As I sit in my apartment, frozen to the core, warming my hands by the fire (read: stove) like a Dickens street urchin–the second day of no heat or hot water in my building stretching into its third–I’m fantasizing about Palmetto Bluff and light, lowcountry breezes…

Exactly this time tomorrow, hubby-to-be and I will be touching down at the Auberge resort, Palmetto Bluff, in Bluffton, South Carolina. Our cooking demonstrataion alonside the likes of Tyler Florence will be paired with a reading and signing of “Belle.” A mini vaca of warm, wonderful meals (planned–and kept a surprise– by Jamie and Chef Chris Blobaum), couples massage, bike rides and coffee on the dock with the dolphins at sunrise will follow…

Dixie heaven!

Let me tell you unwed ladies—the dress is just the beginning. Apparently the white frock and all of its accoutrements account for THE MOST IMPORTANT ENSEMBLE YOU WILL EVER WEAR. Well, that’s what bridal stores, magazines, websites and Southern lore tell you. After that day, a brown paper bag is more than acceptable for all occasions. Just don’t screw up that blinding white (or charming ivory, in my case) confection!

After locating the desirable life-long partner and loving mate with the head of thick, brown hair and hazel eyes (#1 priority!) and the dress (a close second), you search for the veil. Please tell me you’ve skimped on the “Girls’ Nights Out” and haven’t taken a tropical vacation in the past 5 years because this simple scrap of net and lace will cost you somewhere between $1,000 and $5,000. If seed pearls and pricey embellishments are your thing, you should have a cool $10,000 stashed in your freezer (no need to embarrass yourself in front of the snooty shopgirls come check-out time).

I asked Jamie if he had any greenbacks collecting freezer burn in his Union Square apartment. After all—what’s a more practical purchase in the months leading up to your wedding than a diamond and seed pearl veil?? With great sadness, Jamie told me that the only thing in his freezer were “off parts” of the pig (snouts, trotters, entrails), pear-infused vodka and the odd ice pack or two to help his skateboard injuries (yes, Jamie is 28 years-old and skateboards to work up 5th Avenue).

BUT THIS IS THE MOST IMPORTANT PARTY ENSEMBLE OF MY LIFE! WHAT AM I GOING TO DO?

My mother saves the day…

At the tender age of 22, Mom packed her hatboxes and steamer trunks and moved to Madrid. That year in Spain (during Franco’s regime, mind you) and in Western Europe would be her “sentimental education,” her “grand tour”—the time she would establish herself and her platinum locks far from the Deep South. My grandparents were thrilled for their first-born and all the opportunities that awaited her.

They weren’t so enamored of the idea of a “Continental Suzanne,” however, that they actually wanted her to marry a hot-blooded bullfighter or a Camembert-sniffing Pierre. My grandmother’s first trip to Spain included a purposeful stroll down the Gran Via and Calle Serrano to shop for a “mantilla” (mahn-TEE-ya), or a Spanish wedding veil. Purchasing this lace shroud—the finely woven piece of net, silk and lace that would fall over my mother’s eager, innocent face on her wedding day—was a sign that she was expected to return after 12 months time and marry a good, Southern boy.

This story—and that veil—suit me. Don’t they? I’ve always said that it took traveling around the world and up to New York City before I found my love—the man who shared a hometown with me, always living just miles away.

So, on my wedding day, I will wear the same piece of Spanish lace. Mom wore it over a pillbox hat, my sister fashioned it as a shawl, draped around her shoulders, and I will let the piece of lace hang from my loose chignon. No money spent and a wonderful tradition upheld. 

(The artist certainly gave me a voluptuous bottom and shapely calves in the newspaper picture…)

“Book tour feels a lot like running from the law. A dozen cities, disinterested faces and dark, quiet nights make my life and Mom’s (she’s my partner-in-crime, you see) feel like a scene out of ‘Thelma & Louise…’”

My mother claims that a girl can handle two great loves in her life–no more. And, perhaps she’ll never have the luck or constitution to sustain one. According to Mom, the female heart (and sensibility) can expend only so much love, tenderness, passion and warmth. By the same token, that same delicate heart can only withstand its due amount of sadness and betrayal before it becomes cynical and shuts down forever.

For once, I believe my mother and her thoughts on love.

Well thank God for the both of us (and our homespun theories on everlasting amour) that the second wedding dress I tried on was “the one.” Could I have withstood further disappointment, heartache and emergency phone calls to Visa, pleading for a higher credit line?? That first dress would have mandated a newlywed move from Lower Manhattan, out to Staten Island. (Though, that wouldn’t have been so terrible considering the fabulous Italian restaurants on SI…)

The elegant bustle, the sweetheart neckline and the drape of the finely corded silk fabric of my newfound, semi-couture treasure make me feel like a sophisticated Southern bride—not a creampuff. I think every bride–no matter how fashion-forward she might be–wants her groom to melt, smile and then tear up (yes, exactly in that order) when he first glimpses her walking down the aisle, in her wedding gown. Jamie and the dress will not disappoint.

And so, I fell in love with a man. And then I fell in love with a wedding dress. Thank the Lord he was the first, and that dress was the second. I’m still living in Mom’s good graces.

The gorgeous Charleston sunrise, over the Cooper River, from my hotel balcony…

Do I have to go back to New York?

And can Scribner please plan my honeymoon?@! I’ve never enjoyed such lovely accomodations…