“Yes, Master Sergeant, I am, sir.” She salutes me like a smart ass.
“Seriously, Charlotte,” I scold. “And I’m a Senior Chief Petty Officer. There are no sergeants in the Navy.”
She falls onto the sofa and laughs. “You look so earnest, Senior Chief.”
I stalk over to her and place an arm on the back of the sofa. “You have to start treatment this Friday.”
“I know, babe.” She lifts a soft hand to stroke my face. “I want to get married before my surgery. Next weekend. I’ve already called our parents, so they aren’t going to fly down. They’re expecting us.”
“Are you sure about this?”
“Never been surer about anything.” Her hand curls around the back of my neck and rises up to press her lips against mine. “We’re going to be okay.”
44
Charlotte
Nathan is more nervous than I am, I think, and it has nothing to do with the flight from Dallas to Chicago. For one thing, we’re in his parents’ home, far away from any airplane.
In the few days between my diagnosis and the return to Chicago, Grace has transformed the sunporch into a bedroom/sitting room. Custom motorized shades are being installed tomorrow, but for now I can sit on an oversized chair not too far away from the bed where the IV drip and hospital monitors sit silent. In an hour or so, the nurse and oncology doctor will arrive and administer the chemo.
This is what money does for you. I don’t have to go to a hospital and lie in an uncomfortable bed in a sterile environment. For God knows how much an hour, the hospital is moved to the Jackson’s North Shore estate, where Grace will watch over me as Mom and Noah wind down Freedom Funds.
Nathan is bewildered by it all. He stands, one arm folded over his head as he watches the tents being set up in the backyard for the wedding that will take place this week. We can’t have it on the weekend because I wouldn’t be able to stand after the treatment. So in five days we’ll hold each other’s hands under the ivy arch they are constructing and promise to love each other in sickness and in health until death do us part.
“I want to write our vows, Charlotte,” he says, somehow reading my mind. “I don’t want to say those things.”
“What things? That you’ll love and obey me?” I tease.
“No, the death do us part things.” He’s serious—so serious. Ever since the diagnosis, I don’t think he’s cracked a smile once. I’m afraid his face is going to become petrified in the stern, never have laughed freeze frame.
“Then let’s write our own vows. It’s a very hipster thing to do. I’ll post them on Pinterest after our wedding with soft focus pictures of my bouquet.”
“What is with all the fucking jokes, Charlotte? Nonstop. One quip or mocking comment after the other. That’s not you.”
“How would you know?” I shoot back, stung by his criticism and cursing. “It’s not like you stuck around to find out. If I’d had my leg amputated before, would you have run off like a scared little boy?”
He stares as if he doesn’t recognize me and then pushes the door open and stomps out.
I struggle out of the chair and run after him. The wind has whipped up, and it slams the door behind me. The sharp crack alerts him, and he turns toward me, a towering mass of anger and hurt and fear.
I hurtle myself into his arms, and he clutches me tight against him.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter against the warm skin of his neck. “It’s either laugh or cry at this point, and crying has never done anything for me.”
“God, baby, I want to be strong for both of us, but I can’t get a grip on this. I’m scared shitless. Tell me what to do.”
“Just love me.”
“I do.”
“And be honest with me.”
“I am.”
Drawing back, I press his face between my hands. “I don’t want to be a charity case—someone you’re with because you think I’ll be an old maid if you don’t marry me.”
Shock and then surprise flickers in his eyes. “Is that what you think? That I’m with you because I feel sorry for you? Jesus, I’m the lucky one here. A teammate of mine told me that the entire time he was with me, it was like looking at a dead man. I’m not alive unless I’m with you. How many limbs you have means fuck all.”
“All right.” I laugh with giddiness. “You owe your mom’s curse jar a hundred dollars.”
“If you don’t marry me, I’m going to have to pour my whole trust fund in that jar because I won’t stop cussing.”
He swings me around until we’re dizzy. Grace comes out to tell us that the doctor is here, and Nate carries me inside. He sits beside me while the drip is inserted. He holds my hair later that night when I’m sick. He feeds me little bits of toast and then curls his entire body around mine as we fall asleep.
* * *
“This dress is beautiful,” Lainey says reverently. The stiff satin is folded strategically, baring my shoulders. It’s nipped in at the waist, and a sea of organza floats over a heavy silk skirt. Grace’s strand of pearls hangs around my neck, representing the old and borrowed, while my parents’ wedding present, a sapphire and pearl bracelet, covers the blue and the new.
My hair is curled and falls down my back in golden waves, which is Nate’s preferred style. He loves my hair loose.
I decide against high heels, choosing instead a pair of delicate crystal studded shoes with a kitten heel. I’m not certain how long I’ll be able to stand. Treatment has left me as weak as I suspected it would.
“How’s the office?” I ask.
“It’s all motoring along perfectly,” Lainey says.
Outside of the sunporch I can hear the sound of people chattering. Despite the quickness of the wedding, a surprising number of people have shown up. Colin arrived yesterday and proceeded to flirt the pants off of half the female guests. Nate looks on with tolerant amusement while Nick scowls because Lainey has shown a surprisingly positive response to Colin’s lures. And why not? He’s handsome, famous, and he has this amazing ability to make the silliest things sound suave. He’d told Lainey upon meeting her that the only way he’d be able to live in the Windy City was if someone as warm as her would be by his side. Of course, it’s summer so he has no idea how cold it can really get but panties hit the floor. No lie.
Our parents footed the bill for chartered planes from San Diego and Dallas to bring teammates of both Nate and Nick to the wedding.
The other night, our parents tried to convince us Nate should leave his team.
“We’ll call in every favor and get you out early,” Noah vowed.
“For a price, anything can be purchased,” Dad said.
“No.” I put my foot down. “I don’t want that. I’m going to beat this, and so we’re going to go forward with our plans. I’m staying here while I get treatment, and then after surgery and whatever amputation I have to get, I’ll move to San Diego. There are veterans groups I can rehab with. Probably no one knows more about amputations than the military.”
Nate was quiet throughout the debate, but finally spoke up. “My first inclination is to quit, but Charlotte has convinced me that this is the right thing for both of us, so we’ll hope you support our decision.”
In the face of our united front, our parents fell silent. Then, in a move that makes me tear up when I recall it, Nate put our hands in the middle of the table and everyone piled on top.
I feel so much love and support, I know that I’m going to beat this disease.
“I’m nervous,” I say with surprise. My hands are clammy when I rub them together.
“I can take him off your hands for you,” Reese offers.
I wink at him. “You’re too much man for him, Reese.”
He guffaws.
The walk down the aisle between my parents is everything I had ever dreamed. A harpist plays Ave Maria and beyond the lyrical notes plucked by the musician, I can hear Lake Michigan lapping against the sand. In front of me, in his formal dinner dress unifo
rm with its short-cut jacket, medals along his breast and his rank on the side, Nate looks gorgeous and imposing.
Beside him stands Nick, winking at Cassidy who dances down the aisle in front of us, tossing hydrangea petals on the guests rather than the white carpet.
I keep reciting my vows, worried I’ll forget them or flub them in front of all of our family and friends. Last night Nathan refused to sleep with me, telling me he had to practice.
I yelled jokingly that it wasn’t too late to go back to the traditional vows, but he only shut the door firmly behind him and escaped to his bedroom on the second floor.
“Who gives this woman’s hand in marriage?” the officiant intones. The shock of red hair, ruddy cheeks, and big belly are a dead giveaway. Inwardly I laugh. I have a flower girl dousing the guests with flowers while the mayor of Chicago marries us. For a wedding thrown together in a week, it’s gone off well.
“We do,” my parents say emphatically.
“We gather here today to see the joining of two people and two families in front of their friends, their community, and their God. If any of you has reasons why these two should not be married, speak now or forever hold your peace.”
Behind Nate, I see Nick’s eyes light up in devilry.
“I swear to God, I will beat you until you’re bloody if you say one word,” Nate hisses out of the side of his mouth. Nick is nearly bursting with the need to laugh.
The mayor says a few more things that I barely register, and then it’s time to say our vows. I hand my bouquet to Lainey and take Nathan’s outstretched hands. He grips my fingers tightly, the rough callouses reminding me of the struggles he endured without me.
The midday heat is pushed off by the wind from the lake, and all around me I can hear the sounds of our childhood. We played hide and seek among the bushes and boated on the lake. Nathan griped about the size of my swimsuit. At the time I thought he was angry, but I realize now he was confused about my changing body and his burgeoning feelings. He saved my dolls from drowning once. I should have known then he would be a SEAL.
The birds chirp their summer melody, and the harpist strums lightly in the background. Surrounding us is the love of our family enriched by the history of our past.
Even before he speaks, my heart is exploding with joy, filling every crevice in my body with light and peace and pleasure.
I’m so lucky. I grew up with the greatest parents with the greatest friends. So what that I had cancer. So what that another form is back. So what that I might not have a leg when treatment is over. So what?
I’m alive. I’m getting married to this man I’ve loved since forever. There is not a dream of mine that has not come true. All of the suffering has been worth it, just as Mom had told me so many years ago—that anything worth having was worth suffering for.
I appreciate everything today and not just the wedding, but the love of my Nathan, the pride of our families, the embrace of those who have come here to witness this amazing moment in time.
I’m so so lucky. The luckiest girl ever.
And then…
Then he begins to speak.
His voice is rough with emotion but each word is clearly stated and the words are so beautiful that angels must carry them from his mouth into the air.
“When I first saw you, my heart knew what it took my head longer to figure out. My world is a dim, soulless place without you. Today I, Nathan Beauregard Jackson, vow in front of all of creation that I will be your weapon against your enemies, your shield against those that would wish you harm, your joy during times of heartache, your shared laughter when you are happy, the fulfillment of every want, desire and need. I am yours forever, and not even death will part us.”
The birds stop chirping. The wind stills. Everyone holds their breath as the weight of his promises sing through the air.
His eyes cling to mine as the vows he wrote weave through our bond, the one that was created when I was born, that was tested when we were teenagers, and that hardened as adults. What God has bound together, no one can sever.
I fight back tears and grab the last tendrils of composure.
“I, Charlotte Grace Randolph, pledge my troth to you. I adored the boy, and I love the man. I followed the boy but respect the man. I believed in the boy and trust the man. I pledge my eternal faithfulness, my undying love, and my forever devotion. Our journey has been long, but we have found our way into each other’s arms, and I will never leave you, never forsake you, never stop believing that you are the greatest thing that has happened and will ever happen to me. Our love will never die.”
45
Charlotte
Nathan carries me over the threshold of the presidential suite at The Drake Hotel. With its six rooms, it’s likely bigger than my condo. “Princess Diana stayed here you know,” I tell him as we sweep by the living room. I catch a glimpse of pale blue velvet covered sofas and ornate floor-to-ceiling drapery before I’m whisked into the bedroom and deposited onto a beige and white striped coverlet.
There’s a bowl of roses and a champagne bucket on the glass coffee table. None of that interests Nate. He deposits me on my feet next to the bed but doesn’t allow me to sit down. He kneels in front of me and lifts my skirt, slipping one shoe off and then the other. They are tossed carelessly to the side as if they didn’t cost a fortune. Still kneeling, he struggles out of his jacket.
“What are you doing down there?” I can’t keep the wide grin from my face as I watch his muscles bunch and move as he discards the coat. The tie, the shirt, and his undershirt follow leaving his gleaming chest highlighted by the golden lamplight.
“What do you think?” he says.
“Shouldn’t I be removing my dress too?” I’m anxious to love him. I lift up my skirt, but he stays my hand.
“Undressing the bride is the groom’s job.” His hands slide up my stockings, stopping at the garters. “So old-fashioned. I like,” he murmurs. A finger traces the tops of the silk stockings, pausing to climb over the small bump made by the clip of the garter and then continuing around. He does this again and again until the sensations make me dizzy, until my thighs are on fire, and he has barely touched me. My legs can’t hold me, and when I begin to fall his strong hands encircle the backs of my thighs and thrust me upright.
“Whoa there, baby. You’ve got to be standing up for this.”
“I can’t,” I whimper. It’s not a plea, but a statement of fact. I can’t stand up. My legs are jelly, my core is aching, and desire is making me cloudy headed. His features are carved out of stone. His jaw is solid granite and his nose a sharp blade. He’s beautiful and harsh like the mountains and yet, there’s softness in his lips and tenderness in his eyes.
I am your shield. Your weapon.
I am the Nathan of the Charlotte and Nathan we were meant to be.
Our love will never die.
Can I come just from a touch, a look, a word? Perhaps. If the touch is Nathan’s, if the eyes are his, if the words come from his mouth. My breaths come in short, shallow pants, and the ache in my stomach spreads.
“You can,” he replies implacably and moves my feet shoulder-width apart. “Hold your skirt, baby. My hands are going to be busy.”
I crumple the expensive fabric between tight fists and rest them against my waist. One broad palm at the base of my spine steadies me. His other hand? One long finger rubs along the edge of the silk panties—the ones I have ruined by my inability to resist even one caress from this man’s hands.
“Nathan, stop teasing me,” I demand. I may even stomp my foot.
“No,” he replies, but his finger slips under the sodden fabric to stroke my swollen flesh. The contact is electric, pulling a soft gasp from me. I feel the heavy pulse of my heart at every juncture—on my neck, in my wrists, between my legs. My knees threaten to collapse, and I rock backward against his firm hand. Two of his fingers bracket my sex, moving molasses-slow along my skin. “I’m here, on my knees, showing you my devotion.”
He ignores my pleas.
“All day and night I thought about what might be under this froth of a dress. After we walked down the aisle, after we were pronounced man and wife, I wanted to whisk you off to a private room. During the infernal never-ending dinner, sitting beside you, I wanted to ruck up your skirt and touch your knee, your thigh, your pussy.” He plunges both fingers inside me, and only because of his hands do I remain upright. A high-pitched cry escapes me, and I drench his hand. He laughs, a dark, throaty noise of satisfaction. With a twist of his fingers, he tears the delicate fabric and exposes me to his ravaging gaze. He attacks me with his mouth, sucking hard on my clit and thrusting his fingers inside me relentlessly until I hit the peak of ecstasy again. This time not even his hands can keep me upright.
I crumple, my body folding over his head as he continues to work me into a mindless frenzy. The mountain of fabric escapes my hands and flutters around him, like a curtain drawing act one to a close. God, if this is act one, I might not live to see act two. Certainly I’m blind. The sensations his tongue and fingers have wrought have set off explosions behind my closed lids.
He rises to his feet in a smooth, athletic move and captures my chin in his palm. Holding me upright, he devours my mouth, taking me over with ruthless intent. I cling to him as the storm rages around me. He grabs one edge of the buttons running down my back, and I feel his muscles tense as he prepares to tear through the dress. A sole kernel of preservation awakens, and I blurt out, “Zipper. There’s a zipper.”
After a moment of fumbling, he finds the zipper and I wriggle out of the dress.
“What in the glorious hell do you have on?” he asks, smoothing his hands down the sides of my tightly-bound waist.
“It’s a corset.” I spread my arms out along the crisp coverlet in a sultry pose, displaying the nipped-in waist and my breasts, covered in ecru satin, ribbons, and lace.
The Charlotte Chronicles Page 32