by Lexi Whitlow
We begin the slow, steady march up the aisle, and I see Candice bawling her eyes out on the front row next to my sister Hannah, who’s doing the same. Jenna is in lace on the raised dais, with Nathan taking the opposite spot on the other side.
Next to him, Justin stands in his charcoal suit—he’d wanted a Brioni tux but made the concession to please my family—and he’s looking more nervous than I’ve ever seen him. It makes my heart smile to know that the man who built an empire through sheer will power is humbled by the power of love. And that he respects my family enough to include them in all this—he insisted on paying for everyone’s train ticket from Indiana, after they turned down the offer of a private 737. All my relatives are staying at the Warwick Hotel, but we didn’t tell them how much it costs. I don’t want my father to have a stroke.
As I reach the dais, he stops and turns me to face him. I swear there’s a tear in his eye as he leans in to whisper in my ear.
“Tell him to take care of you,” he says. “You’re more precious than all the riches in the world, Sarah. You tell him he’s the keeper of your heart now, and that God is watching him.”
For some, that might seem strange. To me, it’s the greatest declaration of love I could have hoped for from him. I wipe away a tear and kiss his bearded cheek before he lets go of my hand and I walk the three steps to the top of the stage. Before he turns, Father looks at Justin and nods. He nods back reverently as I take his hand in mine.
“You look like a princess,” he breathes.
“And you look like my knight in shining armor.”
We say our vows along with the justice of the peace—simple, nothing fancy. Two people who swim with sharks don’t have time for flowery words and promises. At least not under the watchful eye of my family.
The reception at the Preston mansion on the Upper East Side goes as you might expect, with half the room talking about high finance and the Metropolitan Opera, and the other side talking about how the hosts made their money from the devil by selling cosmetics. Fortunately for all of us, it’s over by eight o’clock and Justin are in our limo, headed back to my place soon after.
Back to our place, I mean.
“You’re sure?” I ask him.
“Absolutely. My apartment is like a football stadium. Your place is a real home. We don’t have to live there forever, but for now, I’m very comfortable there.”
I sigh. “I guess I’ll have to find you a drawer in my dresser, then. Or we could always move into the Jetsons house in East Hampton.”
“I think I’m going to put that on the market,” he grins. “Although I guess I better ask you what you think, seeing as how you own half of it now.”
“I’ll never get used to that. I was thinking earlier today that, with my net worth right now, I could have five billion dollars in my purse, lose it, and still have five billion dollars left in the bank.”
“I find it helps not to think about the numbers. It can mess with your head. That said, maybe don’t carry five billion around with you too often.”
“That’s strictly for special occasions,” I say solemnly.
He wraps his arm around my shoulders as we pull onto Grand Street and kisses my cheek.
“We should visit your family more often,” he says. “After all, they’re my family, now, too.”
“You’re right. But be prepared—they’ll put you to work the minute we get there. And you’re not going to be able to hire someone to pick your napkin patterns there, buster.”
“Nevah bin ‘fraid a hahd work,” he says in a passable Pennsylvania Dutch accent.
I slide my hand up his thigh, feeling the steely muscle below the fabric of his pants until I reach the spot that makes him twitch and suck in a ragged breath.
“You better not be,” I purr in his ear. “Because your work hasn’t even started yet.”
He has to walk hunched over just a tiny bit when Danny opens our door. But he has no problem lifting me and carrying me up the stairs and over the threshold of our new home. In fact, he moves so fast I’m worried he might fall over.
My princess dress is in a puddle on the floor, next to the pile Justin’s suit made as he all but tore it off himself. We’re naked, standing face to face, our fingers entwined, our eyes locked. Naked in front of each other for the first time as husband and wife.
“Equal partners,” I say.
“Equal partners.”
I flash a wicked grin and grab his shaft, already as hard and hot as iron from a forge.
“Does that mean every time I come, you come?”
“It’s in the contract,” he pants as I stroke him.
His mouth closes over my nipple and all thought of witty banter flies out of my head. His hands reach down to grip my ass as I bury my mouth in his throat, tasting the hot skin there. A few moments later, I pull him by his erection towards the bed and lie down on the coverlet. Instantly, he has my legs apart and is kissing me in the most secret of places, send wave after juicy wave through my body with each stroke of his tongue.
After what seems like an eternity, I sit up and pull him towards me. He obliges as I manipulate him into a position under me. I turn myself and climb on top of him, so that we’re facing between each other’s legs.
“Equal partners,” I moan before pulling him into my mouth.
Justin responds instantly, his hips lifting every so slightly, but he doesn’t forget his end of the deal. He adds his trademark moves, slipping his tongue around my most sensitive part and drawing it in, applying pressure that can’t be denied, and I shudder against him with my first orgasm. It carries me along as if I’m a leaf in a stream.
“That one’s a bonus,” he says, his voice muffled by my thighs.
I giggle in spite of myself. In return, I dip all the way down the length of him and he groans in appreciation. He works his fingers on me as I grab the base of his cock firmly and pull, up and down, in time with my mouth.
God, it’s amazing how good we are together. No competition, just the two of us working at making the other happy, knowing in our hearts that the other is doing the same for us. Then his mouth is on me again and I’m desperate to have him inside me.
“Justin,” I sigh. “I need you now.”
My legs lift and I roll onto my back on the mattress, but he quickly takes my hips and lifts me back up. I don’t know what he’s doing, but I trust him. A second later, I’m facing down at him, my legs straddling his.
“Equal partners,” he says with a wide grin.
I take him by the base of his cock and slide him into me, every inch bringing a new jolt of pleasure with it, until finally he’s engulfed by me. I press my palms against his chiseled chest and my head drops backwards. I just want to savor the moment, the feeling of being together, of being one.
The look on Justin’s face tells me he won’t last much longer. I know how he feels—there’s a new element to our lovemaking, it seems. It’s not just bodies moving in time with each other; it’s hearts beating as one, and it makes the physical sensations that much more intense.
“All right,” I moan as I brace myself against him. “Let’s finish this merger.”
Justin takes off like a race horse, grabbing my hips and thrusting into me. I respond by pushing back against him, matching him stroke for stroke, meeting him halfway each time, somehow doubling my pleasure by doing so. Finally I can’t take it anymore and I drop forward onto him, my breasts against his rising chest, and he lifts one last time, giving me everything, as our lips meet and my tongue wraps around his. Coming together for our climax, sharing everything.
Equal partners, in every possible way.
Epilogue: Five years later
Justin
I drop the magazine on the counter of the little shop like a kid trying to buy a nudie magazine.
“Do you have a something I could put this in?” I say in a low voice.
The owner, a middle-aged fellow in denim bib overalls and a green plaid shirt, gives me a quizzical look. Then he noti
ces that one of the faces on the magazine’s cover looks just like mine.
“Hey, izzat—”
“Yeah, it’s me.” I glance over my shoulder at Sarah’s father, who’s still caught up in the fishing equipment on the back shelves near the fertilizer. “The bag, please?”
He stares at me for a few seconds, then shrugs. “Suit y’self.”
He slides the magazine inside a flat paper bag and I throw it in with the other things we’re picking up. Just in time, too, as Father—he lets me call him that—arrives at the till empty-handed.
“No new reel?” I ask.
“T’ain’t a necessity,” he says. “Good to see you again, George.”
The man behind the counter gives me another strange look, but he nods and we head out onto the street. It’s high summer and the heat is like a fist the second we’re outside again. It reminds me of how hot our room is going to be tonight, especially on the second floor. Sarah always says it’s fine for us to stay at a hotel in town, but I don’t want the deprive her parents of time with Emma.
“So you don’t have a copy o’ that already?” Father asks as I climb into the buggy.
I give him a sidelong long. “A copy of what?”
“That magazine with yer and Sarah’s faces on it.” He turns to face me. “Been on the shelf for days, boy. I’m not blind.”
The longer I know the guy, the more I respect him. He may think differently than I do, but in his own way he’s keen as a razor blade. I shouldn’t be surprised; I mean, look at his daughter.
“Forgive me, sir. I just wanted to get one to show Sarah.”
He lets out a low chuckle. “It’s yer way, son. I learned that a long time ago, and I won’t say anythin’ against ye for it.” He arches an eyebrow. “All I know is no man ever got his picture on a magazine for bringin’ in a crop or takin’ care of his family.”
“And that’s a shame,” I nod. “Because they deserve it.”
He looks back to the road and chucks the reins to get the horses moving. The old buckboard sways a bit as we pull out onto the gravel road that will lead out of town and back to Sarah’s family home.
“Such a man wouldn’t want his picture out there anyway,” he says. “A job well done is it’s own reward.”
Wise words from a man who I’m learning has more character than half the millionaires I know in Manhattan.
“Just to be clear,” I say, “Sarah and I didn’t want to be on the cover. But the more publicity we get, the more investment we get in the foundation.”
“Don’t need to hear n’more about it, son. Ye love my daughter, that’s all that matters.”
I nod and turn to gaze out at the cornfields in the west so that he doesn’t see the grin on my face. I wonder how many dozens of conversations between us have ended with that line over the past five years. If you’d told me before I met Sarah that I’d be learning life lessons from such a simple man, I’d have laughed in your face.
We pass the rest of the ride in companionable silence. I see Emma jogging out to meet us as Father steers the cart towards the barn next to the house. Her utter lack of fear for the horses always amazes me, though I know they’d never do anything to hurt her.
“Gampa!” she cries. “Back fum da store?”
He unhitches the team and drops to the dirt. A second later, he’s swept her up in his arms and is swinging her over his head, prompting a flurry of shrieking giggles.
“Back from the store!” he hoots. “Back to my girl!”
I climb down and join them as he sets her in the crook of his ropy arm. It makes me wonder for the umpteenth time whether I could beat him at an arm wrestle. I’m in good shape, with long arms, but the man can twist a rusted lug nut off with his fingers.
“You been helpin’ Mother and Grandmother with chores, love?” he asks her.
“Yup,” she says seriously. “Makin’ pot woast.”
“Ah, that’s my fav’rite. Your father’s, too.”
She looks at me. “Fav’rite, Daddy?”
“You bet, pumpkin. I can’t get enough of it.”
Father glances at my midsection. It amazes me how the guy can put me in my place without a single word.
We stroll towards the house and I see Sarah and her mother on the porch with glasses of sweet tea. Sarah tries to keep her wardrobe simple when we’re here, but today she chose a light cotton summer dress out of necessity. At six months along, she’s really feeling the heat. Makes me wonder how the women here manage to keep from passing out in these temperatures at the best of times, let alone when they’re expecting.
Father sets Emma down and she runs off the chase one of the barn cats. We join Sarah and Mother on the porch, and I can see the rivulets of condensation running down the sides of their glasses and pooling on the wood of the little table between their chairs.
“Justin’s got somethin’ for ye,” says Father.
“What’s that?” she asks.
“The Forbes issue came out,” I say, pulling the magazine out of the bag. “I didn’t think it was going to be a front-page article.”
She looks down at the photo of the two of us in our best suits, holding Emma between us. The words power couple cry out in huge blue type underneath. Below that, in smaller type: Justin and Sarah Bauer are living the dream and changing the world.
“What’s that about?” asks Mother.
“Just someone interviewing us about our work,” she says. “We hoped that if more people found out about our foundation that it would increase donations.”
“Africa, ain’t it?” Father asks.
“That’s part of it,” I say, taking a seat on the floor beside Sarah. “It’s diverse.”
We don’t mention the rest of the article, which will no doubt focus on the two dozen tech firms we’ve started together as well. Our holding company was named one of the top fifty employers in the country last year as well, but again, we keep that to ourselves. I’m just glad we have Nathan and Jenna in place to oversee that part of things right now, so we can focus on the foundation and the kids.
And spending time here, of course.
Emma, apparently fed up with trying to bend the old tabby to her will, toddles her way up onto the porch and picks up Sarah’s glass in both hands for a shot of tea.
“Mommy, c’n we go inna hel’copta?”
“Later, honey,” Sarah says, stroking Emma’s honey-blonde hair. “After we got back to New York.”
Mother brings her palms together and raises her eyes to the sky, which is her usual reaction whenever we talk about the chopper, so I change the subject.
“Looks like a good harvest this year.”
“God willing,” Father says, but I’m pretty sure I see his chest swell just a little. “Will you be here to help bring it in?”
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
Mother scoops up Emma as she follows Father inside, so I take her chair next to Sarah.
“You don’t have to, you know,” she says. Those baby blue eyes still get me, even after all this time. “There’s more than enough hands with my brothers and their boys.”
“Are you kidding? They’d never let me hear the end of it if I didn’t. I think they get some kind of perverted satisfaction out of watching the city boy sweat.” I put my hand on her belly. “How’s our boy?”
“Quiet today, thank goodness. All that standing making supper was killing my back. I don’t know Mother did it as often as she did.”
“You come from tough stock, my love. Our kids are going to be some kind of mutant hybrids who can swim with sharks and shuck corn with the best of ‘em.”
She smiles and takes my hand, pulling it to her lips for a quick kiss.
“Are we dreaming?” she asks. “I mean, who’s life is like this?
“Ours, baby,” I grin. “And we earned every last bit of it. Amish or no, I think we’re entitled to be proud of that.”
We look out over the farm and watch the sun begin its slow descent into the western sky.
Eventually it will paint the golden fields with red and amber light that even the skyline of Manhattan can’t compete with.
Excerpt from Low Country Daddy
Jeb Ballentine
Besides sorting and grading spat, checking bamboos in the shallows is about the most tedious oyster work there is. It’s spawning season, and I’m out here on the edge of the Spartina grass, up to my hips in water, pulling up bamboo poles set last year to attract wild oysters. It occurs to me as I slog through the water and mud, I spend way too much time thinking about the sex lives of bivalves, and not nearly enough time getting my own groove on.
Maybe it’s the heat, or maybe it’s just the natural flow of the seasons, but I always start thinking about sex--or the lack of it--when May comes around. I need to get laid.
“That’s a pretty one,” I say out loud to no one at all. The oyster is a good inch and a half long with a dark, hard shell and a deep cup. I pry it off the bamboo spike, tossing it in my backpack with twenty others just like it.
This is where selective oyster breeding begins. I’ve seeded these waters with billions of farm-raised oyster babies, while the Atlantic Ocean contributes her random wild stock. I select the best from both, put them together in the spawning tanks back at the hatchery, and let them do their thing. In a few weeks, millions of microscopic babies swim into the nursery tanks for feeding and tender loving care. When they grow enough, sinking to the bottom of the tank, we collect them, sort them by size, and when they’re big enough, we put them right back out here into the Coosaw River to grow up. It doesn’t take many of oysters collected this way to make a lot of spat, but it’s a never-ending process. Every two weeks from May through December we spawn another brood. That way we always have oysters ready to harvest during the open season. The children of the oysters in my backpack will be on plates in the best restaurants in the country by September of next year.
This isn’t the easiest work, especially in this heat with the sun beating down on me. I dunk under the water to cool off, but it’s almost as hot as the sticky, humid air. There’s not even a breeze coming off the salt to cool things down. It would be easy to get a sunstroke out here. I slog back to the skiff to get my water bottle, chugging half a gallon in one long draw.