by Nic Tatano
***
Despite the weight of my gorgeous dress (which Mrs. Baymont had specially designed for me) Vincent carried me easily over the threshold into the hotel suite. That, of course, was arranged by Roxanne in yet another of her “deals” that I didn’t question. We were greeted by a bottle of champagne in a silver ice bucket along with a plate of chocolate dipped strawberries on a nightstand next to the four-poster mahogany canopy bed. A huge antique armoire stood opposite the bed, serving as a well-stocked bar. The red drapes that matched the bed’s comforter were pulled back from the huge picture window, and offered a spectacular view of the New York City skyline with the Chrysler Building in the foreground just a few blocks away. And since it was the penthouse on the top floor, it had a vaulted ceiling, something I’d never seen in a Manhattan hotel room. It was nearly midnight, and between the emotion and the dancing and the booze, I was pretty wiped out.
But it was my wedding night. And all that implied.
Vincent gently lowered me onto the bed. “You must be exhausted after all this, huh?”
“Nah, I’m fine.” (My first lie of the marriage, but hey, what am I gonna say? Not tonight, honey, I have a headache … )
“I’m impressed. I figured the bride had all the stress when it came to weddings.”
“What could possibly be stressful about marrying you?”
He smiled and sat down next to me, then gave me a soft kiss. “Have I told you how amazing you look?”
“Yeah, about a dozen times. Let’s see how you feel in the morning.”
“I’ve already seen you in the morning, remember?”
“Yes, that fact did pop up during confession. I suppose you can’t wait to rip this dress off me.”
“Well, that was the original plan, but I had an idea.”
“Vincent, I don’t think we can have sex while I’m wearing this thing.”
“I was thinking that we could be married for fifty years, and I’ll never get to see you in this dress again. You look … well, you look so incredible. I was wondering … ”
I wasn’t sure where he was going with this though the image of Sonny Corleone nailing a bridesmaid against a door popped into my mind. “Yessss … ?”
“I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind keeping it on a little while longer. The whole day has been such a whirlwind, and this is the first time I’ve gotten to be with you alone. While you’re in that dress. Remember, I didn’t see you in it before today, so let me enjoy it since it’s just the two of us.”
I had never experienced tears of joy in my lifetime, until that moment.
“Only if you keep the tuxedo on. You look pretty incredible yourself.”
“Sure, but I’ll wear a tux again. This dress is a one-time deal.”
Vincent popped the bottle of champagne, poured two glasses and handed one to me as he sat on the other side of the bed. We toasted each other, piled up the pillows and laid back, a bride and groom alone for the first time. We sipped champagne for the next few hours, both propped up on one elbow facing each other and talked about the future.
Eventually we fell asleep. He in his tux; me in my wedding dress.
As traditions go, it wasn’t the typical wedding night.
However, breakfast was off the charts.
EPILOGUE
Only two words can describe how the bride feels on her honeymoon. In this case, those two words were, “Who knew?”
Because suddenly, sensible girl had become Mrs. Martino, sentimental girl. I know you’re going to find this hard to believe, but she’s been working on her signature featuring her new last name like a high-school girl doodling on her math homework. She’s been on a massive cruise ship, enjoying ten glorious days in the Caribbean, and she’s actually started a scrapbook.
Oh, sorry, I fell back into third-person mode. But yeah, I had become schmaltzy all of a sudden, a poster child for warm and fuzzy in which everything I did could give someone else a cavity. I even said “awwww” a lot and got choked up every time Vincent did something sweet or I read a wedding card. The first page of the scrapbook featured an article from The Post as we had picked up a copy at the airport before flying out. The headline fitted perfectly, as the photo I sent them was one of us getting showered with rice as we left the church.
BRASS CUPCAKE GETS HER SPRINKLES
Single men, take note: you can take Belinda Carson out of the oven, because the Brass Cupcake is done.
The Channel Six investigative reporter walked down the aisle with, get this, Harvard-educated cab company owner Vincent Martino. Carson, who underwent an incredible makeover last year which rocketed her to infobabe status, was set up with her hunky hubby by a good friend.
Carson wore a …
Okay, this was the part of the article that lost me, but I guess women are supposed to be fascinated by a detailed description of my wedding dress. I don’t know silk organza from terry cloth, so it was all Greek to me. Personally, had I done the write-up, I would have kept it simple. “The bride wore a white dress and due to her previous after-hours escapades with the groom, attended confession shortly before the ceremony. For her penance she received ten Our Fathers, ten Hail Marys, and a stern look from the parish priest.”
Anyway, I’d been adding little odds and ends to the scrapbook as we sailed the crystal-clear turquoise waters of the Caribbean. Ticket stubs from historical sites, some paper money from places no one ever heard of, even a luggage tag from the cruise line. I was currently stretched out on our balcony, as Vincent’s cousin Stephanie the travel agent took care of booking the cruise and got us a deal like Roxanne. I quickly reached the point that I stopped asking questions of anyone in his family about how stuff magically appeared, often without a price tag.
I was more relaxed than I’ve ever been as the ship seemed to glide across the waters. The salt air filled my lungs and ran its fingers through my hair as I sipped yet another incredible rum concoction. There was something about the cruise that relaxed me; maybe because the Brass Cupcake couldn’t be farther away from journalism. The world could blow up and I’d say, “Eh, whatever. What time is that chocoholic buffet?”
Oh, several loose ends before I get back to the honeymoon.
- Since Vincent so enjoyed seeing me in the wedding dress I’ve agreed to put it on once each year on our anniversary, as long as he wears the tuxedo. He was thrilled, though he added, “And it better fit.” To which I responded, “So should the tuxedo.” The way the man can cook, it might be a tall order.
- Ariel just sent me an email as apparently she hooked up with one of Vincent’s cab drivers after the reception. In the back seat of a cab, no less, which would be a scandal if news of that dalliance got back to Connecticut, as old-money girls would never think of giving it up in a car any lesser than a Mercedes. Things got so wild one of her heels flew through the little window between the back seat and the front, hit the meter, turned it on and racked up a ninety-dollar fare making it the first “ride” in New York taxi history in which the cab did not move.
- Despite the rules of the “boost bag” Mrs. Baymont went rogue and sent a traditional gift. Well, actually a truckload full of stuff that I apparently “must have” should I aspire to become the Martha Stewart of Brooklyn. (Youse take da salad fawk and stab some lettuce. Fuhgeddaboudit!) She sent a full set of china so I can cook dinner for twenty-four people without breaking out the paper plates, along with assorted tablecloths, napkins, serving trays, you name it. Silver place settings with so many forks I’m going to need a refresher course. Again with the forks.
- Serena spotted a guy she liked at the reception and handed him her business card, inviting him to come by her law firm to “make out a living will free of charge.” Uh-huh. Right.
- Roxanne had sparks fly with one of Ariel’s friends, a prep school type from Beacon Hill in Boston. Talk about opposites attracting. Anyway, she must be head over heels for this guy because she was taking etiquette and diction lessons from Mrs. Baymont. Who wouldn’t lo
ve to be a fly on the wall for those sessions? She said she can’t wait until I get home so that I can hear her say, “Forget about it,” sounding like she’s a snob from Massachusetts.
Okay, you’re all caught up. Back to the cruise. Our suite was on the shady side of the ship in the afternoon, which was good because I sunburn easily. So I could safely sit outside without the sunblock I usually wore that was strong enough to protect me on the planet Mercury.
The cruise was wonderful. Every morning when we woke up we were docked at a different island. We would spend the morning exploring, then return after lunch to enjoy the ship and sip drinks with umbrellas in them by the pool. (Vincent, by the way, has insisted I wear a bikini on these sojourns, as he likes watching “traffic stop” on the deck. Says it makes him feel like the luckiest man on the planet.) Each night we’ve shared our assigned table with three other honeymoon couples, all from the New York area, so we have a lot in common. After dinner there’s always been entertainment: a magician one night, a Broadway review the next.
My sneaky husband also pulled a fast one on me, as he packed some of my bridal shower “gifts” into his suitcase for after-hours entertainment. Being the football fan that he is, he truly enjoyed the Dallas cheerleader outfit. And while I can take it or leave it when it comes to hot pants, I personally got a kick out of the seven-inch platforms Serena had given me, which took me up to an even six feet. Since she was the one who discovered I didn’t own heels, she apparently decided to take things to the extreme and turned me into some sort of glamazon.
There was only one drawback to the ship, and that’s the way the room’s furniture was aligned with the cabin door. Open any door on the ship and you got a perfect view of the bed. We’ve had a few interesting peeks at our shipmates while walking by cabins as one person opened a door, not realizing the other passengers were getting a view of their naked significant other. In one case Vincent caught a glimpse of a woman who easily tipped the scales at three hundred pounds who was wearing a thong. He quickly retreated to our cabin, saying he had to rip out his eyeballs to wash away the image or he would not be able to eat dinner.
Anyway, whenever one of us is in the cabin and the other is not, we’ve developed an early warning system to let the other one know a view of the bed is imminent, and one should cover up. Vincent just went up on deck to get us a snack, even though the ship has free room service 24/7. The man loves waiting on me, and I’m not complaining, though I plan to take my Suzy Homemaker duties to the next level when we return. I had just come inside from the balcony, and was trying to decide which “play clothes” I would be wearing tonight when there was a tap on the door. Could have been the cabin steward, so I threw a robe on over my bikini. But it was a false alarm, as I heard Vincent’s voice.
“You decent?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “I’m your wife!”
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HarperImpulse an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
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First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2013
Copyright © Nic Tatano 2013
Cover Illustrations © shutterstock.com
Nic Tatano asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are
the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is
entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
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Ebook Edition © August 2013
ISBN:9780007548583
Version 2014-07-10
Automatically produced by Atomik ePublisher from Easypress.
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