Claire says it so sincerely, so earnestly, that I would absolutely believe her purity of heart except that then she turns to me and there’s a fresh glint in her eye. If it were Janey, I’d think she was saying ‘I got you, bitch’, but this is Claire, the internet’s All-American sweetheart.
“And Abi . . .”
I freeze, forcing a plastic smile to my face.
“Or Flower Girl, as I hear Meredith call you,” she says with the smallest laugh, as if that’s utterly ridiculous. “You are so much more than that, though. You’re an artist who uses flowers as your medium. Thank you for sharing your talent with me.”
I’m touched, truly and deeply, that Claire gets what I do. Not many people do.
But while I’m floating with the happy fizz of such a feel-good compliment, Meredith looks like she sucked on a lime and followed it up with a string of black licorice. I guess Claire did take the wind out Meredith’s sails a bit, making it pretty obvious that she was a back-up, stand-in planner for who Claire really wanted. It was complimentary in a way, but not nearly the same glowing love she gave the rest of us.
“I hear I missed out on the cutest dog ever,” I blurt out, “so I wanted to bring you this. A little extra touch.” I hold out the flower-decked ribbon.
Claire squeals in delight as she grabs for it. “Oh, my gosh! It’s adorable!” She delicately runs a pink-tipped finger over the ribbon and then laughs boisterously. “Did you say ‘cutest dog’?”
I nod with a polite smile.
“Sock is cute, no doubt about that, but he’s an utter beast. I’m still working on teaching him manners.” As if the dog knows Claire is talking about him, he wakes up and bounces around in the kennel a bit, letting out a pitiful whine. Claire wiggles her fingers through the wires, and Sock settles, but not before I see why his name is Sock and not Socks. He’s a white fluff of mop, but he’s got one brown foot. “You want the pretty collar, baby?” Claire coos. “Tell Abi thank you.”
This seems like a good time for me to get back downstairs and check on Janey. The bouquet crisis is managed, Sock has a new chew toy, and I got a little ego boost from Claire’s sweet compliments. “Excuse me, I need to get back downstairs if everything’s good up here?”
Madison flashes me a thumbs-up, and I run for the door before anything else can happen. I swear I feel daggers stabbing me in the back as I go though, and I’m pretty sure Meredith is shooting them with her eyes.
The wedding is . . . idyllic. The crowd’s not too outrageous, only about three hundred people, which sounds like a lot, but for this degree of celebrity, it might as well be a small, intimate affair.
Standing off to the side, I look around and can place face after face. Either they’re beautiful people, women and men from Claire’s set who’ve turned their good looks and charisma into social media fame, or they’re from my set like Cole. Hell, I’m surprised Ross isn’t here. Cole and he weren’t close in school, but sometimes, high-society isn’t about how well you know someone but just that you do.
Janey sounds wistful as she whispers, “Have you ever seen the water more beautiful?”
She’s right. Somehow, the clear blue Caribbean has become even more jewel-like, the sky even more dauntingly blue. Everything looks like it’s been fed through a photo filter and maximized to its best settings. I think even the sand’s somehow made whiter and more sugary.
The musicians start up, and first to march down the aisle is Cole with his groomsmen. He looks handsome in his white tuxedo, tropical and cool and just a little nervous. It humanizes him somehow, and a small chuckle works its way through the crowd when he repeatedly adjusts his tie as we wait for Claire.
The Wedding March starts, and all breaths are taken away as Claire comes out. Her dress is stunning, a simple satin gown with a deep V, a lace back with tiny buttons, and a full skirt that swooshes along the sand making it seem like she’s floating. The veil, the sandals that let her walk on the sand, the music . . . I’m not the only one sporting real tears as she walks by smiling eagerly.
“Friends and family, we’re gathered here today to join this man, Cole Kennedy, with this woman, Claire Johnson,” the minister begins, and somewhere along the way, I lose myself. I’m so tired and the minister has this pleasantly droning voice, almost meditative, causing my eyes start to sag . . .
“Ow!” I hiss as Janey digs a thumb into my ribs, waking me up. “What—”
“Wake up before you start snoring!” Janey growls in my ear.
I nod, pinching the hell out of my armpit until I see tears, and focus on the lovely couple under the beautiful arch. Thankfully, the minister is making quick progress, and we’re at the main event . . . the vows.
“And now, if anyone should have any reason that this man and this woman should not be joined in matrimony, let them speak now or forever hold their peace,” he says.
I have a moment where I imagine being that person who calls out, ‘I object,’ but I just can’t. I’m too unsure and don’t really know anything other than that I heard a suspicious phone call. I send up a silent prayer that I’m doing the right thing.
The rings are brought out, and Claire takes her vows. “Cole,” she begins, looking into his eyes, “I never thought I could find someone who’d see the real me. The girl who’s scared and lonely sometimes. The girl who likes to sleep in on Sundays, watch old horror movies at midnight, or who thinks that Pop-Tarts are pretty much heaven in a foil wrapper. You’ve taken me at my best, seen me at my worst, and held me when everything was falling apart. You’re my other half, the piece that completes my puzzle. All I can think of now is going forward step by step with you, together. I vow to be your wife, your friend, your love, and the mother of our children. I love you now, and I will love you forever. C2K, honey.”
That’s what I want.
Cole’s vows aren’t as poetic but are just as heartfelt. “I promise you, with everything I have, to be the man you deserve. I will support you, surprise you, and live every day to the fullest with you. I vow to be your husband, your lover, your protector, and your partner, from now to eternity. C2K, always.”
They kiss, and moments later, the minister announces, “May I present Cole and Claire Kennedy, or as they’ve dubbed themselves, ‘C2K’.” He chuckles, as does the crowd, but then everyone cheers and applauds.
The reception goes off just as well, with everyone eating Lorenzo’s delicious food, giving toasts, and watching with teary eyes as Cole and Claire do their first dance as husband and wife on a white dance floor that has a laser light show dancing around a C2K monogram in the middle.
Janey and I have divided, standing on opposite walls, to watch over the tablescapes and arrangements, at the ready in case anything goes awry. Meredith finds her way over to my perch along the wall. At least she doesn’t scare me this time. I see her coming a mile away and stiffen, but a quick scan tells me all the tables and flowers look great.
“Yes?” I ask, not letting her get a dig in first.
Meredith smiles at me. It’s creepy as fuck, with zero sense of friendliness. “The flowers look lovely, Miss Andrews.”
A compliment? It sounds like an actual compliment, which makes me suspicious.
“Thank you,” I say carefully.
“I might have been hard on you, but you’ve really come through in the end.” She nods her head, looking around the room from arrangement to arrangement appreciatively. “You must understand, I was simply concerned that your work would falter with all the distractions of the island.”
Oh, shit! Does she know about me and Lorenzo? I mean, there’s no real reason we can’t have spent time together, but it’s not exactly professional and I don’t want it to affect how either of us is perceived.
“It is a beautiful island,” I concede, though I feel like we’re having two separate conversations. One topical, with niceties like rose petals, and the other deeper, with thorns.
“I think we would make a good team in the future,” she says with another
one of those smiles. “Especially since at home, you won’t have the same distractions . . . the island, celebrity clients, your chef friend.”
She tacks on the last bit almost like it’s an afterthought, but something tells me it’s the entire point of this weird conversation because I don’t believe for one second that Meredith wants to work with me when we get home.
Confused, I reply, “Lorenzo? He’s flying back on Sunday too.”
Meredith’s lips quirk and evil delight gleams in her eyes. “Hmm. Perhaps I misunderstood? I could’ve sworn I overheard him and Esmar discussing his new position . . . here at the resort restaurant.”
What? No fucking way.
Lorenzo wouldn’t do that. Or would he?
It is who he is . . . a wanderer who goes to the next exciting thing at the drop of a hat. And cooking in Aruba would definitely qualify as exciting. But surely, he’d talk to me about it first, right?
Abi, it’s been a week. You really think you have any hold on him that would keep him from working in paradise? Your pussy’s not that special.
You’re not that special.
But while my world is crumbling into shatters of questions and doubts, Meredith looks concerned as she places a hand on my arm. “Miss Andrews, are you okay, dear? You look pale.”
I fix my plastic smile on my lips. Thanks for the lessons, Mom. “I’m fine. Sorry. Guess I need a little snack after this long day. Low blood sugar, you know?”
“Sure. Take a moment and get a quick bite. Again, everything looks lovely.” Her concern morphs to a soft smile. Her kindness is the last straw.
I nearly run for the bathroom, not needing food but needing . . . something. Staring at myself in the mirror, I can’t believe what Meredith said.
But I do.
I flash back to those moments on the boat with Lorenzo buried inside me, our flesh bare, but I’d felt like there was more. So much more. Like he was baring his soul to me and I was letting down my walls. But if he’s staying here, maybe I should’ve just continued protecting myself. Then this wouldn’t hurt so much.
I clench my jaw, swallowing down the maelstrom swirling in my gut. I can’t do this now, not in the middle of an event. Not in the middle of this big moment in my career.
Focus, Abi. Pull yourself together. Deal with the here and now. The rest can wait.
I can wait.
I’ve got myself under a false sense of control when I hear Cole’s voice. Loud, as though he’s on a microphone out on the ballroom floor.
“Excuse me, everyone . . . if I could have your attention, please. Claire, I have something I need to tell you.”
What the hell is happening? Is Cole confessing to Claire at their wedding? I freeze, my hand on the bathroom door.
“You have no idea how hard it’s been to keep this secret from you. Actually, I wouldn’t have been able to if it hadn’t been for Madison’s help.”
Oh, shit! Madison who was saving the bouquet from Cujo? That’s who he was talking to on the phone? That’s who he told ‘I love you’?
The door flies open in my hand and I’m back in the ballroom an instant later. Cole is on the stage at the far end of the space, smiling as he holds the room in the palm of his hand.
My eyes find Claire, who’s in the middle of the dance floor, happily teary eyes on her new husband.
No, no, no, no.
He chuckles and then says, “Some guys get their brides a piece of jewelry as a wedding gift, like a pearl necklace or diamond earrings. But you’re not a jewelry kind of girl . . . except for that ring. You’d better never take that thing off your finger.” The audience laughs.
“But I wanted to get you something that would show how much I love you and support your weirdness in every form, something you’d still tell stories about when we’re old. I had a lot of ideas . . . a lot of really bad ideas. That’s where Madison came in to talk me down.” He stage-whispers into the mic, “Thank her later for that. Trust me, Claire Bear.”
The crowd laughs again and I am so confused. This all sounds . . . okay? Or good?
“So, without further ado . . .”
There’s a collective gasp I don’t understand, and then I see it . . .
“May I present N’Sync singing It’s Gonna be Me!”
A scream of pure, unadulterated joy explodes from Claire as she runs for the stage, pressing her expensive white gown right up against it. And then the band—I think that’s really them—starts singing.
I’m crying, boo-hooing snotty tears . . . for Claire, for Cole, for myself. And I’m not the only one. I’m so glad I didn’t ruin their day. This is what Cole was planning with that phone call. I know it in my heart.
Just like I’m sure that given the chance, Lorenzo will follow his heart and cook somewhere new. It might be here with Esmar or somewhere else . . . but eventually, he’ll leave. It’s what he does.
I knew that. I knew it all along. He made no secret of his dreams of travel and his love of spontaneity. Hell, he jumped in to save me on a whim and got caught up in this crazy scheme because I just couldn’t let the drama from high school with Emily go. It’s my own fault I let it go this far.
It just felt like maybe . . . this time would be different. For Lorenzo and for me. Like we left the whole fake honeymoon thing behind us and had reached somewhere deeper and better. And real.
But if this was just a flash in the pan, a vacation fling or some wild story I’ll remember with a fond laugh one day, I’ll have to be okay with that.
I’m Abigail Andrews. I always land on my feet.
And as the party rages on around me, the concert turns into karaoke as Claire and Cole, along with Madison and the rest of the bridal party, sing along with every song. Who knew a young twenty-something social media darling would be a secret ’Sync-er?
But if Claire, in all her apparent quirks, found Cole, who’s obviously more than his family name would lead one to believe, then there’s got to be hope for the rest of us.
I want that. What they have . . . happily singing along into a ladle they swiped from the punch bowl with hearts in their eyes and the promise of forever.
I didn’t get it this time. But one day, I will. In the meantime, I guess I’m going to enjoy this scheme for all it’s worth.
Enjoy Lorenzo in paradise . . . for one more night, I think hollowly.
Chapter 20
Lorenzo
“Abigail,” I call out as I enter our suite.
Tonight has been exhausting. Rewarding, but exhausting. The wedding service went off with only a few minor hiccups. Well, minor if you can call Gilberto getting his sleeve caught in the pasta maker and it taking three of us to set him free. Oh, and then there was the cake designer coming into the kitchen like he was the freshly crowned prince of Weddingtopia and demanding a central workstation for his masterpiece.
“You won’t believe the story I have to tell you, mia rosa!”
Oh, Esmar had thrown me a side-eye, told the cake guru ‘right this way’, and set him up to make delicate sugar flowers . . . right by the hot cooktop. He hadn’t lasted thirty minutes before declaring that he could not work in such hostile conditions, and we’d openly laughed as we shuffled him off to the back where he could create in relative comfort.
There’s no answer in the suite. No outrageous stories from Abigail or bawdry stories from Janey. It’s quiet.
I suppose they’re still cleaning up downstairs. I consider going to help but reject the idea because I don’t think it would serve Abigail to have Meredith see me playing the role of helper boy. I’m worried about the fallout of Meredith’s veiled threats for Abigail when we get home.
Home.
The word has never seemed so loaded before. I’ve always considered Positano my true home, the place I grew up. But wherever I lay my head is home too—the sense of comfort and belonging one I cultivate everywhere I go on my adventures.
And spending time with Abigail . . . it’s home too.
But could Aruba be
home? In Esmar’s kitchen or one of my own, here on the island?
It’s a big decision. One I can’t make tonight with my head fuzzy with exhaustion.
I decide a shower is in order as a way to refresh my body and mind, not to mention wash off the smells of sweat and food, before Abigail returns. The hot water is heaven, relaxing muscles I didn’t even know were tense.
By the time I get out, I feel like scotta pasta, overcooked and mushy. Nude, I lay out on the bed with the lamp on to wait for Abigail. I can’t wait to hear about her day.
Sometime in the early morning hours, I startle awake. I don’t know what I heard or why my eyes pop open, and I settle slightly. Then I remember . . . I’m waiting for Abigail.
In the corner of my vision, I see a dark shape in the bed with me. My heart leaps automatically, and then I smile at my own ridiculousness. It’s her.
My bleary eyes focus, tracing the outline of her black clothes against the white of the bed sheets in the dim light. Poor thing must’ve fallen into bed straight from finishing for the night.
I get up, carefully pulling her sensible flats off her cute little feet, noting how red her toes look. I consider removing her clothes so she is more comfortable, but don’t want to risk waking her if she’s as exhausted as I am.
At least we have tomorrow morning to enjoy the island before our flights out.
I pick up my phone, pulling up the resort’s website to see if there might be a particular way to make the most of our last morning in Aruba.
Reservation made, I set my alarm so we don’t sleep too late. We need rest, obviously. But we need something else even more.
I turn the lamp off and curl up behind Abigail, making her the little spoon to my big, and cover us over with a blanket.
Sleep overtakes me quickly once again, more restful with Abigail in my arms.
My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon Page 24