Forbidden Pleasures

by Bertrice Small

  Rina looked to her husband, her brother, and Kirkland Browne, nodding. “Emily, that is wonderful! We’ll come over later, all right?”

  “Okay,” Emily said, and hung up.

  “What did I tell you three doubting Thomases?” Rina Seligmann said triumphantly, looking at the three men sitting around her breakfast table. “Did I call it or not?”

  Kirkland Browne and Dr. Sam nodded silently in acceptance of her wisdom, but Aaron Fischer, smiling, looked up and said only two words: “Thank heaven!”

  “Thank heaven?” his sister asked. “For what?”

  “For the miracle I asked for, Rina. My Hanukkah miracle,” Aaron replied.

  “For my Christmas miracle,” Kirkland Browne added.

  And then the four broke out in happy laughter, clinking their coffee mugs together as they toasted the wedding to come.

  EPILOGUE

  They were married the last Saturday in April in a small wedding attended by family and friends. The bride wore the antique ivory satin-and-lace wedding gown that had been worn by her great-great-great grandmother in 1860. The tiered gown and its hoop, along with its exquisite handmade lace veil, had been loaned to Emily by the Egret Pointe Historical Society, which now possessed it. The starchy longtime president of the society, Mrs. Hallock Dunham, a very distant relation of Emily’s, deemed it only appropriate, and Emily was delighted to accept. The groom wore an Irish kilt, a ruffled white shirt, and a black velvet jacket.

  Each had only one attendant. Martin Stratford, tanned and just returned from his round-the-world cruise, was best man. Savannah Banning had flown in from England to serve as her best friend’s matron of honor. Emily’s mother and her stepfather Senator Phelps, were in attendance, along with her Phelps half siblings, Phoebe and Carter V. Emily’s father, Dr. Joe Shanski, his wife, and their three sons were there, but Emily had not asked Joe to escort her down the aisle.

  “You helped create me, Joe,” Emily had told him when she’d called to say she was getting married, “but you’ve never really been my father. You never had the time, and I understand. I want my agent, Aaron Fischer, to take me down the aisle. No hard feelings, huh?”

  Joe Shanski realized in that moment just what he had lost, but he swallowed hard and said, “Nah, kiddo, no hard feelings. Mary Shannon, the boys, and I will be there with bells on. I’m glad you’ve found happiness. I still want to meet this guy before you do it.”

  “I’ll have him call you, Joe, and you two can do lunch one day,” Emily said.

  Her mother had been a different cup of tea, but then, Katy always had been her own woman. “I’ll have to check my schedule,” she said. “The spring hunt is just around then, Emily. Can I call you back?”

  “No,” Emily said, “you cannot call me back. I’m getting married at St. Anne’s in Egret Pointe at one thirty in the afternoon on the last Saturday in April. I expect you, your husband, and my half sister and brother to be there, Katy. This is not a negotiation, and for once you will do the right thing by me. Carter’s up for reelection this year, isn’t he?”

  There was a long silence, and then Katy O’Malley Phelps laughed. “When did you get so tough?” she asked Emily.

  “You don’t know me at all, do you?” Emily said quietly. “Well, no matter. Just consider what a marvelous photo op it will make for Carter’s reelection campaign, Katy.” And Emily chuckled, imagining her mother’s face at that moment.

  “You really are a little bitch,” Katy remarked.

  “But you’ll come en famille, won’t you?” Emily responded.

  “We’ll be there,” her mother replied.

  “Do you want me to make a reservation anywhere for you?” Emily asked politely.

  “God, no! We’ll fly in and out in the same day,” Katy exclaimed. “I suppose Joe and his wife and children will be there too. He has to escort you down the aisle.”

  “They’ll be there,” Emily said, not bothering to explain, and thus avoiding a lecture from Katy on manners and tradition. Joe understood her position, and that was all that was necessary, as far as Emily was concerned.

  Their wedding day had dawned sunny, with a hint of real warmth in the air. The church was banked in lilacs brought in from the South. Aaron could not have been prouder if Emily were his own offspring. While old Father Mulligan looked a bit askance that the Jewish gentleman, as he referred to Aaron, was escorting the bride, he knew the full history of Emily Katherine Shanski, and understood her position. There were some things the bishop didn’t have to know.

  And afterward they adjourned back to Emily’s house for canapes, wedding cake, and champagne. Most of Egret Pointe had crowded into St. Anne’s, or stood outside of it, but only invited guests came back to the house. J. P. Woods had poked Emily playfully, and said she now understood how Emily had managed to write such a deliciously sensual book. Ever since the new year J.P. had been a changed woman, and no one understood why, except perhaps Emily, who grinned at J.P.’s remark and winked.

  Joe Shanski and Michael Devlin had easily become friends over the several months before the wedding. Both discovered they had a taste for a certain malted Irish whiskey. And Katy was bowled over by Devlin’s charm which her daughter found amusing. Few people got past Katy’s armor. Her half sister, Phoebe, sighed and said she hoped she married someone that hot one day, and then lamented to Emily that the only men she met were a lot like her father and brother—booooring!

  Rina was in her glory, directing the girls hired by Essie to serve the guests. And then it was time for them to cut their wedding cake. The champagne flowed freely, and Emily caught her three young Shanski half brothers each with a glass. She shook a finger at them, but they just grinned. While the guests were devouring the cake, she and Devlin slipped upstairs to change. Savannah was waiting with two ladies from the Historical Society to help Emily out of the precious antique gown, while Devlin changed in another room.

  “Please tell Mrs. Hallock Dunham how very honored I was that she allowed me to wear Great-great-great-grandmother Mary Anne’s wedding dress,” Emily told the two ladies. “I hope one day my daughter will wear it.”

  “You looked absolutely beautiful in it, dear,” one of the ladies said. “I hope you will allow us to put a picture of you in it with the exhibit.”

  “Of course,” Emily agreed. “It’s the least I can do.”

  The gown was carried off, and Emily quickly got into a little lavender silk suit.

  “Has Mick told you yet where you’re going?” Savannah wanted to know.

  “Nope. He says he won’t tell me until we get on the plane,” Emily replied. “It’s all very mysterious, and frankly I can’t wait. He wouldn’t even let me pack. Said he would do it. I was only to do my cosmetic case.”

  “I can’t wait to hear all about it when you get back,” Savannah said. “Send us postcards, Emily.” Then she hurried off.

  “Are you ready, Mrs. Devlin?” he asked her, coming into their bedroom.

  “I’m ready, Mr. Devlin,” she answered him with a smile.

  Together they descended the staircase to the waiting guests, who had been alerted by Savannah. Emily stopped a quarter of the way from the bottom and threw her small bouquet of white rosebuds, freesia, and white lilacs to the assembled squealing women. Her husband’s assistant, Sally, caught it, and then blushed. Calling their good-byes, Emily and Devlin ran from the house and into the waiting town car, the good wishes of their guests ringing in their ears. To Emily’s surprise they did not go to Kennedy. Instead they went to the local airport, where they boarded a small corporate jet.

  “A perk of working for Stratford,” Michael Devlin told his wife.

  “But where are we going?” Emily asked him.

  “Lovers Cay,” he told her.

  “Where is that?” She accepted the champagne the steward brought her.

  “It’s a small private island in the Bahamas. I’ve let it for ten days with its staff. Just you and me. A beach. A warm sea. Discreet servants—an
d a very large bed,” he said.

  “Sounds heavenly.” Emily was intrigued.

  They landed several hours later on a small airstrip, and were driven immediately to the great house where they would be staying. The first thing Emily noticed was that the servants were virtually naked but for small loincloths. She looked to Devlin as a maid brought in her cosmetic case and set it on the dressing table before hurrying out.

  “Where are the suitcases?” she said.

  “Aren’t any. We’re not going to be wearing clothing for the next ten days, angel face,” he told her, a wicked smile lighting his face. “Just you and me.”

  “Oh, Devlin!” Emily began to laugh.

  “Let’s hang our clothes up now so they’ll be ready for our return home,” he suggested, and he went to the closet and opened it.

  Emily looked about her as she began to unbutton her jacket. It was perfect. Just perfect. The floor was plush with its thick carpet. An entire wall of glass with sheer curtains blowing in the trade winds opened onto the palm-lined beach, and the blue sea beyond. The silk-sheeted bed was the biggest one she had ever seen. Then her eye lit on the beautiful basket by the bed. It was filled to the brim with sex toys and lotions. And on the other side of the bed there was a footed silver champagne bucket with a bottle of outrageously expensive champagne sitting amid a hill of ice. Emily looked across the room at her husband, who was now totally naked, and utterly gorgeous. She shrugged off her jacket and, unzipping her skirt, stepped out of it as it dropped to the floor. Then she walked across the carpet to him and slipped her arms about his neck. Her nipples were just touching his smooth chest.

  “I love you,” she said, “and this is so perfect, I don’t think I’ll ever want to go home.”

  “Wherever we are together, angel face, it will always be perfect. Always paradise,” Michael Devlin said. And then he kissed her, and Emily knew that what had begun as something forbidden had become something wonderful. She had gotten her happily-ever-after, and wasn’t that the way every love story was supposed to end?

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Bertrice Small is a New York Times bestselling author and the recipient of numerous awards. In keeping with her profession, Bertrice Small lives in the oldest English-speaking town in the state of New York, founded in 1640. Her light-filled studio includes the paintings of her favorite cover artist, Elaine Duillo, and a large library. Because she believes in happy endings, Bertrice Small has been married to the same man, her hero, George, for forty-three years. They have a son, Thomas; a daughter-in-law, Megan; and four wonderful grandchildren. Longtime readers will be happy to know that Nicki the Cockatiel flourishes along with his fellow housemates: Pookie, the long-haired greige-and-white cat; Finnegan, the long-haired bad black kitty; and Sylvester, the black-and-white tuxedo cat who has recently joined the family.