Wait—could this have really happened? Back when he thought Sloane was the Priscilla to his Elvis? The peanut butter for his hot banana sandwich?
“I had wanted everything to be just perfect.”
“And it was,” I said softly. “You couldn’t have planned it better. It’s supposed to be ‘for better and for worse,’ anyway, right? In sickness and in health . . .” Now the tears were really rolling, as I was thinking about Allen. And my parents. “Marriage isn’t just about sticking around for the pretty light show and water features. You’ve got to be there for the dry season, too.”
I had reduced Supey to tears as well. “Greg! Greg!” she shouted.
A uniformed guard appeared in the doorway. “Give me the keys to the Lincoln.”
She came around the desk to give his beefy arm a squeeze. “My husband of twenty-five years. Good times and bad.”
Greg had sad eyes and jowls like Droopy the Dog. “Just as pretty as the day I married her,” he said in a molasses monotone.
“You’re not springing the car,” Supey said, as our entire motley-looking party straggled out to the impound lot, “but if there’s a wedding dress in the trunk, I’ll just charge you a hundred-dollar convenience fee and turn my back.”
“Thank you. Thank you very much.” Noavis was back.
“There’s a blue garment bag that says Bichonné Bridal Couture,” I started.
“Oh!” Sleeping Beauty clapped her hands together. “My dog’s a bichon!”
“There’s also a computer bag.” Noah choked out the words from behind relieved laughter. “Monogrammed with my initials, N.L.R., and two small carry-on bags. His and hers.”
He squeezed my hand, and I silently reminded myself to ask him what his middle name was.
Supey popped the trunk and I couldn’t bear to watch. What if . . .
“Well, I’ll be double-dog-damned,” Droopy the Dog said slowly, and he turned to stare at us as if we were prophets of the parking lot.
I peeked out from behind Noah, who had been bracing himself as well. His whole body relaxed under my touch.
“Can you give them a ride out, Greg?” Supey asked.
“Send a picture of the big day!” Sleeping Beauty called after us.
“How’s about I drop you at the L?” Droopy said, as we stuffed ourselves, and our bags, in the front seat of the tow truck next to him. He practically used my knee as a gearshift and we bumped up out of the bowels of Lower Wacker and onto surface street level once again.
“Sure, where are we?” Noah asked.
“Randolph/Wabash.”
A few moments later, we found ourselves standing under the rumbling elevated train tracks, no closer to our destinations but happy and relieved to have our stuff back.
“By the way, I owe you fifty. My share of the ‘convenience fee.’”
“Oh, please,” Noah scoffed. “Save it for the baby’s college fund.”
We broke out in hysterics. “That was a bit over the top, wasn’t it?” I managed, wiping my eye with a panda scarf-arm.
“Just a tad.” He checked his watch.
“So it’s four o’clock,” he said, sobering up a bit. “Do you want to go to the airport and try to get on standby somehow? There’s no way we’ll make the other flights.”
“I think there’s something we should do first.”
Noah
HOME, HEART, HEAT
“Ruel Da Silva is in room 7305. Take the last bank of elevators to your left.”
We followed the hospital receptionist’s directions and crowded into the elevator with all our bags. People must’ve thought we were moving in.
Seeing the small mixed bouquet of colorful flowers from the lobby gift shop in one of Laney’s hands, and the bridal dress bag in her other, I couldn’t escape the irony as we linked arms and walked down the long, quiet corridor together toward Ruel’s room.
“Hey, you guys!” Ruel was sitting up straight in the hospital bed, genuinely happy to see us. “Can you believe this?” He gestured to his predicament.
“What happened to you?” Laney asked, rushing to his bedside.
He accepted the flowers, tucking them in the crook of his arm like a beauty contestant.
“One minute I was sitting in the car, sipping my chocolate milk shake . . . the next, I’m out of the car, puking my guts out. Violently.”
“Was it the bacon?” I asked, making a face. “I thought that was a strange combination.”
“No, not the bacon, boss. It was a spiked milk shake. And I’m intolerant to alcohol,” Ruel said, shaking his head sadly. “It actually induced a seizure.”
“Oh, my God, Ruel. We’re so sorry,” Laney gushed. “Noah told the waitress no alcohol when he ordered it—I heard him. She must’ve messed up.”
“No worries! I got a CAT scan, and no damage done. Ruel is A-OK. They’re keeping me overnight for observation. I got my own remote and I don’t have to fight my kids to watch TV.” He grinned. “I felt bad leaving you in the lurch, though. You probably missed your honeymoon plane, huh?”
Laney and I exchanged a smile. “I got the best damn tour of Chicago instead,” she replied. “It was worth missing the flight.”
“And we got our stuff back. Thanks to the best performance the Central Auto Pound has ever seen,” I bragged.
Ruel slapped his leg under the thin hospital blanket. “Now, that I would’ve liked to see!” He hooted with laughter. “Those ladies down there don’t want to give up nothing.”
Gesturing for us to sit, he asked, “So where were you two headed to, anyway?”
“Hawaii,” I automatically replied, at the exact moment that Laney stated emphatically, “Las Vegas.”
“Well, um . . .” We both started and stopped, then laughed.
Ruel gave us a sly look and a wave of his hand, as if to say I know you’ll figure it out, you crazy kids.
“You two should totally stick around. My wife, she’s bringing up paella . . .” he said temptingly.
Before we could even begin to politely protest, the smell of saffron and garlic wafted into the room, followed by what must’ve been a dozen of Ruel’s relatives. I guess being held for observation didn’t include holding off on eating a home-cooked meal.
Ruel’s wife ladled the first bowl lovingly for him, then climbed onto the hospital bed right next to him with her own spoon in hand. Now, that was for better or for worse.
Laney stepped up to serve paella for the rest of the Da Silva clan as they eagerly crowded around the bed to chat with him. I helped pass the steaming plastic bowls around, catching her eye and smiling over the heads from across the crowded, and very small, hospital room.
After everyone was served, she filled two more bowls, scooping from the bottom where the flavor was best. Waving a silent good-bye to Ruel, we snuck away to the lobby.
“I’d hate to be the one to tell that family that visiting hours are over.” Laney dug in. “Oh, my God, best paella ever!”
“Seriously,” I agreed, around a mouthful. “Nice that they all came. Being an only child, I’ve never experienced that sort of family chaos.”
“I’m an only, too,” she confided. “So your mother . . . she never remarried?”
I shook my head. “I wish she wasn’t alone. But she says she’s okay so I don’t push it.” We tossed our empty bowls and pushed our way back out onto the chilly Chicago street.
“Speaking of mothers . . .” Laney groaned. “I’d better call mine.”
• • •
When Laney’s mother shouted, there was no need for speakerphone.
“Helena Hudson!”
I could hear her loud and clear, even with the phone pressed to Laney’s ear.
“Your luggage has arrived. Your flight has arrived. Where in green hell are you?”
She ba
rely let Laney get a word in edgewise. We must’ve covered three city blocks with Laney mumbling only “uh-huh” and “for sure” before they finally hung up.
“Ugh, my mother still has the ability to make me feel nine years old.”
I reached for her free hand and gave it a squeeze. “I think I felt like an old man by nine years old.”
“How so?” She threaded her fingers through mine as we strolled, and suddenly it didn’t feel so cold outside at all.
“Well, whenever my dad would get deployed somewhere—and it was often—he would take me by the shoulders and tell me, ‘Son, you’re the man of the house now.’ It didn’t matter how small I was. He’d get on his knees, or he’d stoop down. So long as he could look me square in the eye. ‘Take care of your mother, Noah. Until I get back.’”
“That’s a lot to put on a little guy.”
“It’s a lot to put on anyone,” I said grimly.
I remembered the final time my father had made the request. It was my junior year of college. We’d joked about the routine, the formality. But there was something sacred about it as well, passing between father and son in the household. He had to actually reach up and lift his head to meet my eyes.
“When I was about eight or nine, we had already moved I don’t know how many times. I had started at a new school, which I liked. But the first week, I drew an utter blank while on the school bus home. Nothing out the window looked familiar. I couldn’t remember the name of the street. Poplar? Pine? It might have involved a tree; it might not have. Stop after stop, but I stayed glued to my seat, terrified to get off the bus, lest I was wrong. Finally, I was the only kid left on the bus. The driver was kind. But when he asked me my address, I couldn’t tell him. When he asked my phone number, I didn’t know it. I became so upset that I didn’t even want to say my name. He took me back to the school, and the principal called my mother, who was of course frantic by then. When she arrived, I shouted, ‘I don’t want to be the man of the house! I’m not a man! I don’t even know the color of my house!’ My mother held me for a long, long time. Her English still wasn’t great . . . well, it was better than she thought but she was self-conscious in front of my principal and all the office staff. ‘La casa è nel cuore,’ she assured me. Home is in the heart.”
“I kinda love that saying,” Laney said softly, pulling me to a stop. “La casa . . . ?”
“La casa è nel cuore,” I repeated slowly, and I watched her lips try to imitate mine. How many hours ago did I kiss her at the airport? Too many. I twirled the hanger out of her hand and swung the garment bag behind my shoulder. “Home”—Laney reached up and fiddled with the crepe-paper poppy in my lapel; my cheek grazed gently against hers as she leaned up toward me—“is in the heart,” I whispered.
Kissing Laney was like stepping into a hot shower on a cold day; that luxurious tingling sensation that starts at the back of your brain and rushes pleasure through your nerves. Once you were in, you craved more heat.
City to Ourselves
I was in danger of losing myself completely to the guy with the matchy-match suit, in the doorway of a Methodist church, on a freezing cold street corner in an unfamiliar city. A grand adventure? I didn’t exactly need the Magic 8 Ball to tell me, Hell yeah.
I was also in danger of frostbite.
As much as I envied the heat of Hawaii and Vegas, I really wasn’t in a hurry for either of us to leave Chicago. But we couldn’t stay out in the elements forever. Noah rubbed my arms as I reluctantly pulled back.
“Cold?” he asked. “Let’s get out of here.”
“Do you believe that’s true?” I nudged him slightly as we walked.
“What’s that?”
I pointed to the illuminated sign on the lawn of the church: THE HEAVIEST THING TO CARRY IS A GRUDGE.
“I don’t know . . . this dress is pretty damn heavy,” he joked.
I rolled my eyes at him. “Ha, very funny. I mean, seriously, think about it,” I said, stopping in my tracks. He turned to me, hunching his shoulders against the cold.
“I think you were right about having to walk a proverbial mile last night. Putting on the dress made me realize that. It’s stupid to still be angry with my mother after all these years. Like you said, nothing’s stopping me from going where I want to go.”
Noah picked up my hand and kissed the back of it gently, before flicking his gaze up to meet mine. “And where is it you want to go, Laney?”
“We’ve missed every available flight out tonight, haven’t we?”
“Pretty sure we have.”
I suddenly felt shy, after the overwhelming events of the day. We had killed time, raced for time, chased the dress, and each other, all over town. And now it was just Noah and I, alone on a quiet, freezing-cold street corner.
“Do you think there’s room back at the inn?”
“I know there’s room at the Drake. I called.”
• • •
Hey, WWDD about getting wrinkles out of a wedding dress?
UH-OH, WHAT DID YOU DO?! & WHERE R U?
Hey, don’t go yelling at me in all shoutie caps, Dani. Still in Chicago.
I know that—it was rhetorical! Your mom just let the entire island know. Still with Tech-Boy?
Yes. And don’t tell my mother (about the dress)!!!
• • •
“Finally, a good reason to hang the Do Not Disturb sign,” Noah rasped as we came up for air.
We had barely dropped our bags in the room and closed the door before we were bumping up against it, pawing at each other.
“Before we get too busy to be disturbed . . . please tell me you have something in your carry-on, because I don’t want to open the door and let you out,” I breathed, practically climbing him like a ladder. He responded with a tortured groan. “Not very prepared for the big Vegas bachelor party, were you?”
“I was going to Vegas for the steaks and motorcycles; I wasn’t exactly planning—oh, yeah, that’s the spot!” I bit his earlobe, and he pinned me up against the door, pushing open my jacket and kissing my neck. “Besides, I wasn’t the DCP for this trip.”
“The what?”
“Designated Condom Provider. That was my buddy Tim’s job. Knowing G.I. Joe, he bought a surplus supply.”
“Fat lot of good that’ll do us now,” I murmured.
He felt so good, I didn’t want to let him go. But if we wanted to feel even better . . .
“Gift shop!” we both said in unison.
Noah was out the door in a flash. “Leave a light on for me . . . but not much else.”
I closed the door behind him and leaned against it. Closing my eyes, I hugged myself and smiled, relishing the recent memory of his hands and lips all over me.
My phone went off in my jacket pocket. It was a new text message from Dani, with an answer to my earlier question.
STEAM! It read, in capital letters.
You got that right.
I rushed into the bathroom, unzipping the garment bag as I went. Turning the polished bronze shower taps on full blast, I hopped in and took the quickest scrub ever. Might as well kill two birds with one stone, I figured. The dress would be wrinkle free and I would be squeaky clean. And ready to get dirty with Noah.
I skipped getting my hair wet, jumping out and drying off while the steam began to build. What to wear, what to wear? I contemplated the his-and-hers terry-cloth robes. Going commando under the robe seemed a little too “playground flasher” for me. As badly as I wanted Noah, I wanted him to “want” a little more.
Padding out to the bedroom in just a towel, I pulled the luxurious curtains closed on the magnificent view of Lake Michigan and began to paw through my carry-on bag. Noah had said to leave a light on . . . but the overhead lighting was really harsh. I tested the wall sconce next to the bed, on and off. It made for a good lone spotlight.
Inspiration struck.
I quickly pushed one of the overstuffed chairs toward the bed, grabbed my carry-on, and raced back into the bathroom.
The lingerie I had packed for under my formalwear was neatly folded at the bottom of the bag. Perfect, perfect, perfect. The black lace bra was a push-up, with a black rose design. It was a wickedly sexy little thing, with scalloped lace trim to soften it. I pulled on the matching black lace boyshorts and, once again, reached for the rhinestone clips to pin up my hair.
I couldn’t wait to see Noah’s face when he saw me. We had come a long way since that hostile first encounter on the airplane. Thinking of it made me remember his tie. Now, where would he have stashed that?
My Spidey sense led me over to his computer bag. Sure enough, it was stuffed in the front pocket. I smoothed the blue-gray silk, with its intricate square-and-dot pattern, between my hands. So conservative, so luxe. Luckily, it still had the knot on it from where he had loosened it and pulled it off. Lucky for me, since I had never tied a tie from scratch in my life. I looped it over my head and turned to the mirror as I pushed up the knot toward my bare throat.
In my reflection, I caught sight of Allen’s ring. I contemplated it. Had I kept wearing it because I couldn’t bear to part with it, or was it to keep me safe: to keep new love away? Its peridot winking, warding guys off like an evil eye? Don’t come too close!
Whatever the reason, I was ready now.
With a pause, and a slow smile in the mirror, I removed the ring and dropped it into my cosmetics bag on the marble counter. The finishing touch was donning the hotel robe, its thick waffle weave luxuriously rough against my freshly washed skin.
Another beep of the phone from Dani, texting again.
BUT NOT TOO MUCH STEAM! it warned.
The thought of Noah, those blazing brown eyes and long, strong fingers, weakened my knees. Too much steam?
Impossible.
Noah
Dictatorship of the Dress (9780698168305) Page 22
