“Okay, Mom!”
As Rachel climbs into the front passenger seat, Carla walks around to my side of the car.
“She seems nice,” she says quietly.
“She is.”
“Older than I was expecting.”
I give her a cold stare and she shrugs.
“Just … take care of Lilly.”
“Of course.”
We all wave as I drive the hell out of there, ready to spend time with my two best girls.
BY THE TIME we get to Lake Towhee, we’ve sung every camping song that Rachel and I know, worked our way through the music from every Disney musical ever produced, and we’re all ready to toast some marshmallows over an open fire.
There hasn’t been a single cross word or complaint, and my cell phone hasn’t rung once. Life is good.
The campsite is busy, full of families enjoying themselves, but large enough that you don’t feel hemmed in. The wide lake is fringed by tall trees, and I’m happy to see that Bill’s cabin is slightly set apart from the others, and at the end of a dirt track.
Lilly is bouncing in her seat, excited to start camping.
I unload the trunk, carrying three boxes of supplies into the cabin. Rachel has the windows open to air the place. It smells of pine and only a little stale.
But before I do anything else, I make sure that my Smith & Wesson is securely locked in a steel box in the Rover’s trunk.
Rachel catches my eye as Lilly dances past.
“Did you have to bring that?” she says quietly, biting her lip.
“You know I do.”
Lilly turns and looks at Rachel.
“Daddy always takes his weapon, Rachel. It’s a tool, just like any other tool. As good or bad as the man using it. My daddy is good so it’s okay.”
She waltzes away and Rachel stares at me, a tiny smile on her face.
“She is definitely her father’s daughter.”
They walk away together, talking about what we’ll have for supper. I follow them with my eyes, but honestly, I need a minute. Hearing Lilly say what she did, I feel so many emotions all at once: pride, fear, understanding, and most of all, an overwhelming rush of love for my daughter, for Rachel, for this second chance at life.
My eight year-old daughter never ceases to amaze me. Is that what being her father means? To be surprised, stunned, shocked, as I watch her grow, day by day, year by year.
Carla and I, we’ve done so many things wrong, we were so wrong for each other—but we’ve done one amazing thing right.
I’m going to keep on trying to do things right, and looking at Rachel, it’s like seeing the light at the end of a very long, dark tunnel. She’ll help me find the way.
But then I hear Lilly calling for me. Right now, more than anything, Lilly wants the tent, so I haul it out of the trunk and lay it out, showing her how to push the tent pegs into the dirt. She even tries hitting them with a mallet but that’s a little hazardous to her toes, so I take over. Then I show her how to tighten the lines.
As soon as it’s ready, she scoots inside, sitting criss-cross.
“I love camping, Daddy!” she says.
The smile on my face is ridiculously proud and happy.
“I love it, too, Buttercup.”
In the time it took to put up the tent, Rachel has made us all sandwiches and hot chocolate, and lit a small fire in the fire pit, S’mores at the ready.
I place the sleeping bags around the fire and we eat our food, getting crumbs and chocolate everywhere. And when Lilly falls asleep without brushing her teeth, I shrug my shoulders and carry her into the cabin, placing her on the bottom bunk bed. As I take off her tiny shoes and ease her out of her child-size clothes, the pressure in my chest increases. I’ve had so few chances to do this in the last couple of years, I’ve missed so much. I’ll do better. I promise myself I’ll do better.
I watch my daughter sleep for a long time, watching her small chest rise and fall, watching her eyelashes flutter as she dreams, and I wrap the blankets around her, because that’s all I can do to keep her safe in this big wide world. Watch over her and keep her safe.
By the time I leave Lilly’s room, the door slightly ajar so I can hear her in the night, Rachel has put out the fire and cleaned up.
I pull her into my arms, just holding her, feeling her softness against my chest.
“Thank you,” I say quietly.
She smiles up at me.
“I’ve had a lovely day. Lilly is so precious.”
“Yeah, she’s the best part of me.”
Rachel shakes her head.
“No, this is the best part of you,” and she lays her head against my chest.
AT DAYBREAK, I wake up suddenly, hearing a noise inside the cabin, and our bedroom door is pushed open.
“Daddy, I had to go to the bathroom and I’m cold. Can I get in the big bed?”
Rachel shifts sleepily.
“Of course, Princess,” she answers for me.
Lilly climbs over me and snuggles down between us. She pats my stubbled cheek with her tiny hand.
“You have prickles, Daddy,” and then she falls fast asleep.
I lay watching the two most important people in my world.
Life is good.
Chapter 25
It’s a Wonderful Life
I HAVE A wedding to plan. Unfortunately, it’s not my wedding.
Maria finally capitulated to everything the boss wanted: her brothers and grandfather will be moving in next door. Rachel helped Maria find a live-in couple, a husband and wife, who’ll be housekeeper-cook/driver-caretaker for the condo. Frank gets to keep his job as doorman and has added security to his duties. I have to train him—that’ll be an experience he won’t forget.
The boys are excited about their new schools, slightly less excited about their new uniforms, and Joachim has transferred to NYU. Maria is happy to have her family so close, and the boss is happy to have Maria close to him.
Me, on the other hand, my baby girl is still too far away, and Ms. Smith is stubbornly refusing to set a date, stating only that she’ll think about it once the happy couple are back from their honeymoon. Which means when I’m back from their honeymoon.
When I signed up for close protection duties, going on the boss’s honeymoon wasn’t what I had in mind. Fuck’s sake.
The wedding is going to be low key, only fifty invited guests at the Anderson Seniors’ mansion in Scarsdale. The main challenge, I hope, will be keeping out the paparazzi. Everything happened so fast the paps are assuming that Maria is pregnant. She’s not. And from what we know of her medical history…
Anderson Senior isn’t happy about some of the alterations we’ve had to make to his property. Who wants security fences in the wedding photos? But that’s the reality now. Yes, you need all the serious infra-red shit to make sure trespassers are kept out, along with a good CCTV, but you also need a visual giant fuck-off sign. It lets people know that we’re watching. So, a mix of obvious as well as unobtrusive and hidden surveillance equipment works best.
Mason coordinated the checks on all the caterers, along with the guys who put up the dining tent, string ensemble, and anyone else who is going to be on the property. Fifty guests and fifty staff. Seriously. And Anderson has pulled some strings with Air Traffic Control Center and gets a no-fly zone over Scarsdale for a few hours. The paps are pretty upset about that, citing the First Amendment, Freedom of the Press and all that shit. And what about the boss’s right to have a quiet wedding with no goddamn cameras and no skuzzy bastards with long lenses who’ve rented a heli to hover over your parents’ home while you’re trying to promise the woman you love that you’ll be with her forever?
That’s a luxury you give up when you are mega rich or mega famous. People were paid to keep their traps shut about the big day, but an assistant florist blabbed.
Any outdoor event is a security nightmare. For a start, it’s much harder to lock down an external site, and the margin of err
or and the ratio of possibilities is that much greater: Chaos Theory—also known as Shit Happens. But the outdoor setting at the Andersons seniors’ home was what Maria wanted, and I was going to do my part to make sure they got it all. Hopefully, we’ll be lucky with the weather, too, so from everyone else’s perspective it will be a perfect day.
The guests are an interesting mix: Anderson’s parents; Dolores and Abigail who are both bridesmaids; Pam and her wife, Sheila; Maria’s family and Joachim’s date; then assorted cousins and friends—all on Maria’s side—including two guys from the stand-up comedy club.
Landon is not invited, and I can’t help wondering what the boss told his parents about why their old family friend wouldn’t be attending the nuptials.
At least it’s not a re-run of the Grand Slam Banquet Hall in the Bronx. Although that had a certain charm of its own, once you got used to the day-glo pink.
“Justin, darling, relax. There isn’t one single thing more that you can do. Your blood pressure will be sky high if you carry on like this all day.”
Rachel places a soft kiss on my cheek and steps away. She knows me too well.
“Ms. Smith, the only thing that gets my blood pressure going around here is you, but it ain’t rushing to my head.”
I stalk up behind her and push my hips into her fucking amazing silk-covered ass just to make my point. She looks so beautiful in the pale blue dress that matches her eyes, her hair loose and shining like gold. I get hard just looking at her. And silk—fuck—that does things to a man. Well, this man.
“Hmm, well, you’ll have to hold that thought, probably for the next three weeks.”
Three long, lonely weeks.
“I wish you could hold it for me, baby.”
“Justin! We have to leave now and I don’t want to be … rumpled.”
“I’m going to miss rumpling you, baby. I’m going to miss you, period.”
My woman has a wedding to get to, and I can’t help wishing it was ours. But that will have to come later.
Rachel was so happy that the boss invited us as his and Maria’s guest. We’d gotten a printed invitation, one of the small handful that were sent out. And along with it, an appointment for Rachel to have an outfit made at one of those high-end couture shops.
I got a new tux, tailor-made to take account of my Smith & Wesson. The boss knows I won’t be leaving that behind just because he’s getting married—especially because he’s getting married.
Plus, Rachel was treated to a spa day, hair and makeup, all of which took place at home. Rich people have people who make that happen. I’ll have to thank Ryan. She smells so good I want to take her here and now. Although getting arrested for public indecency probably isn’t what you’d call a good career move. Especially at your boss’s wedding.
All I know is that she looks fucking amazing.
“Just promise me one thing.”
“What’s that, Justin?”
“Don’t make me wait too long to call you Mrs. Trainer.”
Her eyes soften and those fuckable lips curve up in a smile.
Those lips.
I drive us to Scarsdale along with John Evans. He’ll be driving Rachel home tonight while I’m on Anderson’s private jet to Dublin, Ireland, on the first stage of the honeymoon.
I hate that she’ll be going home without me, but Evans has promised, on pain of dismemberment, that he’ll look after her.
I feel proud as fuck to take Rachel’s arm and lead her to our seat in the third row, thinking that she looks more beautiful than the white roses and peach blossom flown in from hothouses along the East Coast for this wedding.
The string ensemble play Bach’s Air on a G-string which makes me smirk, and Rachel smacks my arm lightly.
Maria’s three brothers sit on the bride’s side, all dressed in designer tuxes with matching bow ties and cummerbunds. Even the youngest, Juan, doesn’t seem too bothered by having to sit still and wear a three-thousand dollar suit. Either that, or it’s the glass of champagne I saw him covertly drinking earlier. Hey, who am I to stop the brother of the bride from imbibing on her wedding day? Besides, I figured the kid deserved it for putting up with the monkey suit.
If it wasn’t for the fact that I’m kind of on duty, I’d be doing the same thing.
And even though part of me is somewhat cynical about a billionaire’s wedding—and I know for a fact that Maria insisted on a pre-nup that protects Anderson’s wealth—she’s not marrying the boss for his money and has the paperwork to prove it. There’s something so hopeful in the boss’s eyes, like he can’t quite believe Maria is promising to be his.
Personally, I think she should head for the hills while she still can, but for some reason, she’s chosen the boss.
Women are funny like that.
You can imagine the questions the paps throw at her every time she leaves work:
“Hey, Maria! What first attracted you to billionaire Devon Anderson?”
That’s when she insisted on the pre-nup.
As the music floats upward, we all shuffle to turn and look at the bride.
Her long hair is swept upward in a simple and elegant style, something classy that Rachel would know the name of but I don’t; a deceptively plain dress with long sleeves in lace and skirt that sweeps the well-trimmed grass.
A full veil covers her face and she’s holding her grandfather’s arm.
The old man walks stiffly, and it looks as though Maria is holding him up rather than the other way around. I can see a manly tear glistening on his leathery cheek, his fierce eyes full of pride for his granddaughter.
“Oh, she’s so beautiful,” Rachel sighs, and I have to agree, but not as stunning as the woman by my side.
My opinion may be slightly biased.
Anderson looks like all his dreams have come true, and maybe they have, although before he met Maria, I doubt he dared to dream that he’d have someone like her to stand at his side through the great game of life.
I never pitied a filthy rich bastard more; and then he met her and I didn’t have to pity him anymore.
The music changes and a woman starts to sing softly and sweetly, although I only recognize the opening words, Ave Maria.
I can see from the look on Maria’s face that this is a surprise to her, and I think she might be crying because she swipes at tears under her veil, then beams at Anderson.
He’s in the grip of some intense emotion that doesn’t involve smiling: I think he feels too much to show the deep, heartfelt pleasure that this amazing woman is going to be his wife.
The music draws to a close and the Priest speaks.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here in the sight of God and in the face of this congregation, to join together this man and this woman in Holy Matrimony, into which holy estate these two persons present come now to be joined. Therefore if any man can show any just cause, why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter forever hold his peace.”
I actually hold my breath, waiting for a cavern to open up at my feet or for Imperial Stormtroopers to scale the Scarsdale walls, but nothing happens, and I breathe out in relief. Rachel gives me a curious look, but I just shrug.
Maria speaks her vows first.
“Devon, you are my friend, my confidant, the person who makes me smile every day, and the one I can rely on to laugh at my jokes, especially the lame ones. You make me feel special every day, you make feel loved every day, and I see our future in your eyes as we grow old and gray together. I promise that I love you and cherish you, just as you are. Today, forever, always.”
His eyes widen and I see his jaw working before he can speak.
“Maria, I didn’t dare hope to meet you—my heart didn’t believe that someone so perfect for me could exist in this world. I carry your heart with me, I carry it in my heart. I am never without it. Anywhere I go, you go.”
“Oh, that’s so romantic,” Rachel whispers.
“I’ve heard that before!
He copied it,” I whisper back, slightly outraged.
Rachel elbows me in the ribs.
“It’s e.e. Cummings, and it’s very romantic.”
I grumble to myself. I’ll do better than using words of some dude named Eeyore! But the boss isn’t finished yet.
“Your smile is the sun that warms my cold heart; when you open your eyes in the morning, dawn has arrived; the day begins and ends with my love for you—forever and always.”
The happy couple exchange rings and walk back down the aisle with grins as big as Texas.
The boss is married and no firearms were discharged. I call that a win.
Chapter 26
Johnny English
Coming Next! Trainer’s adventures in Europe with people who don’t speak American!
WARM BEER. DONCHA just love it? Maybe it’s a law in England that says you can’t serve beer under 50 degrees. Oh wait, they use Celsius here, which means, um, the beer is, what 10oC? Whatever: it’s not cold.
What surprises me more is that I’m getting a taste for bitter, that suspiciously dark beer that looks like it’s been made from chipmunk ass. I blame Jim Rayment, beer-swilling ex-Army (Hereford Regiment, also known as the SAS). I haven’t seen him since the Crowne Plaza, Times Square last year, so we spend some time catching up.
He tells me he’s a card-carrying member of the Campaign for Real Ale. Ale? Have I just wandered onto the set of Game of Thrones?
But I love, love London cabs. Specifically, Black Cabs: the drivers are awesome. They know their way around better than any GPS. Goddamn they can drive. Talk too much, but they know their business.
I haven’t done any driving since we got here, so in theory I can have the occasional drink, not that I really care. I’m here to work.
Yep, Mr. and Mrs. Anderson are finally on their honeymoon.
That was a week ago. They spent five days driving across Ireland, drinking Guinness and dancing a tango on the Giant’s Causeway.
Right now I’m sitting in a pub in London that you could generously call a dive, next to a hairy-assed Brit who is doing his best to teach me English English, as opposed to American English, which is an entirely different language, or so he says. It’s an education in the local lingo.
Jane Harvey-Berrick Saving The Billionaire Page 20