The Christmas Wedding

by Patterson, James; DiLallo, Richard

  In a moment, Lizzie returned.

  “Uncle Marty’s car is still there,” she said. “I can’t find anybody.”

  “Maybe they went to the hospital in Bart’s car. I’m sure that’s it.”

  I drank my brandy-spiked coffee. It warmed me. I thought how glad I was that Marty was with Mike and Bart. And then—

  A crash of cymbals. A loud staccato beat of drums. A trumpet blare. Then suddenly the band was playing “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow.”

  I spun around, and to my amazement I was looking at Marty, Bart, and Mike walking back into the barn. All three of them were smiling.

  Mike gave a small wave to the crowd. Lizzie and I practically ran a race to his side.

  “Didn’t you go to the hospital?” Lizzie asked.

  “Apparently not,” Mike said as he kissed his wife and then leaned in to receive a hug from Tallulah, who had joined us.

  “There’s nothing they could do for him at the hospital that we couldn’t do here,” Bart said.

  “Like what?” I asked.

  “Like have him relax a little, rest a little, and have a nice big glass of Coke.”

  By this time several more members of the family had gathered around Mike. He was clearly touched by everyone’s concern. How did I know that? The tears in Mike’s eyes were a dead giveaway. Also—no jokes for the moment.

  “I knew you couldn’t stay away from our weddings,” Seth said as he gave Mike a hug. Then Andie put her arms around her new brother-in-law, and as I watched the warmth in her eyes and the tenderness in her touch, I knew she was now officially a part of the family.

  “I’m sorry for stealing the limelight, Gaby,” Mike said. “But—that’s what I do.”

  The band was striking up “The Bride Cuts the Cake.” I had forgotten all about the crazy ritual.

  “I think we’re wanted back at the cake stand,” Marty said to me, “unfortunately. Nice try, Mike.”

  Mike put his hand on Marty’s shoulder. “Thank you for everything. I don’t know what I would have done without you and Bart.”

  Marty and I took each other’s hands and walked to the center of the barn. I purposely cut a huge hunk of cake and slid the silver cake server under it.

  “Don’t you dare do that, Gaby.”

  So I cut a much smaller piece. I held his chin with one hand and put a perfectly sized portion of cake in his mouth. Marty returned the favor, and as I was savoring Stacey Lee’s magnificent concoction of chocolate cake, mousse, and chocolate ganache, the crowd applauded. The band played on.

  And I watched Gus and Tallulah slip out the side door of the barn. Oh, I just couldn’t believe it.

  Chapter 63

  I MOVED VERY quickly toward the side door. This time I was lucky enough to be wearing sneakers. I made it to the footbridge in really good time. Plenty of moonlight. But there was no sign of Tallulah and Gus.

  I finally turned back toward the house, and I heard voices. But the voices weren’t coming from outside, and they weren’t coming from the woods. In fact, they seemed to be coming from inside the main house. Maybe somebody had wanted to get away from the noise of the party. Maybe somebody wanted to rest on a sofa. But maybe it was Gus and Tallulah.

  I stepped onto the back porch. No voices now. I ventured into the empty kitchen. Still no voices. The mystery deepened. In the hallway I could hear stage whispers from upstairs. Gus and Tallulah. Damn them.

  The stairs creaked with age. My brilliant solution? I took them two at a time.

  When I got to the landing I heard the voices clearly: They were coming from the little room next to the master bedroom, the room I used as an office.

  Instead of rushing in like a crazy person, yelling “Aha!,” I slowly, softly, and carefully opened the door. Tallulah and Gus were at my desk. The printer on the nearby table was churning out pages. To my surprise, there was no smoke in the air, no sweet smell of pot.

  Tallulah saw me first. “Oh, my God!” she shouted. “It’s Gaby!”

  Gus spun around and positioned himself in front of the printer, the printer that was turning out a small mountain of papers.

  “Hey, shouldn’t you be with your guests?” he asked. “With Marty?”

  I threw him a suspicious glance, ignored the questions, and said, “What exactly are you two doing?”

  “Bet you thought we were in here smoking dope,” Gus said. “Am I right?”

  “Don’t you want to be surprised?” Tallulah asked.

  “I’m sure that, whatever it is, I’ll be surprised,” I said, and Gus finally handed me a sheet of paper.

  “It’s something we’re giving to every guest when they leave,” Tallulah said.

  What they’d handed me was testimony to computer creativity and Photoshop. There I was with my arms extended. Holding on to one arm were Lizzie, Claire, Seth, Emily, Bart, Mike, and Andie. On the other arm was Marty. At the top of the page was the headline “JUST ONE MORE TO LOVE!”

  It was incredible—touching and real (although why they used a photo of me in a turquoise T-shirt I’d never understand).

  “This is sweet,” I said. “But why’d you wait until the last minute?”

  “Duh, maybe because we didn’t know who to put on your left arm,” Tallulah said.

  “Yeah,” said Gus, as he handed me two other sheets of paper. “We had to be prepared for anything. Maybe even Benny at the gas station. Ha ha.”

  On these two sheets the picture of me and the children remained the same, but one had Tom as my marriage partner and the other Jacob.

  Marty appeared at the door. “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “Look at this wonderful photograph,” I said, making sure to hand him the sheet that featured him.

  “Incredible,” he said. Then he grabbed my hand and said, “We should get back to our wedding.”

  “Thank you both,” I said, hugging Tallulah and Gus.

  At the door, Marty turned and asked, “How’d you know I was going to be the groom?”

  Tallulah shrugged, but with Gus there was always a comeback.

  “Lucky guess.”

  Chapter 64

  FOR MARTY AND ME, and Andie and Seth, it was like no other wedding ever. Still, the celebration ended just like any other. The musicians slipped their instruments into their cases. The caterers collected stray glasses and napkins. Guys in jumpsuits folded up the wooden tables. The old barn was becoming the old barn again. Except for all those twinkling white lights.

  Tom left early but not before he came and gave both Marty and me high-fives and congratulations. “I was second, right?” he said.

  “Tied for second.”

  Lizzie and Mike waited for the crowd to disperse before they walked over to Marty and me. I was pleased to see color in Mike’s face, and while I couldn’t say that there was a spring in his step, he seemed to be walking okay and definitely to be feeling better. Leave it to Emily to know we needed a doctor in the family, her Bart.

  “Thank you both for everything,” Marty said.

  “I didn’t do much,” said Mike with a shrug. “All I really did was stay alive.”

  Lizzie gave him a slap and said, “How long can I stand this gallows humor?”

  “A long time, I hope,” said Mike.

  “We’ll come by tomorrow to pick up Tallulah—late morning,” Mike said.

  “Make that early afternoon,” said Marty.

  “Oh, you crazy newlyweds!”

  Seth and Andie stood talking to Claire and Jacob. Then they all walked over to say their good-nights.

  “It was a nearly perfect wedding,” Jacob said with a grin. “You missed by some whiskers.” Damn, he was funny. I hoped this wouldn’t change anything between us. I didn’t think it would. Jacob was a big-picture guy, after all.

  Finally Andie and Seth were the only ones left besides Marty and me—the four newlyweds.

  Andie took my hands in hers. “Thank you so, so, so, so much, Gaby. You’re always so generous.”


  I laughed. “What’s an extra wedding or two?”

  “I’m going to grab our knapsacks, and then we’re heading back to Boston,” Seth said.

  “Don’t drive all that way now,” Marty said. “Stay the night.”

  “No,” said Andie. “We’re so hyper we couldn’t possibly go to sleep.”

  Then Seth said in a loud whisper, “Plus, I reserved a suite at the Copley Plaza.”

  “You didn’t,” shouted Andie.

  “I did.” A pause. Then Seth said, “I love you, Mom.”

  I nodded. “I love you too. My favorite son.”

  Moments later Marty and I turned and surveyed the empty barn. A chicken squawked. An owl landed on a rafter. Everything was as it had been—except it was still Christmas, and Marty and I were married.

  He took my hand. Then he kissed me softly on the lips, and he was a really terrific kisser. Gentle and firm and just right. Part of his charm, part of the attraction.

  “You know, it’s late,” he said.

  “I know.” But we didn’t head for the house right away. Instead, I rested my head on his chest and Marty started to hum our song, “The Way You Look Tonight.”

  And we danced in the magical glow of the twinkling lights, and I couldn’t have been happier. Believe it or not, that happens sometimes.

  GABY’S LAST VIDEO

  Obviously we’re home from our whirlwind honeymoon. I’m happy to report that it was perfect, just perfect. I assume you all remember this handsome man seated to my left.

  And yes, Paris, Rome, Florence, and Venice are as beautiful as they were when I visited them the year I got out of college.

  Anyway, it’s good to be home. Marty agrees. I’m back to school tomorrow, and I hope that substitute teacher taught Moby-Dick these past couple of weeks. I never could stand that long-winded tome, though I admire it.

  Well, it looks like a few important things happened while Marty and I ran around Europe. It all sounds good or almost good.

  First, and most important, there’s Mike. He’s working at the hardware store four days a week. He told me that he takes weekends off because he’s still not strong enough to face all the do-it-yourself people who show up on Saturday to ask a million questions. Beyond that, he had two MRIs last week, and things look promising. The doctors won’t use the word “remission” yet, but they said they might use it if the next MRI looks the same. I’ll assume that those candles I lit in Notre Dame Cathedral helped at least a little.

  Down in New York, Emily took about an hour off for vacation, then immediately got a job working for the state attorney general, investigating Medicaid fraud. All I can say is that I hope her husband, the eminent neurologist, watches his step when he sets up practice. Emily does not play favorites.

  There is also some news out of Boston, where the other newlyweds are frolicking. Now they have another reason to rejoice. I’ll get right to it: Farrar, Straus and Giroux bought Seth’s novel. Of course, they want a million changes, and, of course, they don’t have a release date, and, of course…well, who cares? They bought it! So now he and Andie are going to get to work on their children’s book…and…all’s well that ends well.

  Last, and certainly not least, Claire, Gus, Gabrielle, and Toby have moved to Stockbridge. This is indeed good news. Next year, Gus will be attending Stockbridge High, where I will be watching over him myself.

  I guess that’s it for now.

  Oh, yes. One other thing.

  Marty and I couldn’t be happier.

  Thank you all for being a part of this adventure—like no other, I suspect. I don’t know what we would have done without you. Seriously, that’s it for now. I’ve got to go sort through the mail, then we’ll have a little bit of wine, then I’ll see what lesson I have to teach tomorrow, then I’ll make sure we have enough food for the breakfast tomorrow, then…

  Hold my hand, Marty. Hold it tight. You’re such a doll.

  [Camera moves to Marty:] I am a doll, aren’t I. You’re a lucky girl.

  I don’t have the slightest idea why I’m starting to cry. Maybe because I am the luckiest girl in the world. Our family has had its share of heartbreak and failure, of sickness and death, but we always have each other.

  So I’d better stop talking.

  Oh, wait. There is one last thing I wanted to say…

  See you next Christmas, and see you in my dreams.

  Yay.

  What happens in Monte Carlo…

  could get you murdered.

  FOR AN EXCERPT,

  TURN THE PAGE

  JUST OVER SEVENTY minutes after leaving Bern’s airport, the jet touched down on the tarmac in Nice so smoothly, it felt like we’d landed in butter. Or maybe it was the champagne, already numbing my senses, coloring everything wonderful. Wonderful is what I had been promised. Wonderful is what all of us, for different reasons, needed. We needed to bathe ourselves in luxury. We needed a four-day dream.

  “I am officially on vacation!” I announced to the group, taking the last swallow of my champagne.

  “It’s about bloody time, love!” Winnie reached across the aisle and grabbed my arm. Serena, seated across from me in the small cabin, raised her empty glass and tossed her long blond hair. “Bonjour, Monte Carlo. And that, my friends, is the limit of my French.”

  “Don’t forget chardonnay and merlot,” I added.

  “Touché,” she said.

  “See, your vocabulary’s getting better by the second.”

  I looked around at my friends. How did I get so lucky? Serena Schofield, the Amazon blonde—a former U.S. Olympic skier who placed fifth in the downhill at Lillehammer. Bryah Gordon, born in Johannesburg under apartheid, the youngest of our clan at thirty-one and the smartest by far, our resident encyclopedia on topics large and trivial, also a beauty, with flawless coffee-colored skin and kinky African hair cropped at the chin. And Winnie Brookes, of course, the exotic Brit—the Diva, we called her—as breathtaking as any runway model working today, who, most of the time, seemed utterly oblivious to her beauty.

  Then there was me. Abbie Elliot. What these interesting and gorgeous women were doing with me was anyone’s guess. For all the complaints I had about leaving the States and moving to Switzerland, all I had to do was look around at these women to find a silver lining.

  “I think for the rest of this trip, I’m going to speak with a British accent.” I turned to Winnie. “Bloody good show, love,” I tried, aiming for something out of Monty Python.

  “And I’m going to be an American,” she replied. “Hey, how ya doin’? You got any countries we can invade?”

  We disembarked the private jet—thank you, Serena—and were bathed in the rays of a welcoming, lowering sun. An SUV drove us to the area of the Côte d’Azur Airport marked “Private Aviation,” where our bags were waiting inside.

  “Do we have a car?” Winnie asked.

  “Cars? Cars are so pedestrian, dahling,” said Serena in her best Zsa Zsa impression, with a wink at all of us. None of us was poor by any stretch, but Serena lapped us several times over. From outward appearances, you’d have no idea. She was as sweet and earthy as anyone I knew. But this weekend would be different. She had money, and she clearly planned on spending it.

  We followed Serena out a door to a large landing pad—and a large, sleek silver-and-gray helicopter.

  “Serena, really!” said Bryah, with maybe a hint of nerves. Bryah didn’t get out much. Her husband, Colton, was what you might call controlling if you were being polite. If you weren’t being polite, you might call him something else. Long and short of it, Bryah had never been on a girls’ weekend like this.

  “Why drive when we can fly?” Serena ran over to the helicopter and climbed in. I couldn’t believe it—but then again, I could. Money was no object, and Serena wanted us to live a fantasy for four days.

  “You couldn’t find anything bigger?” I asked.

  Once we were fastened in, the helicopter lifted quickly, causing a minor rebellion in
my stomach. But soon we were soaring over Monaco, and nothing else mattered but the sloping hills of the French Riviera, the blue expanse of the Mediterranean, dotted with yachts and sailboats heading back to port for the evening, and the pink-green sky as the sun began its descent toward the horizon.

  “Did you know Monaco is the second-smallest country in the world?” Bryah asked.

  “Fascinating,” said Winnie. She and I made eye contact, suppressing smiles.

  “Bryah, honey,” I said, patting her leg, “we’re going to have fun. Don’t be nervous.” A mere seven minutes later, we were landing on a helipad by the beach. We unstrapped our restraints and waited for the pilot to open the door.

  “Wait,” said Serena. She reached into her bag and removed three overstuffed envelopes, handing one to each of us. I opened mine and found a thick wad of euros.

  “What is this?” Winnie asked.

  “That’s fifty thousand euros each,” she said. “Gamble with it. Shop. Do whatever you want. Just promise me you’ll spend it.”

  “Can I buy a car?” I asked. “A small island?”

  “How about a movie star?” Winnie asked. “Think I can rent Brad Pitt for the weekend?”

  “Brad Pitt? Too old, Win,” I said. “One of those younger boys. Zac Efron, maybe.”

  “You want an athlete,” Serena suggested. “David Beckham. Rafa Nadal.”

  “Rafa, maybe,” Winnie agreed.

  We looked over at Bryah, who had remained silent. She considered the money, looked at Serena, and allowed a wry smile to play over her face. “You could get into a spot of trouble with this bit of money,” she said.

  We looked at one another, giddy and slightly intoxicated, relaxed and eager, and broke into laughter. Outside the window of the helicopter was Monte Carlo, the playground for the rich and famous. We were all stifled in our own way, mothers and wives trying to adapt to life in a Swiss city, and these four days would be our chance to escape. To live someone else’s life.

  “Bryah,” I said, “I think that’s the idea.”