by DW Davis
Maeve and I got to make the first pass at the buffet so we could eat our lunch and then mingle with our guests while they ate theirs. This allowed me to meet some of Maeve's family, aunts and uncles and such, and her to meet some of mine we probably wouldn't have otherwise.
As lunch began to wind down, we made our way back to the head table. Again, glasses were clanked and again we responded with a kiss, though it was hard to kiss while we were giggling.
With lunch done it was time for dessert. That meant cutting the cake. Our wedding cake was a beautiful four-layer cake. Each layer was separated by columns, making it look even bigger than it was. Rather than little bride and groom characters, our cake top was a blown glass heart encompassing two crystal swans.
As we approached the cake for the cutting, I reminded Maeve, “We're going to keep this dignified. No smooshing cake in my face, right?”
Maeve gave me a look of utter innocence. “Who, me?”
I knew I was in trouble.
The band broke into a rendition of “the bride feeds the groom,” as the first piece was cut from the cake. The photographer made sure she had a good angle for the shot. Maeve carefully picked up the piece of cake, carefully held it up to my mouth, and as I carefully took a bite, she cheerfully mashed it onto my nose.
Her laughter turned to a look of concern when she saw the evil smile of intent on my face. The band changed the words to “the groom feeds the bride,” as I sliced a piece of cake, carefully picked it up, carefully held it to Maeve's now nervous lips and waited for her to take a bite.
She hesitated just an instant and then lunged quickly, hoping to forestall any payback I might have in mind by gobbling up the whole piece before I could carry out my vengeance. Having expected that, I moved the cake down ever so slightly and she plunged her chin right into the frosting.
Her dark laugh made me just a bit nervous as she used her hand to wipe the frosting from her chin. I gingerly held out what was left of the cake to her and she bit it from my hand. Then, with a triumphant look, she wiped the frosting in her hand on my cheek.
Knowing she’d gotten in the last word, so to speak, I handed her a napkin to clean her hand, took one for myself to clean my face, and we were soon frosting free.
It was a good thing we cleaned up quickly because it was time to start the dances. For our dance we chose “She's Got a Way” by Billy Joel. That song always made me think of Maeve.
Maeve and Ted danced to “Through the Years” by Kenny Rogers for their father-daughter dance. There wasn't a dry eye in the house when they finished.
My mother chose Rod Stewart's “Have I Told You Lately” for us to dance to. My mom was an excellent dancer. I was glad for the lessons I’d taken in high school. After the mother-son dance the floor was opened up to anyone who wanted to join in the fun.
The band finished their first set, and it was time for throwing the bouquet. A cheer went up at this announcement, and the single ladies - including Kim, Cynthia, my cousin Denise, several of Maeve's friends from school, and my little sister Malori - jockeyed for position on the dance floor. I wasn't sure Malori should be included - she was barely twelve - but Maeve insisted.
Everyone cheered when Kim caught the bouquet. I was secretly relieved. It would have put a damper on the throwing of the garter had Malori been the lucky lady.
The single men, including Hans and Chase, then crowded close to see who would catch the garter. Maeve's cousin, Paul, who was home from the Army on leave, won the contest. Paul was on his way from Fort Lewis, Washington, to a twelve-month tour in Korea.
Kim smiled coyly at Paul when he proudly showed her the garter. Maeve put her arm around Kim’s shoulder and whispered something in her ear. Kim’s eyes flew wide open in shock, and she turned a scandalized look on Maeve. I could only imagine what Maeve said to her, but Kim and Paul had danced several times, so I had a pretty good idea.
Chase grabbed a chair from a nearby table and placed it in the middle of the dance floor. Kim was escorted to the chair by the other single ladies. She sat down and crossed her legs demurely.
Paul, clasping his hands over his head like a victorious prize fighter, joined her at center stage. He took a knee at Kim’s feet, slowly removed her shoe, and slid the garter over her foot and up to her ankle.
Pointing with his hands at the position of the garter, Paul looked at the other single guys with a raised eyebrow.
“Higher,” they urged. “Higher.”
Paul moved the garter slowly up Kim’s calf and stopped just below her knee. Again, he pointed to the garter.
“Higher, higher.”
Paul leered at Kim. She smiled back but didn’t say no. He slowly moved the garter past her knee and began to slide it up her slender thigh. About three inches past her knee, Kim reached down and stopped him. Paul frowned, but Kim shook her head decisively no.
A chorus of good-natured booing ensued from the men while the ladies laughed. Paul replaced Kim’s shoe, stood, and helped her to her feet. She kissed his cheek, and they hugged.
Our final act before leaving on our honeymoon was to thank our guests. Then it was up to our room, a room we had reserved solely for this purpose, to change into our traveling clothes before making our way to the airport where the Cessna Skyline, fully loaded with the luggage we would need for our honeymoon, awaited us. It was a short flight to Raleigh. After we confirmed arrangements for storing the Cessna while we were gone, we caught a cab to the nearby Hilton. We spent our wedding night in their finest suite.
What Maeve and I hadn’t known was that there had been one inconspicuous uninvited guest at our wedding. She didn’t sit in the congregation, nor join us at the reception, but Rhiannon had watched the ceremony from her beach-front room on the fourth floor. As we disappeared into the reception, she’d said aloud to herself, “I wish you much happiness, Michael. I'm sorry that you didn't find it with me. I will keep my promise to you Michael; if you ever need me, I will be there for you.” She closed the shade, picked up her suitcase, and being careful to avoid the reception, left the hotel, Wrightsville Beach, and the man she loved behind.
Four
Maeve and I rose late the next morning. Our flight out wasn't until mid-afternoon, so we were in no hurry. The dining room at the Hilton offered a lavish breakfast buffet, including a station where a talented young chef made a show out of preparing omelets to order.
Seeing how much the exuberant fellow loved working with the ingredients, I told Maeve, “I think I'll have a western omelet with the works.”
Maeve wrinkled her nose. “I'll stick to my ham and cheese omelet, thank you very much.”
Besides the omelets, the buffet included Belgian waffles, pancakes, biscuits with or without saw mill gravy, scrambled eggs, sausage links, bacon, several flavors of fruit juices, and some decent brews of coffee. The only thing lacking was genuine maple syrup. Everything else we tried was so good Maeve and I decided we could forgive the hotel for that.
After breakfast we returned to our room to repack our bags, check that we had our passports and plane tickets handy, and go over our flight itinerary. Then Maeve looked at me and asked, “What do you want to do until it’s time to leave for the airport?”
My grin and the look in my eyes let her know what I was thinking we could do to pass the time.
“Michael,” Maeve said, trying to sound scandalized. But she walked over, put her arms around my waist, and pulled me toward the bed.
We barely made it to checkout at eleven. I called the concierge from the room before we headed to the elevator, and she had a cab waiting to whisk us to the airport.
After checking our bags and getting our boarding passes, we had time for a leisurely lunch.
“Did you save room for dessert?” our server, Stephanie, asked after clearing away our lunch dishes.
I looked at Maeve, and said, “I don’t know about you, but I’m going to try the marble cheesecake.”
After gnawing at her lower lip for a moment, Ma
eve smiled and said, “We are on our honeymoon, after all. I’ll have the chocolate mousse.”
We enjoyed our desserts and then spent the rest of the time before our flight in front of the big plate-glass windows watching the planes take off and land.
“Airports are really cool places, Mike,” Maeve commented. “They’re full of people coming and going to all sorts of destinations around the world. There’s a sense of adventure just being in an airport, don't you think? It’s all very exciting.”
“Whenever I see a plane take off I wonder about the people on board,” I told her, gesturing towards a Boeing 727 starting down the runway. “I try to imagine where they're going and why, who they're leaving behind, and who they're going to see. Will they find what they're after or come back empty-handed, if they come back at all?”
The expression on Maeve's face told me she was trying to imagine those things. Then her expression changed and she turned to me. “What about the planes landing? What do they make you think about?”
“When I see a plane land, I think about coming home. A landing plane always makes me think the people on board are returning from somewhere even though I know many probably aren’t from here. I don't know why I think that. That's just how it feels.”
We lost track of time while watching all those arrivals and departures, so we were caught by surprise when the attendant at the gate called for our flight to start boarding. Maeve and I grabbed our carry-on bags and got in line. The attendant checked our boarding passes and passports, smiled graciously, and wished us a pleasant flight.
We went out the door, down a flight of stairs, across the tarmac, up the boarding ladder, and into the plane. Our adventure had begun in earnest, and a few minutes later, as the pilot revved the engines and we started to taxi toward the runway threshold, we were truly on our way.
We changed planes at JFK and boarded our flight for Madrid. Eight hours later we landed in Spain. One last hop and we were in Gibraltar. We'd spent eleven hours on one plane or another and four more hours waiting around airports for flights.
Maeve and I were exhausted. Our bodies thought it was morning when in fact it was lunch time where we were.
“I think we should grab a bite to eat and then check into our hotel for a nap,” Maeve suggested. I heartily agreed.
There was a quaint little bistro near our hotel, so we stopped there for some lunch before settling into our room for a nap. After waking up only long enough to enjoy dinner in the hotel's restaurant, we went back to our room and slept off the lingering effects of our flight.
A night of rest left us in good spirits as Maeve and I headed for the marina the next day. We boarded our chartered forty-one-foot sailboat and spent a day on the bay learning her ins and outs. The next morning just after sunup, fully provisioned and provided with the charts and paperwork we would need for our voyage, we left port. It was June 27.
We docked the first night at a marina near Sabinillas. Not wanting to miss the experience of Sabinillas’ Friday Street Market, we’d arranged our sailing schedule to allow for a couple of days there. Sabinillas had a wonderful small-town feel, and we were tempted to stay longer, but the sea beckoned us onward.
Our second port of call was Marbella. Marbella was quite a change from the quiet little town of Sabinillas. After enjoying the sites and nightlife in Marbella, we sailed on to Fuengirola. In Fuengirola we enjoyed a visit to the zoo and Sohail Castle.
At our third port of call, Malaga, we finally spent a few nights away from the boat. Leaving the boat in Malaga, Maeve and I traveled inland about fifteen miles, or twenty-five kilometers to be metric about it, to a horse-riding resort in Alora, where we spent a few days riding the beautiful hills of Andalusia. The cabin we stayed in was somewhat austere but comfortable.
“They remind me of the cabins at a KOA campground back home,” Maeve commented.
The horses were not Andalusian stallions. Instead I rode an Anglo-Arabian gelding while Maeve's mount was a Thoroughbred mare. We spent a couple of days working with the horses before going on an overnight trail ride into the highlands.
Around the campfire that night Maeve confessed to me. “Michael, you know I love sailing with you but, really, I think this has been my favorite part of our trip.”
As much as I loved sailing, I had to admit it was pretty nice being off in the wilds of central Spain, camping out with my true love.
“I never knew you were so into horseback riding,” I told Maeve.
“I used to ride a lot when I was younger. My Aunt Nancy, my mother’s sister, paid for me to take riding lessons at day camp before I started going to Camp Riversail.”
She leaned back and put her head on my shoulder. Looking up into the night sky, she said, “There are so many stars out tonight. Isn't it beautiful?”
I joined her in admiring the stars and with a slight twinge realized I couldn't recognize Star Jillian in that Spanish night sky.
“It is beautiful. For some reason I never thought European skies could be so dark and clear.”
Maeve laughed. “Out here we're miles from any city lights. It's almost like being out in the middle of the sound at night. The stars shine through in all their glory.”
Our ride the next day took us through some beautiful country. All too soon it seemed our days on horseback came to a close and we were in a taxi on our way back to Malaga.
Leaving Malaga, after restocking our provisions, we sailed the longest single stretch of our voyage to date, reaching Almunecar just as dusk was falling. It was a little tricky picking up the mooring buoy, but we made it on the second try, thanks to some helpful advice from a neighboring boat. Thanking him profusely for his help, we made fast and then invited him and his mate to come over for a visit.
A short time later Dwayne Stevens and his wife Joan were climbing aboard from their dinghy. They were fellow Americans taking a holiday cruise from Cartegena to Gibraltar.
“We always take these two weeks and charter a boat somewhere far from home,” Dwayne told us.
The Stevens were from Gilford, New Hampshire, where they owned a house on Lake Winnipesaukee.
“Last year we sailed from Barcelona to Cartegena. The year before that was the Toulon to Barcelona leg. We've been working our way along the northern Mediterranean.”
It didn't take much encouragement to get them to join us for a late dinner. Afterward we sat in the salon and learned a bit more about them.
“We should really be back in New Hampshire this time of year. These two weeks are among the busiest of the year for our restaurant,” Joan told us.
“Yeah,” Dwayne said, “but we leave it in the capable hands of our son and his wife. Along with our partner Troy, they really run the place these days.”
“What type of restaurant is it?” I asked, wondering if it was a fast-food type place or something fancy.
Joan took a sip of her tea, and replied, “It's a full-service family restaurant. We also have a few rooms upstairs that we rent out, sort of an inn.”
Maeve smiled as she offered to refill Joan's cup. “It sounds like a bed-and-breakfast.”
Joan held her cup out to let Maeve top it off and shook her head.
“Not really; we don't actually serve breakfast.” She laughed. “But you can sleep in late and come down for lunch.”
While the ladies talked about the restaurant, Dwayne and I talked about sailing.
“Lake Winnipesaukee is a good-sized body of water, isn't it?” I asked Dwayne.
He nodded thoughtfully. “It’s twenty miles from Moultonborough to Alton Bay and five miles or more wide, depending on how you measure.”
“How long is the sailing season?” I asked, wondering what it would be like to sail that lake. I imagined it would be a lot like the time Hans and I visited his grandmother and went sailing on Lake Geneva.
“Ice out usually occurs about the third week of April,” Dwayne explained, “but it's usually another couple of weeks before I put the boat back in the water.”<
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He noticed the puzzled look on my face when he said ice out.
“Ice out is declared when there is enough open water for the Mount Washington to make all its ports.”
I’d heard of the Motor Vessel Mount Washington. It made regular rounds of the lake during the late spring, summer, and early fall. My mother, who was from southwestern New Hampshire, had visited Lake Winnipesaukee and cruised aboard the M/V Mount Washington.
The vessel was named for the real Mount Washington, the highest mountain in New England, and the location of the highest wind speed ever recorded. When I was a kid we’d visited it once or twice, but I hadn't been in a long time.
“You and Maeve should come up and visit some time,” Dwayne suggested. “I'll take you out sailing on the lake. You'll love it.”
As it was getting late, he suggested this as they were preparing to row back to their boat.
“We will definitely plan on it,” I promised as I helped Joan down into their dinghy.
We didn't see them the next morning as they rose with the sun and headed west. We did hear them, though, as they weighed anchor and hoisted their sails.
“They were a nice couple,” Maeve noted. “I hope we'll still be traveling the world to go sailing when we're that age.”
“As long as we can, we will,” I assured her.
We spent a couple of days seeing the sites around Almunecar before continuing our voyage. We spent another month sailing east along the Spanish coast, finally arriving in Valencia. There we turned in our trusty vessel and rested for a few days before boarding the first of the several flights it would take to get us home.
Five
We arrived in Raleigh and spent another night in the Hilton before loading up on the Cessna and flying back to Wilmington. Since we had a couple of weeks before Maeve started teaching at Laney and I started classes at UNCW, we decided to spend them at River Dream.
Before we could do that, though, we had to visit her folks and my folks and tell them all about our trip. Malori was especially interested in hearing all about our adventures. After a lasagna dinner at Mom and Dad's, she bombarded us with questions.
