back in the vault, waiting for another Meijer.”

  “I see,” his aunt says, though I’m sure my vague response hasn’t quite answered all of her questions.

  “And where did you get this stone?” she asks, referring to the diamond on my left ring finger, right below the white gold wedding band.

  “This ring is from my mother’s family,” I say. “My grandfather got it for my grandmother, when he proposed to her.”

  “And your mother wore it?” Julian’s aunt asks.

  I shake my head. “My mother and father never married. My mom didn’t wear this ring. When my grandmother passed away, my mom saved it, hoping that I might wear it one day.”

  “Well, then, it was meant to be,” the aunt says. “I’ll go find my seat; I don’t want to hold you up.” She tilts her head towards the bridal party table, where my chair sits empty.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  I glance over at Fleur one more time before carefully weaving through the bustling caterers and guests towards my seat. We’ve chosen to have the reception in the palace’s conservatory. The high, glass ceiling gives us a clear view of the sky, and I’m happy that it’s a cloudless night. Wisps of the sunset still streak through the blue sky, and a few early stars twinkle through here and there.

  Towers of tulips grace every tabletop, along with white pillar candles encased in elegant glass holders. Flowers and vines drip from the ceiling. The room’s walls are really just banks of windows, and many of them are wide open, letting the cooling evening breeze in to mingle with the heat of our excitement.

  I lean over the table and arrange the skirt of my gown before sitting. Julian, who is already seated, moves to help me. He pulls out the chair for me, ever the perfect gentleman.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “How are you doing, my love?” he asks softly. He’s been especially attentive of my feelings tonight, and I think it has to do with the fact that my father is here.

  “Good,” I say. “Your aunt was just asking me about the ring. I told her it’s back in the vault.”

  “Well, I’m not sure that it is anymore.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Just then, Jean-Claude sweeps up to the table dramatically, two covered dishes in hand. He places them before Julian and me with a flourish. A gaggle of his assistant chefs stand behind him, holding dishes of their own.

  “Your meal, Mr. and Mrs. Meijer,” he says. “Tonight we will start with a salad course to prime your palettes. I have a take on ceviche created with mussels, calamari and shrimp, tossed in extra virgin olive oil and freshly squeezed lemon. This is accompanied by a garden salad, made with greens grown in our own greenhouse and topped with tomatoes and aged balsamic.”

  He pulls the tops off of our plates, and several of the groomsmen peer over to see what we’ll all be eating. There are a few oohs and aahs from the others at our table.

  Jean-Claude seems to enjoy the attention. “For a wine pairing, we have your wedding wine: a tantalizing, rich chardonnay from the Côte de Beaune region. And, of course, we’ll stock the cellar so that you can enjoy a glass on each of your coming anniversaries.”

  “Wonderful, Jean-Claude,” Julian says. “Thank you.” He stands up and circles the table.

  When he wraps Jean-Claude up in a hug, it hits me. Julian has lived with this man for many years. The French chef is more than an employee to Julian: he is a friend. I see tears in Jean-Claude’s eyes as the portly man squeezes my husband and slaps him several times on the back.

  “No, thank you, my friend,” I hear Jean-Claude say. “And congratulations! I’m honored to cook for such a happy occasion.”

  I stand up and go to the chef as well. “Thank you,” I say.

  He gives me a hug. “You are so very welcome, Madame. You are good for our Julian. You make him happy, and that makes me happy.”

  We part, and he motions to the food. He wipes some tears from his eyes, then sniffs.

  “Well!” he says. His sentimental tone is gone; he’s back to being our dramatic chef. “What are you waiting for? Everyone else is being served, now, and you must take the first bites! Eat, eat! Unless, of course, you’d rather I put a frozen pizza in the oven for you?”

  He gives us a mischievous wink and Julian and I both laugh. Jean-Claude won’t ever let us forget the night that we denied his food in favor of pizza.

  “No, no! Not tonight, Jean-Claude!” Julian says.

  We find our seats and I dive into my salad. It’s been hours since a morsel of food has crossed my lips, and I’m famished. Jean-Claude has outdone himself this time, and every bite is divine.

  I’m just finishing up the main course—pistachio-crusted halibut with grilled leeks and fennel—when I notice that the room has become hushed. The music quiets and then stops all together, and people begin turning their heads towards the corner of the room where the string quartet is stationed.

  I look in that direction.

  Immediately, I put down my fork. There’s a few bites left on my plate of the melt-in-your mouth fish, but suddenly, I am too nervous to eat.

  Fleur is standing on the stage, a microphone in her hand.

  “Hi…hi everyone,” she says. The microphone gives a shrill, high-pitched whine, and she paces away from the speakers. “Oops, sorry. Too close. Hi…everyone.”

  The whole room is looking at her, now.

  “All right, let’s see. Well, I’m standing here before you because I’d like to say something before the dancing part of the evening gets underway. As we all sit here, gathered to celebrate the union of my cousin Julian and his beautiful bride, Shelby—”

  “Ow ooowwww!” Serena gives a little holler, and I blush.

  Fleur chuckles and then continues, “I just want to take a moment to thank them.”

  Thank us? For what?

  I look at Julian, and he raises an eyebrow at me. I can see he has an inkling of what is to come, and I wonder if it has something to do with the news he’s just shared with me—that the ring is no longer in the vault.

  Fleur continues, “My cousin and I grew up more like brother and sister. Even though I was a year younger than Julian, I always admired him. And that hasn’t always been easy. If you’re going to choose someone to admire and attempt to model your life after, I advise setting your sights on someone other than my cousin.”

  She offers a smile to show the words are well-intended.

  “Julian, yours haven’t been easy footsteps to follow. You’ve started a successful business, made your own fortune, traveled the world, and had more adventures than I can even keep track of. And now, you’ve found true love.”

  She pauses, and I feel the guests around the room turn to look at Julian and me. Beneath the table, Julian finds my hand and squeezes it.

  “When you and Shelby first got engaged, I have to
admit that I was jealous. I saw how happy you both were, and I wanted that for myself.”

  It is so uncharacteristic for Fleur to break her cool-as-a-cucumber facade. What has changed?

  The cord of the microphone has become coiled at her feet as she paces back and forth in front of us. She lifts the cord and smooths it out, giving herself more leeway for movement.

  “But then, something magical happened for me. And it all started with the Meijer Ruby.”

  Aha! Something has changed! I knew that I was seeing a new Fleur, standing before us.

  I glance over at Julian, my eyes wide with surprise. He merely smiles.

  “Many of you here know the story of the Meijer Ruby,” Fleur says, “But for those of you who don’t, here’s an abbreviated version: the Meijers haven’t always been nobility. That honor was bestowed upon us many generations ago, when one of our forefathers fell in love. He wanted to marry the daughter of a lord, but he was a peasant.

  “Our ancestor traveled halfway around the globe and searched until he found the largest ruby he’d ever seen. This was the stone that he proposed with. His actions proved that he loved this woman, and for his bravery, he was also granted knighthood. The legend of the Meijer Ruby proves that love is a power greater than any force that might oppose it. Love can overcome all odds.”

  The room is even more hushed now than when Fleur began her tale. Even the softest, whispered conversations have ceased.

  “The Meijer Ruby brought Julian and Shelby together. Because they found each other, they were wise enough to return the stone to the bank in which they found it. Afterwards, I myself went to the bank to try to acquire the ring, and this led me on a beautiful journey.”

  Fleur descends the two stairs that lead up to the stage. She walks out, among the tables, the microphone chord sliding and slithering behind her.

  “My journey to acquire the ring led me to this man,” she says.

  Fleur’s guest stands up. He is tall and handsome, with tan skin, dark hair, and a bright smile. As Fleur approaches him, he kisses her cheek.