Making Waves

by Laura Moore

  “Uh…” At a loss, Dakota colored.

  “We’ll be taking our honeymoon later,” Max said, covering for her. “Dakota’s busy interviewing employees for Premier Service and I have several projects that need my attention.”

  “Oh! Of course.”

  “We should be going, Dakota. We’ve got that photography session.”

  “Your wedding day portraits?” Geller asked with another broad smile. The man was clearly a closet romantic.

  “That’s right. Thanks again, Martin, and please give my regards to your parents,” Dakota said.

  “I will. They were so excited to hear you were getting married. You certainly kept the news under wraps.”

  “Yes, we did. But it’s official now, so feel free to spread the word.” Geller seemed like someone who’d enjoy sharing the news of their wedding, and Max wanted people to know not only that Dakota and he had married but also that, far from taking a hit, Dakota’s business was thriving.

  Her damn aunt was not going to win either the battle or the war.

  —

  Max and Dakota had finished the photo session with Greta Krause, who wore her hair in pigtails and dressed in overalls and clogs but behind the camera lens shed her Swedish dairymaid persona. All business, she’d used a variety of filters and lenses and posed Dakota and Max in different areas in her light-filled studio, instructing them to angle their heads closer and for Max to lower his so that their eyebrows would be level—a pictorial style preferred by newspapers such as the Times. At the end of the shoot, she promised that the pictures would be in their inboxes later that evening to send off with the wedding announcement. Any prints they wanted would be ready by the end of the following week. Max wondered what he would see when he looked at the photos. Would the awkwardness and tension be visible despite their best smiles and artfully angled poses?

  It was when they arrived at Windhaven, with the sun slipping toward the horizon, that it hit him: ever since the visit to Dr. Davis’s and looking at the ultrasound monitor and seeing the shape that would become their child, he’d been driving them toward this moment. Now they were here, embarking on their married life, and he knew to the bottom of his soul that they were both feeling utterly lost.

  Max was used to taking risks in business, in ball games. In those, the downside was limited. At worst, you lost a boatload of money, and it made stringing together the next deal on the table that much harder. In a ball game, you threw a pass and it got knocked down. You got sacked. Then you’d have to hunker down and figure out how to regain those lost yards. Sure, maybe you’d get your ass handed to you, maybe you’d get carried off the field, but most likely you’d have a chance to rally and pull off another win. He’d studied and trained equally hard for those situations.

  Nothing had prepared him—there was no deal book, no playbook to scrutinize—for what would happen if he screwed up with Dakota. And what of the costs if he did blow it?

  The click of Dakota unfastening her seatbelt pulled him from his thoughts. Hurriedly he followed suit and opened his door to jog around to Dakota’s side. “Here,” he said, helping her out.

  “Thanks,” she murmured, equally polite, equally careful.

  The house was ablaze with lights. Among the long list of stuff he’d tended to since getting Dakota to agree to marry him, he’d asked Rae to pack up the things Dakota would immediately want—clothes, toiletries, makeup, surfboards, books, computer, the glass bowl of shells and sea glass that she collected on her beach walks, and anything else Rae thought would make her more comfortable, more at home—and bring them to Windhaven. He’d given her their schedule. She must have done the math and realized they’d be returning in the falling light. Dakota had a smart deputy.

  Dakota stood stiff and too quiet while he unlocked the front door and pushed it open. When he stepped back she took a step forward. His command of “Wait!” stopped her long enough for him to bend down and scoop her into his arms.

  “Max! What are you doing? I weigh—”

  “Next to nothing,” he finished as he carried her across the threshold. He hadn’t the foggiest idea what the tradition symbolized other than to give the groom a chance to flex his muscles and prove his physical strength, but he wasn’t going to jinx their marriage by ignoring it. They had enough obstacles to overcome. Still cradling her, he entered the foyer and set her down slowly, reluctantly.

  Her eyes met his for all of a millisecond, then she turned to look about her, as if she’d never stepped foot inside his house. Something caught her attention, and she started in surprise. Rae had placed Dakota’s bowl of seashells on the table that stood beneath the stairs.

  “I asked Rae to bring some of your things over. Clothes and stuff.”

  She gave him a soft smile, and he revised his opinion of Rae from smart to brilliant for putting the bowl where Dakota would be sure to see it.

  From her gasp of pleasure as she entered the living room, he realized that wasn’t all Rae had done. Flowers in lush arrangements were everywhere. Some of the more opulent ones had cards attached with congratulations from Lauren, Gen and Alex, Dakota’s friends Hendrick Daube and Marcus Field, and even Roger and Robin Cohen.

  The dining room table was set for two with candles and another floral arrangement, this one with huge, deep red roses. Max was starting to think that Rae and her crew must have raided every florist from Montauk to the city.

  Yes, definitely, he thought when he and Dakota walked into the kitchen and found yet another bouquet, this one beside a bottle of Dom Pérignon nestling in an ice bucket.

  Both the magnificent flowers and the champagne were dwarfed by the wedding cake next to it. The cake was decorated with chocolate seashells and swirls of vanilla frosting made to look like cresting waves. On top, in place of the bride and groom, were two very different figurines: two surfers crouched over their boards, shredding a wave.

  “Oh my God. The cake is so great,” she whispered, bending over to inspect the details more closely. “I love it.”

  “Yeah,” he said. Dakota had mentioned that Rae had just bought a house. She was going to have her mortgage paid off very quickly. “There’s another card,” he said, pointing.

  Dakota picked up the envelope and then extended it in invitation. “Do you want to read it first?”

  “Go ahead. You can read it aloud.”

  There was a wobbly note to her voice as she began. “ ‘To Dakota and Max—We wish you a lifetime of joy together. To start your first evening off right, in the fridge you’ll find caviar and canapés to accompany the champagne—as well as ginger ale for Dakota after her first celebratory coupe. Dinner will be delivered from the Palm at eight o’clock. Enjoy it, Mr. and Mrs. Carr. With all our love, Rae, Lupe, and Jarrett.’ ”

  Dakota put the card down and burst into tears.

  Oh hell.

  —

  Trying to stem the embarrassing stream of tears, Dakota flapped her hands, surely looking as emotionally wrecked as she felt.

  “I’m fine, I’m fine,” she insisted, while sniffing and brushing her cheeks. “It’s just—”

  It was all too much. Max behaving with such unwavering, perfect consideration; the wedding ceremony driving home how serious and real the marriage was, when Dakota had almost convinced herself it was more of a convenience, a well-intentioned arrangement; and, topping it off, a kiss leaving her wanting and needing and so terribly confused about how to proceed.

  Here they were in a house they were meant to share, surrounded by gifts from their friends, gestures of hope and support. Their friends believed she and Max were serious about making a go of it, which was what she’d essentially promised Max when she’d agreed to prove the likes of Piper and Max’s cautious lawyer wrong. And wasn’t that what she’d vowed to him in Martin Geller’s office? To share her laughter and her tears as Max’s partner? To be his lover and his best friend?

  She hadn’t simply picked Martin to officiate because she was sure he would be available
even on short notice. She’d also asked him because she half agreed with Piper’s damning assessment: Martin was kind but as dry as the slices of toast Dakota had been eating and was now heartily sick of. She’d believed his delivery of the wedding vows would be equally bland. Easily digestible, instantly forgotten. Yet he’d surprised her with a ceremony that was emotional and profound. The words had pierced her heart; Max slowly sliding the wedding band onto her finger as he promised to honor and cherish her had shredded it.

  How would Martin have reacted had he any inkling as he presided over the service or when he inquired about their honeymoon that, far from celebrating their nuptials, she’d banned Max from her bed?

  That was one mark against her already. But even aside from the sex, Dakota had doubts about how much of a friend—forget best friend—she was being to Max. At this point he was the one stepping up and exerting all the effort to make this marriage work.

  Max was sharing his name and his house, and trying to think of her comfort and the baby’s well-being. What was she sharing in turn?

  So far it seemed that all she was offering him were her tears, which, despite her repeated sniffing and wiping, kept coming. While she tried to get her emotions under control, Max stood looking on, agonized and at a complete loss.

  Was he already regretting signing his name to the marriage certificate?

  It occurred to her that she had no template to show her how to go forward. Obviously she couldn’t look to Piper, Mimi, or anyone else in her family as a model for a happy union. Nor did stories and movies provide much help. In them, the wedding ceremony, with its sublimely romantic kiss between the couple, was where there was a fade to black. And that was it. The end. The audience closed the book or filed out of the movie theater, convinced of the characters’ happily-ever-after.

  Dakota wanted a happily-ever-after, too. But could she and Max manage one when they’d done everything backward?

  She looked at the wedding cake, so lovely, funny, and perfect, and then at the champagne chilling on ice. This was their wedding day. A bride and groom shouldn’t be standing in stiff misery in the kitchen; they should be upstairs, tearing at their clothes and making good on the vows to worship each other’s bodies in a physical expression of their love.

  And she’d told him she didn’t want to have sex.

  What if, by some miracle, she and Max defied probability and actually made it as a couple? How would she feel remembering this day, this evening, if it ended by their retiring to separate rooms, perhaps not even managing to exchange a kiss goodnight? How deep and choking would her regret be?

  She remembered Max telling her he still wanted her. His words had caused a delicious heat to unfurl low in her belly. In the upheaval of her unplanned pregnancy, she’d welcomed that feeling, had reveled in being desired, in being the Dakota she knew rather than the one she was becoming. When he’d kissed her this afternoon, their first kiss as husband and wife, those feelings were reawakened. His mouth, his nearness, and the warm weight of his hand on her shoulder had effortlessly aroused her.

  She wanted him, too.

  What would denying him—denying them both—accomplish? She half suspected that as time passed, it would ultimately become about exerting her will and thwarting his, a far cry from the reason she’d given him of needing space to find mental and emotional clarity. Besides, she wasn’t sure that spending sleepless nights in a room down the hall from Max was any way to gain peace of mind.

  Max had moved to the sink and was running the tap. Quickly she rubbed her eyes and then gave what she hoped was a final sniff. Unfortunately, the noise was amplified in the sudden silence as Max shut off the water. She watched him stand over the sink for a second longer and then draw his shoulders back as if bracing himself before he turned, a glass of water in his hand. He walked over to her and held it out. “This might help.”

  She accepted it with a quiet “Thank you” and sipped it slowly before setting the glass on the counter. She glanced at the cake and the champagne and drew a breath.

  “Max—”

  “Listen—”

  They broke off. After an awkward pause, Max said, “Go ahead.”

  “No, you go.”

  “All I was going to say was that I know how tired you are. Perhaps you want to go upstairs and rest before dinner.”

  Alone.

  “And what about you?”

  “Me?” He rubbed the back of his neck as if easing tense muscles. “I’ll catch up on some work. Watch the news, maybe.” He shrugged.

  “That’s a terrible idea.”

  He looked surprised, which kind of annoyed her. Did he really expect her to leave him to source companies and devise investment strategies on their wedding day? Actually, that was probably exactly what he thought. And how depressing was that?

  “So what do you want to do instead?” He was still being solicitous, but she heard the fatigue in his voice.

  She stepped closer to him. “I’d like to go into the living room and put on some music and dance with you.” She laid her hand against the fine cotton of his shirt and felt the heat of his muscular chest and the heavy thud of his heart.

  Their eyes met and held. The wary tension in his expression eased. As his face relaxed, he gave her a smile that made her toes curl inside her high-heeled pumps.

  “Is that so?”

  Her hand slid up and she snagged his tie and tugged, bringing his mouth within reach of hers. She kissed him lightly but deliberately, then stepped back, an answering smile lifting her cheeks. “Yeah, that’s so.”

  “Gotta say, I like your plan a hell of a lot better.”

  —

  They didn’t make it up the stairs, at least not the first time. Dakota happily took the blame. In the half-dimmed lights of the living room, surrounded by the gorgeous flower arrangements with their heady scents, they held each other, their bodies brushing as they swayed to the strains of REM, Brian Ferry, Van Morrison, the Eagles, and the Rolling Stones. Eyes locked, their breath mingled and then joined as they kissed slowly, deeply.

  To the wailing of Prince’s guitar, Dakota unknotted Max’s tie and unbuttoned his dress shirt. Her hands roved, relearning muscled contours. Her mouth trailed, tasting anew. She traced the puckered flesh of his nipples, palmed the heaving ridges of his abdomen, fingered the line of hair that led south from his navel.

  He stayed her when her hands met at his belt buckle. “Dakota,” he groaned. “Wait.”

  “I can’t. I want you, Max.” In admitting her desire, she was now consumed by it. Its flames licked her, drove her.

  “I want us to go slow,” he insisted. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “Max, I need you. We can go slow the next time. You won’t hurt me or the baby.” Realizing it was time for more honesty, she said, “I’ve really missed you.”

  “Ah, Jesus, Dakota,” he whispered. His hands fell away, freeing hers. And while she worked at his buckle, and then the button and zipper of his trousers, his hands moved to her hips. Walking his fingers, he gathered her dress inch by inch, then pulled it up her body and over her shoulders and head.

  “You’re as beautiful as I remember.” Lowering his head to the hollow of her neck, he ran his mouth along her collarbone. With a deft flick, he unsnapped her bra, his hands replacing the satin and lace that had covered her.

  She gasped. She didn’t know whether it was the acute pleasure of being in Max’s arms again, of being lavished with expert caresses and kisses, or if it was the effect of exchanging vows with Max—perhaps it was all combined into one combustible whole—but she was already close to climaxing. Need racked her entire body.

  Tugging his briefs down, she wrapped her hand around his erection. He felt bigger. Harder.

  A shudder went through them both.

  “Max, please, I need to have you inside me. Now.”

  She sank to her knees and then lay back on the thick Oriental rug. Max followed her down. Bracing himself with one arm, he hovered above he
r. She wanted his weight over her, wanted him inside her. She opened her legs in invitation, felt the blunt head of his penis, and held her breath in anticipation.

  When he froze and whispered, “Damn,” she searched his face.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Condom. I didn’t— They’re upstairs.”

  “Max.” She bit her lip, hard. “I’m pregnant, you know.”

  “But—”

  “You told Dr. Davis you’d been tested.”

  “Yes, but I’ve always worn a condom—”

  “Me too.” She ran her hands down the length of his back and spread them wide when she reached the taut globes of his butt. “So this would be a first…for both of us.”

  Something flared in his eyes, beautiful and mesmerizing. “It would.”

  She lifted her head to brush his lips with hers. “Then would you please be so kind as to rock my world?”

  He smiled. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  It worried Max that he might be falling for his wife. Eight weeks had passed since he’d slipped a wedding ring on her finger, since he’d made love to her, stroking her as she arched and cried his name, clenching his bared flesh so sweetly. The sexual pleasure hadn’t merely been heightened; that night it had felt profound. Left him shaken, and yet craving her all the more.

  Amazingly, his need for Dakota remained as fresh, as piercing, and as troubling as ever.

  Yet no matter how clearly he saw the danger before him and all the risks inherent with caring too much, he couldn’t stay away from her. As with their lovemaking, whether straight-up missionary and sweet or wild and raunchy, he found himself wanting it all, from the sublime to the humdrum domestic.

  Without either of them consciously creating one, they’d established a routine. During the week, he took an early flight into the city and returned in time for a late dinner. When it was impossible to avoid a business dinner or schmooze a new contact, he would spend the night in the city, but only if the evening ended very late. Otherwise, he far preferred arranging for a town car to drive him back to East Hampton and sleep with his arms around Dakota. On the weekends they surfed and then afterward, following a hot shower and hotter sex, he cajoled her into eating as big a breakfast as she could stomach. In the afternoon, if the weather held, they bundled up for a walk on the beach, sometimes talking, at other times content to listen to the wind and to the roll and scrape of pebbles with each advance and retreat of the waves. She’d bought another glass bowl and started a new collection of shells and sea glass; he refused to analyze how much that pleased him.