by Susan Sey
“I’ll let you know when I’m bored.”
She punched his arm. “Jerk.”
He laughed and kissed her full on the mouth. “You’re the only woman I’ve ever met I want to talk to as much as I want to kiss, Nixie. I’d marry you for that alone. The rest is a bonus.”
She went still. “Was that a marriage proposal?”
His eyes stayed on hers, very blue, very direct. “I’m naked here, Nixie. Yours to take or leave.”
She smiled. “I’ll take it.”
EPILOGUE
The bride wore white. A strapless, hand-beaded Monique Lhuillier of ivory silk, to be exact, sewn onto her body mere minutes before she walked down the aisle. With white satin peep-toe pumps on her feet, a matching white ribbon in her hair, and an armload of pure white roses, she was demure innocence itself.
Except for her hair. Her hair glowed in the candle light like wildfire, and a ribbon of the same deep copper encircled her waist and flowed down the back of her gown like a sunset on the water. The look she shared with her groom danced with laughter and passion as the music swelled, carrying her up the aisle to his side.
He held his hand out for her as she approached and she took it without hesitation. She plaited her fingers into his and promised without doubt or reservation to be a true and faithful partner until death did them part. To love him with all the strength and courage she could muster. To honor him and cherish him and be thankful for the undeserved gift of his love, now and always.
And when he kissed her, the entire world shattered into a cacophony of cheers, applause and popping flashbulbs. It was better, Sloan thought wonderingly, than winning an Oscar. Though she had the same man to thank for both.
She gazed at the man whose hand she held, her new husband. The first man since Archer who’d looked at her and seen more than sex appeal, who’d seen something deep and true and vulnerable. The man who’d asked her to play a grandmother, had directed her to an Oscar in the role, then given her ready made grandchildren when he married her.
She smiled radiantly into the front rows of the church, at the family she and Lars Von Heller had brought together. His son and daughter, their families. Nixie and Erik. The Senator, Tyrese and Mary Jane. She grinned fondly at Nixie, who blew her a watery kiss, and at Erik, who handed his wife a hanky and rolled his eyes at Sloan. Nixie had bawled through Tyrese and Mary Jane’s wedding last year, as well as hers and Erik’s the year before that. Sloan wouldn’t wonder if Erik had hankies in every pocket. He took wonderful care of her baby.
Lars squeezed her hand and Sloan leaned into his dear, solid bulk. A new sense of peace washed over her, a lovely stillness deep in her center where she used to have only static and the manic drive to keep moving. She smiled, then she laughed. She didn’t worry about wrinkles anymore, nor about drooping this or sagging that. She was calm at her very heart and when the music swelled again, she sailed down the aisle and into her new life safe in the knowledge that she was loved. She was known from the bones out, and she was loved.
Nixie sopped at her face with Erik’s last dry hanky and sighed happily as Sloan and Lars exited the church to thunderous applause. Erik’s hands rested on her shoulders and she leaned into him, grateful as always for his quiet support. No matter where she went or what she did, she was always home when she was with him. She covered his hands with hers.
“That was definitely my mother’s best wedding,” she said. “At least the best one I ever attended.”
Erik laughed. “I have a feeling it’ll be the last one, too.”
“Yeah, I think Lars is here to stay.” She swiped one last tear away and offered Erik his hanky back.
“Uh, no. Thanks. Put it with the others.”
Nixie shrugged and dropped the crumpled linen into her purse. Her cell phone buzzed quietly from the depths, and Erik lifted a brow. “One of your stars need a little hand-holding?”
“Maybe.” Nixie shrugged. Karl's departure had left one hell of a void at Leighton-Brace Charitable Giving but Nixie had refused to let it crumble. Maybe she'd retired her own spotlight, but she'd spent years learning how to aim one. And as it turned out, there were a hell of a lot of stars with a yen to do good who respected her expertise on such things. She'd filled Karl's behind-the-camera shoes handily, and with some compassion for the talent to boot. It was, she felt, pretty darn win/win. “But I’m not giving it.” She checked the readout on her phone. “Grand Punk Master Jam is being rerouted to the Leighton-Brace Charitable Giving switchboard as we speak. We have a very competent office manager who I’m sure can see to whatever he needs while well-digging in Somalia.”
“I’m sure she can,” Mary Jane said from the pew behind them. “But I’m still pissed you stole Wanda from us like that.”
Nixie smiled. Karl had been a ruthless mastermind, but he had nothing on Nixie Leighton-Brace when it came to staffing her empire. “Oh, come on. You know Wanda wanted a job that didn’t require regular evenings.”
Mary Jane frowned darkly. “You seduced her with access to people like Grand Punk Master Jam.”
Tyrese slung an arm around his wife’s shoulders. “Maybe she wanted a job where she didn’t have to look at Daryl Johnson’s package every time he came in for a flu shot.”
Mary Jane shrugged. “Yeah. Maybe.”
“Hey, look,” Erik said, pointing. “Is that Dame Judi Dench?”
Mary Jane’s shoulders hunched. “Why can’t your mother have normal friends?” she asked Nixie.
“My bad,” Erik said. “It’s Helen Mirren. I get them mixed up.”
She glared at Erik. “Very funny. You think you can tap into my celebrity phobia and I’ll forget about Wanda? I don’t think so. I’m--”
“Kristen Stewart and Rob Pattinson are back by the baptismal font.” Nixie pointed toward the vestibule of the church. Mary Jane shuddered and grabbed her husband’s hand.
“Okay, we’ll fight over Wanda later,” she said and disappeared.
The Senator leaned forward. “So are you rounding up any new talent while you’re here in L.A.?” she asked. “I loved the Southeast Asian junket you put together for Sandra Bullock last year. I pushed a sweat shop bill through the Senate thanks to that trip.”
Nixie smiled. “I’ve been meaning to tell you how much I like that bill.”
“Thanks.” She sighed and glanced at Erik. “Probably the last bill I’ll write, you know. Before my retirement.”
“I know,” Nixie said, smothering a smile.
“Before I turn my office over to some brash young person ready to take their turn at the wheel of national politics.”
“Mmmm.” Nixie nodded solemnly.
“Enough with the hinting, okay, Mom?” Erik said. “How many times do we have to have this conversation? I’m not going to run for your office. Why would I? I’m a surgeon, and all my humanitarian impulses are dealt with at home.” He gave Nixie a fond squeeze.
“Lucky you,” the Senator said sweetly.
Erik smiled. “I married well.”
“Well, of course you did. I picked her out, didn’t I?” The Senator rolled her eyes. “As it happens, however, I wasn’t asking you to run for my Senate seat.”
“No?” Erik lifted a skeptical brow.
“No.” She smiled. “I was asking Nixie.”
He swung around to stare at Nixie, who stared at the Senator. “I’ve been meaning to mention it for some time now, Nixie,” she said. “The work you do with Leighton-Brace is wonderful, don’t misunderstand me. We need all the orphanages you can convince celebrities to build. But the circumstances that created the need for orphanages in the first place still exist.” She held up one finger, a professor at the podium. “Until you start changing the laws. Then you’re changing the world.”
Nixie stared at her, struck. “I never wanted to change the world,” she said.
Erik laughed. “But you do. Every day. You have kind of a thing for it.” He looked back and forth between his mother and his wife. “Senator
Leighton-Brace,” he said. “I like it.”
Nixie liked it, too.
About the Author
Some years ago, Golden Heart Award winner Susan Sey gave up the glamorous world of software training to pursue a high-powered career in diaper changing. Two children and millions of diapers later, she decided to branch out and started writing novels during nap time. The kids eventually gave up their naps, so now she writes when she's supposed to be doing the laundry. She currently resides in St. Paul, Minnesota, with her wonderful husband, their charming children and a very tall pile of dirty clothes.
For more about Susan or her books, feel free to visit her website (www.susansey.com) where you'll also find links to her Twitter and Facebook pages, and the occasional deleted scene or bonus chapter. Which have usually been deleted for very good reasons but still.
