A Billionaire for Christmas

by Phillips, Carly

  “Would you like to order?” a friendly gum-chewing waitress asks, also on roller skates.

  “Should we eat?” Emma asks.

  “Why not? Godfather Miles did give us some spending money.”

  She laughs at me again.

  I’m gonna kill Miles for this.

  We order the breakfast buffet, fill up our plates with hash browns and bacon, and then lean back and scan the parking lot outside, trying to figure out if any of the approaching patrons of Big Mike’s could be Fingers. We’re both pointing at a skinny dude wearing white fingerless gloves and a purple pimp hat, certain that’s him, when a guy slips into our booth and says, “You must be the Bostons,” as he holds up a phone with a picture of us sleeping on the jet bed on the screen.

  Which is super creepy, but not wholly unexpected at this point.

  “That’s us.” Emma beams. “And you must be Fingers.”

  “No, no, no.” The guy laughs. “No, I’m Clarence. Fingers is the big boss. I’m the wedding point man.”

  I squint my eyes at him. “You don’t look like a wedding point man.” He’s wearing a cowboy hat and smells like mint chewing tobacco.

  He smiles broadly at me. Lotsa teeth. “Keep people on their toes. That’s our motto. ‘Weddings that keep you on your toes.’”

  “Hosted by Fingers.” Emma beams.

  I shake my head and shoot her a look that says, No, babe. Not now. Cowboy here looks unstable.

  But Cowboy Clarence takes it all in stride and says. “So, what kind of wedding were you envisioning? Hmm? Five-star hotel with a mani-pedi package and a wedding party of thirty?” He winks after getting all that out. Like it’s a joke.

  “No,” I say, narrowing my eyes at him. “We’re only here for like five more hours. Just a quick, super-spontaneous, super-ridiculous elopement wedding so we can teach her mother a lesson.”

  He snaps his fingers and points at me. “Ferris wheel?”

  “Maybe.” I shrug.

  “Dude ranch?”

  “Is that a thing?” Emma asks, hopefully.

  “Sure. We can make anything happen, sweetheart. Anything you want. Fingers is your man.”

  “Maybe not a dude ranch. Learning how to ride sounds time-consuming. Something fast. We really do have to be back in Key West for Christmas Eve dinner.”

  “Mother-in-law got you by the balls, huh?”

  “No,” I say.

  But Emma says, “Oh, yeah, she does. Got him good too. She says jump, he jumps.”

  “I do not. Do you have like…a menu? Or something that spells it all out for us? We’re not sure what we want, but we’ll know it when we see it.”

  Cowboy clicks his tongue at us like we’re ponies and points his finger like a gun. “I got you.” Then he whips a brochure out of his back pocket and slaps it on the table. “Take a good long gander at this. I’m gonna go rustle me up a breakfast burrito at the counter. BRB.”

  He gets up and heads towards the counter as Emma and I look dubiously at the crinkled, wrinkled, is-that-a-coffee-stain?, used-up, tri-fold brochure he left behind.

  We side-eye each other and laugh.

  “Still game?” Emma asks.

  “Hey, I’m in. Let’s do it.”

  I pick up the brochure by the corner edge and flip it open.

  “‘Welcome to Fingers’ Fantasy Weddings. Where we keep you on your toes,’” Emma reads.

  I just shake my head. Because I can’t.

  “Oh, look. Here’s a picture of the underwater wedding at the aquarium. That really does sound like us, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah. It does. But this is our one wedding. Do we really want to be us?”

  “Oh, fuck. I don’t think we can, anyway. You need to show proof of SCUBA certification.” She eyeballs me. “We can’t exactly call home and have my dad email them over, right?”

  “Probably not. But look, here’s a rollercoaster wedding. That sounds fun.”

  “Skydiving is kinda cool.”

  “And terrifying,” I add. I mean… I’m not gonna come right out and say it, but falling out of a plane doesn’t sound like the best way to start your new married life, if you ask me.

  “I don’t know. Maybe a little adrenaline rush is what we need?”

  “How about this one?” I laugh. “Shotgun wedding at Red Mesa Resort! Look, they’re all dressed up like gangsters.”

  “Maybe that’s where Miles moonlights on his days off?” Emma quips.

  “OK, OK. He was lying. Fine.”

  I’m so gonna kill Miles the next time I see him. I really thought we were friends.

  Cowboy Clarence slips back into the booth chewing on a breakfast burrito. “So. Make up your minds?” He winks at my almost-bride.

  “Not yet,” I say.

  “We like a bunch of them. We’re just not sure which one.”

  “We only get to do this once,” I add. “It’s kind of a big deal.”

  Clarence puts up both hands. “I get it. Totally get it. And it’s your lucky day. Because here at Finger’s Fantasy Weddings we get you.” He points to us like this is all part of the act. “That’s why we offer the Ultimate Fingers’ Fantasy Wedding Buffet.”

  “Buffet?” Emma and I both say.

  “It’s like a… pick three. Except you don’t get to pick ’em. We do. And we rustle you around town and by the end of the day you’ve had yourself three incredible, one-of-a-kind Fingers’ Fantasy Weddings.”

  Emma shoots him with her finger. “That keep you on your toes!”

  “You betcha!” He laughs, clearly enamored with my girl.

  Emma looks at me. “What do you think?”

  I shrug. “It’s your day, babe. I go where you go.”

  “OK,” she says, almost breathless. “We’re in. Fingers’ Fantasy Wedding Pick Three Buffet it is.”

  “All right then,” Clarence says. “Here’s what’s gonna happen. You’re gonna give me your credit card, I’m gonna run it on my little PayPal app here on my phone for a grand total of five thousand dollars, and then I’m gonna walk on over to that pay phone right there and make some arrangements with Fingers while I finish up my burrito. You good people will sit tight over here and eat up.” He points to us again. “You’re gonna need that energy. I’m about to rustle up the best day of your life, so you better grab seconds. And then we’ll get ’er done!”

  “Let’s get ’er done!” Emma squeals. “Give him the credit card, Jesse!”

  I hand it to him and Clarence tips his hat to Emma while he takes it. Then he slides out of the booth and walks across the restaurant where the pay phone must be.

  “Wow,” I say. “This place is really something.”

  “Right?” Emma laughs. “I knew this was a good idea last night, but in the bright light of day, it’s even better. We’re about to have an amazing day, I can just tell.”

  And it does feel like a pretty special day. I mean… how often can you possibly expect to go to sleep in Key West, wake up in Vegas, meet with Cowboy Clarence, and buy Fingers’ Fantasy Wedding Pick Three Buffet in less than twelve hours?

  Once.

  This is a once-in-a-lifetime experience all the way around.

  But twenty minutes later, when I get up to use the restroom and ask where the pay phone is, the friendly waitress on skates tells me there is no pay phone.

  And no Cowboy Clarence, either.

  He’s gone.

  And he took my credit card.

  Chapter Ten

  “That’s impossible,” I tell Jesse as I follow him outside to look for the cowboy. “He was too nice to rob us.”

  “Emma,” Jesse says, spinning around to face me in the parking lot. “This is Vegas. We had a meeting with a guy called Fingers to set up our crazy wedding and some dude called Clarence waltzed in and we just said, ‘Oh, OK. He must be the fuckin’ Thumb. It’s all good. Yes, we’d like the Pick Three Wedding Buffet Package and why, sure, you can have my credit card.’ What did we think was gonna happen her
e?”

  “I know. I get it. We’re kinda dumb. But I still have this really good feeling about him. It’s probably a misunderstanding.”

  “A misunderstanding? He said, word for word, ‘You good people will sit tight over here and eat up while I rob you!’”

  “That’s not what he said.”

  “He might as well have! And look!” Jesse pans his arms wide as he spins in the middle of the parking lot. “He’s gone!”

  “Well… that’s stupid. What a jerk. But I still can’t believe that Miles would set us up with some weird Vegas wedding swindlers.”

  “He was in the Mob, Emma!”

  “Oh, stop it! He was not in the Mob, Jesse. He grew up in Philly and went to an elite private school. The man has a PhD in manners, for fuck’s sake. And he invented the Barbie and Ken mini-cinnamon roll. He’s not in the damn Mob!”

  Jesse points to himself. “I went to an elite private school and I’m in the fuckin’ Mob!”

  I laugh. I can’t help it. “Yeah, but—”

  “Yeah, but nothing. Which one of those stories he told seems more likely now, huh?”

  I roll my eyes. “You’re not in the Mob. You’re in the—”

  “Something worse!” he says. “Worse than the Mob. So much worse we’re not even sure what it is! For all we know, we’re being set up by my Mob!”

  “Now you’re really starting to lose it. Let’s just go back inside, eat the rest of our bacon, and wait it out. I’m sure he’ll be back.”

  Jesse sucks in a deep breath, holds it for like five whole seconds, and then lets it out in a rush. “Fine.” He throws up his hands. “Fine. What other choice do we have? After I pay for the fuckin’ breakfast buffet with my butler allowance we’ll have just enough to Uber back to the airport and wait for our charter.”

  “What? No! We came here to get married. We’re getting married. We don’t need cash. We have credit cards. We’re billionaires, for fuck’s sake. We don’t have to go back to the airport—”

  My phone dings in my purse. I fish it out and then hold up a finger. “Hold, please. This is Miles.” I accept the call and say, “Hey, Miles, so that guy… Oh, yes.” I smile at Jesse as he makes that gimme-the-phone gesture with his fingers, then turn my back and plug one ear so I can hear. “Yes. We’re still here… Oh. OK. Sure. Thanks! And have a good time on your break… yup. Merry Christmas to you too, Miles. Byeeee!”

  When I turn back to Jesse he has his arms crossed over his chest and is tapping his foot on the cracked blacktop. “Well?”

  “That was Miles.”

  “Obviously. What did he say? And where the hell is my credit card? Do I need to report it stolen?”

  “What? No. Jesus. Turns out Clarence was just the Thumb.”

  “Do not—”

  “Kidding. But only sorta. Clarence did say he was only the point man. Miles says we have to go back inside so we can pick our cake and flowers.”

  “What?”

  “See? I told you everything was fine. Talk about overreacting. I wish I had that rant on video. It was classic Jesse Boston.”

  “He really said that?”

  “I swear to God. They called him wondering where we went. They’re all waiting for us inside. I guess Big Mike’s is the first stop on our Magical Mystery Wedding Tour.”

  Jesse doesn’t look completely convinced, but he finally just shrugs. “OK. Let’s do this.”

  He takes my hand and leads me back inside and… “Holy crap. Where did everyone go?”

  “Oh, we close early when we get a Pick Three Buffet order, Emma,” the roller-skating hostess says. “Just follow me and we’ll get started on the cake-testing. I don’t want to rush you, but I know you folks are in a hurry to catch a plane. So we’ve got everything set up already.”

  And wow. Do they ever. There are literally two dozen tiny cakes to test. All laid out on a shimmery gold table cloth that looks like it used to be a showgirl in its former life.

  “Have a seat and we’ll start bringing them over.”

  I smile at Jesse. “See? This is good, right? All these cakes to test.” I shrug my shoulders up to my ears and make a little squeal.

  He smiles at me. “OK. You were right. I overreacted.”

  “I don’t care. Come on. Let’s eat cake!”

  We sit and they bring us two tiny slices at a time. We taste German chocolate with a cherry cream filling, carrot cake with peach-flavored cream-cheese frosting, a lemon cake with layers of sliced strawberries, and there’s even one called Bavarian ice cream.

  And they are all wonderful.

  Like I don’t know who’s back there in Big Mike’s kitchen baking up tiny wedding cake samples, but whoever it is, they are obviously a culinary genius.

  “So which one?” I ask Jesse, once we’ve tasted them all. Our table is littered with tiny plates and leftover bites.

  He holds up a finger, tastes them all again, and then points to the lemon strawberry. “I love that one.”

  “Me too!” I turn to the roller hostess and say, “We’ll take that one.”

  “Excellent choice, Mrs. Boston.”

  And oh, that makes me squeal. Mrs. Fucking. Boston. How long have I dreamed of that? It hits me then. “I’m really going to be your wife!”

  Jesse takes my hand and kisses my knuckles. “You really are, Mrs. Boston.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The Big Mike’s people start bringing out flower arrangements and books of bouquet pictures and suddenly I’m having a conversation about baby’s breath and whether or not Emma should choose the peonies over the roses, or the roses over the peonies.

  “How about both?” I say, and Emma beams at me. “It’s your day, babe. Get whatever you want. All the peonies and all the roses.”

  “What color do you like Jesse?” Emma holds the book of color combinations open between us so I can get a good look.

  Jesus. I don’t care. But I don’t say that. My bride deserves the dream wedding. Sure, we’re eloping and our wedding coordinator is a guy called Fingers, but that doesn’t mean we have to skimp. So I offer up an opinion of, “Yellow. And peach.”

  “Oh, I love that combination too.”

  “Then it’s settled.” I look up at the flower coordinator. “Give her everything she wants.”

  Emma giggles and leans into my shoulder and everything kinda hits me all at once.

  It’s real.

  This is real. We really ran from Key West. We really are in Vegas. We really are getting married… today.

  To. Day.

  Tonight, Emma will be my wife. The honeymoon starts tonight!

  I wonder if our wedding package includes lingerie?

  A small, pale, professionally-dressed woman appears, whisking away the flower people hovering around us. She points to the table and then orders it to be cleared of cake tasting plates in a cool, but maybe a little frightening, Russian accent.

  People jump to do as she says, and then the little lady claps her hands three times and…

  Roller-skating waitresses have now been transformed into wedding-dress models. They skate in, the long trains of their gowns trailing out behind them, and then turn, hold hands, and skate in roughly the shape of a circle with hands in the middle. They shout, “One, two, three, BRIDE!” like this is a ‘go team’ chant on a football field, and then they spin backwards and flip up on their toe stops with hands in the air in a grand ‘tada’ gesture, like they just dismounted off the uneven bars at the Olympics.

  Emma applauds. “Oh, my God, that was amazing!” She looks at me, still clapping like crazy. “This is the best wedding plan ever.”

  The little dress lady says, “You pick dress now. I make it,” in her scary Russian accent.

  “OK!” Emma says, still very excited.

  “But… should I be here for this?” I ask. “It’s supposed to be a surprise?”

  “It will be surprise,” the dress lady says, nodding her head. She calls out, “Machine!” and Emma and I jump a lit
tle at how loud such a little person can be. But then we laugh. Because the hostess skates out with a sewing machine on a wheeled table.

  “I make custom,” the dressmaker says. “She pick favorite style, I sew up. You see later, bossy man.”

  “Right here?” Emma says, looking at me with a huge grin. Like this whole thing is so crazy. “In the restaurant?”

  “This not restaurant. This Big Mike’s.”

  “OK!” Emma’s clearly on board with that illogical explanation.

  “Wow,” I say, looking at my watch. It’s already almost eight o’clock. “But we have to be back on the plane by eleven. Is the dress gonna be ready in time?”

  “Time, no problem. Take twenty minutes.”

  “Twenty minutes?” Emma exclaims, looking at me all flushed pink with delight. “You’re pretty fast!”

  “You pick style now. I make fancy dress for you.” And then she snaps her fingers and the roller-skating models start another routine.

  I have to admit, none of these dresses are very spectacular. They’re all a little bit ragged. And the trains are kinda dirty from being dragged across the floor. And yeah, if this is only going to take twenty minutes… I’m not convinced what Emma ends up with will be anything amazing.

  But Emma doesn’t seem to notice. And even if the dress isn’t amazing, it will still be special. Because from what I’ve seen so far, this Fingers dude, he’s definitely cornered the market on fantasy Vegas elopement weddings.

  The whole fuckin’ thing is insane.

  Emma gets up and starts looking over all the dresses. The dressmaker snaps her fingers again and a whole team of women appear with measuring tapes and start measuring Emma while she points to various elements she likes.

  Another team works on my measurements and there’s lot of talk about buttons, and lace, and chiffon, and bodices, which is all a little bit boring. But then I hear ‘garters.’ And ‘corset.’ And ‘stockings.’

  I can get on board with that.

  Except… this is kinda taking a while. The next time I look at my watch it’s nearly nine o’clock.

  I walk over to Emma. “Hey, babe.”