My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon

by Lauren Landish

  I laugh, and Esmar follows suit, quickly figuring out exactly what my late night entailed.

  “Ahh,” Esmar says knowingly. “Paradise can be enchanting. Careful, my friend, or you will find yourself with one of these.” He holds up his left hand where a thick black silicone band circles his ring finger. “Kitchen safe and too tight to ever come off.” He demonstrates, pulling at the ring, “at my bride’s request.” By his tone, I think Esmar’s wife didn’t so much as request that he wear the ring but demand it. That he does is sweet, as kitchens have a rather notorious reputation for ‘friendships’ between the staff.

  “It’s not that serious,” I correct. “We’re just getting to know each other.”

  Esmar nods sagely and Gilberto slaps me on the back. “Get to know her well, Chef. Very, very well.”

  The second batch of oil goes much better than the first, and when I turn off the heat, I know that the herb-infused oil will make a perfect salad dressing for the wedding reception. All of the flavor without the risk of getting a leaf stuck in your teeth or catching in the back of your throat.

  As I check my to-do list, my phone rings in my pocket, a huge no-no on the line.

  “Not it!” shouts out from all around the room in a symphony of voices.

  “Cazzo! It’s on Do Not Disturb. Sorry!”

  Esmar looks over from his station. “You will be. If someone is not dead or dying, there’s no excuse. You’ll have to do pans today.”

  Ugh! I guess his kindness on the kitchen fire has been stretched to its maximum. Every chef has rules, along with consequences for breaking them, but no phones during service is pretty standard. As is dish duty for noncompliance.

  “Yes, Chef,” I tell him apologetically, stepping off the line into a dry storage area to pull out my phone. When I see it’s an urgent call from Violet, my heart jumps into my throat.

  I’ve been putting off her texts and calls since earlier this week, but if she’s breaking through my Do Not Disturb setting, perhaps something is truly wrong.

  “Violet,” I growl as I answer the phone. “This had better be fucking important.”

  “Oh, it definitely is, Lorenzo.” She drawls out my name in a way that says I’m in trouble. Ironically, in America, my first name becomes longer, each syllable drawn out. At home, in Positano, my family will add my middle names and last name and invoke Mary, Mother of Jesus, when I fuck up.

  “Is Carly okay?” It’s my true first concern but also a way to edge around Violet’s violent tendencies when her feathers get ruffled. Hopefully, by doing a little invoking of my own of her sweet, adorable daughter, she’ll be reminded that murder is a bad idea that will have her seeing her daughter from behind a plexiglass window.

  “Of course she is, and you damn well know it. This is about Abi!”

  I wince at the hysterical note to Violet’s voice but continue poking and prodding as I usually do. She’s not thanking me in the slightest. She’s warning me, but casual and cool, I tell her, “No worries, cousin. I’m quite happy to help your friend out of her sticky situation.”

  That warrants a full-blown, animalistic growl. I think motherhood suits Violet because she is quite the Mama Bear and has taken Abigail on as a cub that needs protecting as well. “You’d better not be giving her the wrong vibes if you don’t mean it. If you hurt her, don’t come back to the States. Because if you do, I will find you and I will destroy you until you beg for mercy, but there will be none for the likes of you! You manwhore, playboy, douchewaffle—”

  “Whoa!” I exclaim. “First off, I don’t want to hurt her. Second, fuck . . . words hurt, Violet. And third, what I do is none of your business.”

  “She is my sister-in-law as well as my best friend. It’s damn sure my business. And how about your mom’s? Or Aunt Sofia’s? Think they’d see your ‘honeymoon’ as none of their business?” she sing-songs, already knowing the answer to her question.

  “You wouldn’t,” I challenge. God, I pray that I’m right. Violet is a reasonable woman. Surely, she wouldn’t throw me to the wolves of our family with this crazy story. Not after what her own story did to the family.

  Although, with how well that turned out, maybe they wouldn’t be so harshly judgmental?

  I consider that. But wait . . . if we go based on how Violet’s mess turned out, Mama and Aunt Sofia will have me and Abigail married off for real with demands for bambinos before the ink is dry on the marriage license. I’m not sure if that’s preferable or if a backlash of epic proportions is more desirable.

  “I would,” she vows.

  I’m beat and I know it. Violet has me by the short hairs. “No need to sic the family on me. I’m not going to hurt Abigail. I care for her.”

  Violet snorts. “Of course you do. I might call you names, Lorenzo, but you’re not a bad guy.”

  “Grazie,” I say solemnly.

  “That doesn’t mean you’re a good guy, either,” she corrects before my head has a chance to swell. “You are romantic and sweet, and apparently, Abi thinks you’re sexy as sin, but you know as well as I do that you’re going to leave. It’s what you do. Abi knows it too, but I think she’s conveniently forgetting that.”

  Violet sighs heavily. “I want you to remember that when you move on to the next exciting thing, she’s going to be left behind and I’m going to be the one supergluing the pieces of her heart back together with ice cream while we curse your entire lineage.”

  The line goes quiet, and I hear Violet murmuring in Italian. It’s not spot-on, more Americanized, but I catch something about my daughter’s pigs never bearing . . . cabbage? The curse might be wrong, but the meaning is clear, as are her good intentions.

  “Violet,” I interrupt her blasphemy before it gets any further, now that she’s moved on to my grandchildren’s feet smelling like cheese and attracting owls. Does she even speak Italian, I wonder? “I hear you loud and clear. I won’t hurt her.”

  “I hope not. She’s more fragile than she seems. Remember that.” She sighs, changing the subject from my potential failure. “So, how bad is Emily? Please tell me she’s ugly and has a hunchback and smells like rotten cheese.”

  Huh, maybe she did know what she was saying.

  “She’s fine, I guess.” I shrug even though she can’t see me. “Blonde, tall, slim, married a guy named Doug. He’s okay, a bit of a ‘polo shirt at the golf club’ sort, if you know what I mean? The competitiveness is off the charts, though. Just when I think Abigail can leave it be and we can just enjoy the day, Emily will come along and sour it. And Abigail lets her, time and time again. I don’t understand it.”

  This is something Abigail and I have touched on, but the nuances of female hierarchy are as foreign to me as they are to most men, I suspect. Though I didn’t want to talk to Violet, maybe this is the perfect opportunity to get some clarity on this because I sure as fuck haven’t a clue about Queen Bee hive dominance fights.

  “Oh, God,” Violet says dramatically, “you have no idea. Back in school, Abi was clueless for the longest. We kinda stuck to ourselves, I guess. She had this heavy name and Ross’s reputation casting a big shadow, and she just wanted to do her own thing. But Emily would never let her. Abi let it go on too long, I guess, but when she decided to fight back, she did it right. You’ve heard the expression ‘the best revenge is a life well-lived’?”

  “Yes,” I hum.

  “That’s what Abi did. She didn’t attack Emily, though she could’ve. She didn’t kill her reputation, though she could’ve done that too. She ignored her, which ate Emily up inside. Abi simply did her own thing and excelled at it in every way. Emily couldn’t keep up and it pissed her off so much. That’s why, eventually, Emily went after Abi’s guy. He was just a pawn, though I don’t feel sorry for that asshole either. But I think Emily saw it as the ultimate win. Has she flirted with you at all?”

  I flinch in shock. “No. Not at all. She seems devoted to her new husband. She and Doug have moments of happiness and a few arguments here an
d there, but that’s normal, right?” I realize that I have no idea. I’ve seen decades-long marriages in my family, and that’s how they behave, but a recently-wed, young, happy couple? That’s entirely out of my wheelhouse.

  Violet laughs. “Yeah, totally normal.”

  “But Emily hasn’t flirted with me.” The very idea is repulsive.

  “Hmm, that’s good, I guess. Just watch her and look out for Abi. Emily has an end game. She always does.”

  “Thanks, Violet. I will do that,” I reassure her.

  “You’d better, or the threat of a curse remains.”

  With that, she hangs up, leaving me with much to think about.

  Chapter 15

  Lorenzo

  I considered something quiet and romantic for this evening, something for just the two of us, but after talking with Violet, keeping things more casual seems prudent so my actions don’t make promises I’m not yet prepared to uphold.

  After scouring the resort’s options, this sunset cruise seems like the perfect activity.

  A way for Abigail and me to have fun, play at being a couple, and touch and caress each other.

  And maybe tease a little deeper, my heart begs. I want to see if there’s a chance this could be more.

  Violet has made my heart and mind at odds with my past and my future. But I’m focusing on the present. Forcefully.

  We only have this evening left. Tomorrow, we will be beyond busy with the rehearsal dinner, and Saturday, with the wedding. And then we fly out Sunday afternoon to go home.

  And then what?

  For the first time ever, the fact that I don’t know and have zero plans feels empty and meaningless, not exciting and full of possibility.

  “Absolutely not.” Abigail sounds like there is no budging her, zero chance of changing her mind as she sits on the couch with her feet curled up underneath her.

  I like a challenge.

  “Mia rosa, you spent the entire afternoon in the cooler. Your fingers and toes are purple, and there is nothing more that you can do to prepare.”

  I know I’m right because I confirmed with Janey. After their additional shoot in the Azure Ballroom, Abigail and Janey moved their flowers back into the cooler, which has thankfully held up. Hours later, Janey assures me that they are right on schedule for this weekend.

  And so am I.

  “And you have to eat, so why not do so somewhere beautiful? I promise to have you back home and in bed at a reasonable hour. I know we’ll need a good night’s sleep to hit the floor running tomorrow.” Such an American expression—they are always running somewhere.

  Not that I’m one to talk.

  “A very reasonable hour?” she clarifies. I nod, and I can see her weighing the options. “What do I wear to this thing?” she asks, and though she hasn’t said yes, I know I’ve won.

  “Sundress and a bikini,” I say as I pull her off the couch and push her toward the bedroom. “Janey’s coming too.”

  At that, Abi does a wiggly dance of happiness and gets moving a little faster. I even hear her let out a whoop of excitement that makes me smile. She’s so easy to please, so eager for any adventure.

  I lead the ladies out of the resort, following signs directing us to the resort’s dock. The boat is already loading passengers. In fact, we seem to be some of the last people to board.

  It’s not really a cruise ship, and I’ve actually been on yachts that are bigger, but those belonged to billionaires who hired me to cook. But it’s well-maintained and painted crisp white with blue hand lettering on the bow proclaiming it ‘B-Yacht-ch’. Based on that name alone, I think we’re going to have a great time.

  “Come on,” Abigail tells me, pulling at my hand now with a big smile. Janey waves her fingers at us with a knowing look. “I know it’s geeky and old and stupid, but I have to.” I have no idea what she’s talking about, but I find myself running along with her, chasing that smile.

  She leads me to the bow of the main deck, gets up on the railing, and throws her arms wide. She might not be yelling out, but there’s no doubt who she’s imitating as we pull away from the dock.

  I can’t help but laugh at her infectious exuberance. People are watching, some with smiles and some with raised brows, but Abigail cares nothing about either group. She’s simply doing what she wants, as always, and everyone else be damned.

  “I’m the Queen of the world!” she shouts into the wind. “I’m flying!”

  I put my hands on her waist to steady her, loving the feeling of her curves beneath my palms. I lean forward to press my back to her front and rumble in her ear, “Don’t expect me to sing Celine Dion for you. But if you want me to sketch you naked later, I’m happy to pretend I can draw.”

  She laughs, looking over her shoulder at me, and I know this cruise is exactly what we needed. Now that we’ve pulled away from the dock and waved to the fishermen coming in from their day’s work, Abigail steps down from her perch.

  “What is there to do aboard?”

  “Yoo-hoo!” a voice calls out, and I groan.

  No fucking way. But yes, there they are.

  “I thought that was you, Abi. I was afraid you were ending it all by throwing yourself overboard.” Emily laughs as though that’s a funny joke, but there’s an actual thread of disappointment.

  Emily is wearing another white bikini top, a sheer white coverup, and frayed white denim shorts. My guess is that her entire suitcase is full of bridal white since it’s her honeymoon.

  Doug has on a salmon-colored polo with the collar popped, khaki shorts, and boat shoes.

  They’re the picture of the upper-crust yacht crowd.

  “Hey, Lorenzo. Good to see you,” Doug says with an offered hand.

  We shake and then the awkward silence stretches longer and longer. A waiter walks by with a tray of wine and beer, and Abigail practically dives for it. Taking a white wine, she grabs a beer for me, and I watch with an internal eye roll as Emily does the same.

  Maybe Emily just likes white wine, or maybe it’s because she doesn’t want to risk spilling the red on her white outfit, but I’m pretty sure that if Abi had grabbed a beer and chugged it in one go, Emily would try to do the same.

  Hmm, that might be a fun theory to test.

  “So, what’s up first?” Emily asks as she drains her first wine. “I was thinking a little gambling.”

  We end up at blackjack after a little bit of debate. At first, Emily wanted to play Texas Hold ’Em, but Doug and I were dead set against that. Hold ’Em has players going against each other, and I don’t want to give Emily and Abigail a reason to get pissy with each other. Though I can’t be certain of his reasons, Doug was equally against Hold ’Em and had the suggestion of blackjack, a much better option for our ladies.

  Because blackjack’s against the dealer. Everyone can win, and everyone can lose. So we find a table, and pretty soon, we’ve all got our pile of chips, a thousand dollars each.

  To Emily and Doug, it’s probably pocket change. To Abigail’s family, it’s pocket change. To me, that’s a big investment, and I wonder if I’ll need to call Violet for a little ‘help’ here if we lose.

  But the thing is . . . we don’t lose.

  I’ve played before, but I get on a lucky streak like I’ve never seen before. I keep playing smartly, not letting my greed get ahead of my head to make the most of my hot streak. When I finally take a moment to count my chip pile after hitting it big with an ace-queen blackjack, I’ve got fifty-seven hundred dollars.

  That’s nearly six month’s rent in some places. Hell, it’s a year’s living expenses in others. I could take this windfall and go so many places, virtually anywhere I’d like to experience. Knowing what opportunities this pile can hold, I quit playing and simply watch the others. Abigail loses two hundred from her thousand, while Emily and Doug stay around the break-even point.

  I’m glad when they agree that they’ve had enough and are ready to move on to something else.

  “So what’s
waiting for you when you guys get back?” Emily asks us as she snags another wine.

  Abigail doesn’t mirror Emily, though, and grabs a water with lime this time. I’m sure she’s being responsible and thinking about tomorrow when we have early morning wake-up calls to get to work for the rehearsal.

  “The flower shop for me,” Abigail shares. “I just made my last loan payment, so now it’s time to see how I can maybe expand. The hope is to one day really write my own ticket. Like how Violet does.”

  “Ah, yes, Violet. She’s your cousin, Lorenzo, right?”

  I nod agreeably. “Well, widely separated. Italians don’t have a phrase for just how far apart our branches of the family tree are. Everyone is simply family.”

  Before anyone can respond, a disembodied voice on the PA system announces, “All right, everyone . . . report to the top deck in ten minutes because we’ve got a good time in store for you.”

  The voice is corny, like a 1950s television host, but people do start to move that way. Emily rolls her eyes dramatically as she snarks, “Cheese alert.”

  “Shall we?” I ask Abigail, and she beams.

  “Let’s do it!”

  The top deck of the ship’s been turned into a dance club complete with lights, lasers, and bass-heavy music. I want to dance with Abigail, hold her in my arms and sway with her. Not for sex this time but just to feel her energy.

  “All right, cool cats and kittens . . . everyone on the floor. Now’s your chance to win a helicopter tour of the island. How, you ask?” Nobody did, but people are definitely listening to the announcer now. “Our B-yacht-ch nightly dance contest!”

  “What do you think?” I ask Abigail.

  She bites her lip, looking uncertain. “I’m not really a great dancer. I like to dance, do Zumba with Courtney sometimes when she makes me, but my head-ass connection doesn’t seem to work as well as other women’s. They twerk. I look like I’m having a seizure.”

  “I’m sure you look beautiful,” I say encouragingly. “And we danced at Courtney’s wedding. You did well, very well.”