by Moriah Jovan
I sighed and pulled her to me as tightly as I could.
•
We sat in the library, Mitch and I, snuggling on a couch.
Trevor and the twins, prodded by Nigel, set up a board game, in which Nigel overenthusiastically took the lead and participated.
Helene, having been cosseted and coddled by Lisette and Geneviève somewhere far away from the kitchen for the last couple of hours, now played pool with them in the next room, thoroughly engaged in trading stories of her experiences with them: Helene in medical school; Lisette in Hong Kong; Geneviève in Russia.
Gordon, sick at heart because none of the girls would look at him, much less talk to him, had gone to bed.
Clarissa stood in the doorway, leaning against the jamb and looking out a far window, tears creeping down her face that she didn’t bother to hide or wipe away.
“I’d apologize for ambushing you,” Mitch murmured in my ear, “but it’d be a lie.”
“That never stopped you before,” I grumbled. He chuckled. “It had to be done,” I admitted reluctantly, “if only for Helene. She needed to know, to make sense of it, no matter how bad it was. Olivia— Paige, well, I didn’t expect her to be as sympathetic as she was.”
“Did you ever figure out why Clarissa stayed with you all these years? Why she moved back in?”
I knew. I’d always known. “She needs her mommy,” I muttered, looking down at my hands. “She’s always been clingy. Too different from Helene. The odd girl out with the twins. Me, well...”
“Two peas in a pod.”
“Co-dependent, more like.”
“She wants your approval.”
“She’s my child. She has my approval.”
“Does she know that?”
I sighed. “I don’t know.”
He glanced over at her and then slowly stood. “Back in a while.” I turned to watch as he approached her, strong but gentle, and said with great care, “Walk with me, Clarissa?”
She looked up at him, her face blank not because she was hiding anything, but because she had nothing left to show.
“Sure,” she said without emotion, and disappeared down the hall with him.
* * * * *
A River of Surprise
March 18, 2011
The wedding wherein I would tie myself to a man because he wouldn’t have sex with me under any other circumstance was about the most perfect thing a woman my age could imagine. I had to admit, however reluctantly, that I felt eighteen again, fresh and innocent, filled with hope and promise for a future with a good man, a man of my choosing, a man I desired, in a dress that made me feel like a princess.
Mitch had insisted I wear white, and had recruited a sullen Clarissa to make sure it happened the way he wanted it to—but she’d done it and done it well.
I looked down at the ball gown she’d chosen for me (really, the girl has excellent taste), smoothed the nubby white silk and blinked to clear my eyes of their sudden cloudiness.
An evening wedding in mid March, all the doors and windows of the mansion thrown open to allow the hundred or so guests to enjoy the sweet, fresh, cool air. Orange roses garnished with creamy white orange blossoms punctuated every available display surface without going overboard. I peeked around a corner and down the stairs to see the guests being seated.
On the front row of the groom’s side, Mitch’s real family: his parents (lovely people, adorably caught up in each other and only concerned about Mitch’s happiness), his daughters and sons-in-law. Behind them, his siblings and their spouses.
Following, Mitch’s adopted family.
Giselle Kenard, in a subdued yellow evening gown, the bodice studded with pearls. Eilis Logan, in a black velvet and chiffon cocktail dress, next to her. Justice Hilliard, in a rich green-and-black silk cheongsam, on Eilis’s right.
Vanessa Whittaker, clad in pink silk and white organza, on Justice’s right. It didn’t completely surprise me that Mitch knew her, but it did surprise me they were such good friends.
Giselle and Eilis had their heads together, whispering. Justice wrapped her arm around Vanessa, kissed her temple, pulled her close to allow Vanessa to lean on her. It had been several months since she had bid public, heartbreaking adieu to her lover. Mitch must be very dear to her when attending a wedding was clearly the last thing she wanted to do.
The four women were a compelling vignette on the nature of true sisterhood and I realized that my life had been poorer for its lack, but now I had Louise and Prissy, and Prissy—who’d known little more about it than I—had me.
Morgan, to Giselle’s left, draped his arm across his cousin’s shoulder, drew her away from Eilis and whispered in her ear; she nodded and whispered back, gesturing as she spoke. Eilis leaned forward then and Morgan included her in the conversation. Family ties aside, I knew an impromptu business meeting when I saw one. Ah, normalcy. It soothed my nerves.
Then the few ward members we had invited: Prissy and Steve Seaton. Sabrina and Ben Johnston. Louise and Aaron Kelly. Terry and Mary Naples, his red tie matching his wife’s gown.
Father Rory Farraday.
On the left were my family and colleagues. Gordon and Nigel sat with Olivia’s and Paige’s boyfriends.
Jack and Lydia Blackwood.
Melinda Newman, along with quite a few denizens of the financial district. The announcement of the marriage of Cassandra St. James to Mitch Hollander had sent roars of laughter echoing up and down Wall Street.
I had finally contacted my parents in Nebraska to tell them of my news, and while they were genuinely happy for me, they declined my invitation, even though I offered to pay their expenses. Their shame ran too deeply still. My genius father and ingenious mother, who had taught me how to invest and save, felt they deserved to live in poverty for having given me to Rivington. They could not bear my forgiveness.
I had asked Mitch’s daughters to be bridesmaids along with my daughters, but Geneviève had said, “Cassie. Six bridesmaids is about five too many and your daughters need you. We love you, but no thanks. Please don’t be offended.”
Not likely. I completely agreed with her.
Nigel had offered to walk me down the aisle, but I demurred. I belonged to no one but myself and so I would go to Mitch alone.
The bishop of the Emmaus First Ward, who made his living as one of the foundry’s foremen, would be performing the ceremony.
Finally things began to shake out and suddenly, I found myself surrounded by my daughters and their escorts arranging themselves at the top of the stairs: Helene as maid of honor and Trevor as best man. Sebastian and Olivia. Bryce and Paige.
Clarissa had not had to finagle me into arranging her with her idol, though Knox had coldly informed her she could not expect any consideration from him as to the status of her law school application just because she was on his arm for a wedding. He had also instructed her she was not to address him as “Knox” after she had been so bold as to do so once, and that “Dr. Hilliard” would do. But I understood her excitement, and I smiled when I saw the expressions of amused exasperation Knox cast her when she wasn’t looking. He caught my glance and winked.
Clarissa turned to me and gave me the once-over, checked my strapless bodice for bits of misplaced lining, straightened the elaborate pearl-and-diamond choker Mitch had made for me out of his iridescent alloy, and made sure the white orange blossoms in my up-do were arranged to her satisfaction.
“Miss Rivington,” Knox rumbled and I saw that the first three couples were already paced down the stairs and up the aisle. He held out his arm. “It’s our turn.”
They disappeared down the stairs and I took my place, awaiting my music; then it began and I gulped when I saw all those people stand for me as I started down the stairs.
I saw Mitch across the library, standing in a tux, waiting for me with the look on his face that I knew meant he was very, very pleased.
My heart hurt in a way I had not known before.
Expectation. Longing
.
I knew my face was an open book at this moment, but I could not discipline my expression to hide all the things I wasn’t sure I wanted known. Perhaps even things I didn’t know I might be exposing.
I reached the floor and stepped onto the white runner strewn with orange rose petals and stayed there, suddenly unable to move. But I wanted to; I wanted to walk the path that would take me to Mitch. Why I couldn’t, I didn’t know. My left hand fell to my side, my orange-roses-with-orange-blossoms bouquet in it, and I held the other out for Mitch, palm up. I didn’t know why I did such a thing; it was completely contrary to wedding protocol and not what we had rehearsed, but he didn’t hesitate. He strode down the aisle toward me, his eyes alight, one corner of his mouth turned up.
Then my hand was in his big, warm, callused one. “Hi,” he murmured.
I looked up at him. “Hi.”
He placed my hand in the crook of his arm and said, “Whereya headed?”
“I’m on my way to get married.”
“Is that something you want to do right now?”
“Oh, yes, very much.”
“Then can I give you a lift?”
“I’d appreciate it.”
I saw no one but Mitch, his strong profile, his understated but unflappable humor, his soft smirk teasing me without a word.
I think I blushed.
I don’t remember one word of that ceremony, but it didn’t matter. All I needed to know was my cue to say “I do.”
I did.
And with one long, deep kiss shortly after he said, “I do,” I became a Mormon bishop’s wife.
* * * * *
More Room in a Broken Heart
I lost myself as Mitch swept me into the first dance of the evening to an odd choice of a song, a Carly Simon one I’d never paid attention to. It caught my ear one day as I stood in Bergdorf, absently fondling a metal vase not nearly so beautiful as the ones Mitch had made for me.
Here we were, coming around again, two people in our mid-forties with a marriage each behind us, seven adult children and a grandchild between us, each of us having made our own names and fortunes, meeting as equals on a dance floor on the occasion of our wedding.
The song faded and we kissed again—
—just before the Latin beats pounded through the speakers.
“Mother!” Clarissa hissed at me and dragged me away to the bedroom I’d be sharing with Mitch for the next year. She had my long skirt stripped off me before I could breathe. “Here,” she said. The little white salsa skirt she’d ordered smacked me in the butt and slid to the floor. “Shit, where are those shoes? Oh, here!”
“Clarissa, calm down,” I murmured as I bent to step into the skirt, then sat down on the bed to put on white ballroom dance shoes covered in sequins. “You’re more nervous than I am. It’s over. Go dance and have a good time.”
She stopped and stared at me as if she had never seen me before. Bit her lip. “I love you, Mom,” she whispered, then fled as if I’d just carved her out of my will.
When I descended the stairs, I found a house full of people applying themselves most diligently to the purpose of dancing. Mitch’s family—save Sebastian, who stood in a corner nursing a glass of punch—were, while not terribly conversant with the actual steps, mixing up elements of swing, two-step, and jive for a decent imitation.
It would do.
Mitch caught me as soon as I put my foot on the floor, and he jerked me to him tight, then spun me out.
The floor cleared immediately, and not because we were the bride and groom.
We danced more intimately than we ever had, with his thigh between my legs as I shimmied and ground. It was downright dirty. Catcalls, whistles, hoots, and shouts, but halfway through our guests couldn’t stay on the sidelines anymore.
This party would last all night long.
I danced with every male present except Morgan, whose knowing grin I was studiously ignoring, and Sebastian, who, I was curtly informed, did not dance.
“Are you serious?” I said.
“My artistic and/or higher math talents do not extend to the basics of being able to count in time. Or carry a tune.” He pointed to the outskirts of the dance floor, where his wife was getting a crash course by Bryce. “See? She’s doing better than I could ever do, and my brother-in-law has to teach her.” Then he huffed a reluctant chuckle. “I need a drink. I would’ve spiked the punch, but with my luck, they’d all die of alcohol poisoning with the first cup.” I laughed. “I bet you’re dying for a good martini. Want me to go get the fixings and smuggle you a flask?”
I opened my mouth to take him up on it and gratefully, then snapped it shut again. “No,” I murmured, feeling much better that someone in this house half full of teetotalers understood.
His expression took on a certain chill and his body tensed. “You going the conversion route?”
I shrugged, even in the face of his blatant disapproval. “In for a penny, in for a pound.”
He studied me for a half second, his eyes narrowed. “Has Mitch asked you to?” he asked slowly.
“God, no. As far as I can tell, he’s completely ambivalent about whether I join the Church or not.”
He grinned suddenly. “Really,” he drawled with great satisfaction, as if he’d found some deeper meaning in it. When the music changed to a slow dance and Mitch came looking for me, Sebastian handed me off to my new husband with a clap on his back.
“Well, hello,” I whispered just before he kissed me.
It wasn’t a dance so much as we stood in the middle of the dancers and I lost myself in his kiss. Unlike all the evenings before, all the days after he had kissed me for the first time, this time I knew that what I wanted would happen, but—
“Let’s go to bed,” he growled against my lips.
—he needed a dose of his own medicine.
“Now, Mitch,” I murmured, coy, pushing myself away from him just a bit, “we have guests and obligations.”
He groaned good-naturedly. “Aw, Cassandra, that’s torture.”
“This is your own fault, making me wait three months and get married, when you knew I wanted to fuck you on our first date.”
“But you did, in fact, wait three months and get married.”
“Yes. So now you can sacrifice a few more hours.”
It was unfortunate that the first real chance I had to get to know the women of Mitch’s adopted family was during a celebration, instead of an all-nighter around a dinner table with good food and wine flowing.
I met Vanessa Whittaker, who hid her sorrow well enough if one didn’t know what to look for. I complimented her on the food, asked about her time as a chef in New York, and deliberately didn’t mention her publicity woes or the man she so clearly pined for. “Mitch spent a lot of time at my inn after his wife died,” she replied when I asked her how she knew him. “Sebastian sent him, asked me to look after him. He’s such a sweet man.”
I took that as the most gracious of warnings and acknowledged it with a nod, because apparently, these people who loved Mitch like a brother viewed me with some suspicion.
Hell, I’d look at me suspiciously, too.
Justice Hilliard was just as sharp-tongued in private conversation as she was on the internet and talk radio, but her propensity for off-color humor took the edge off her cutting wit. The girl could’ve made a living as a stand-up comedian. “So how did you catch Knox Hilliard?” I asked, and immediately realized I’d stuck my sequined foot in my mouth. She slid me an amused glance. “What you mean to ask is why I deign to stay with him. Right?” I laughed, not wondering a moment longer.
Eilis Logan, bored with her dance lesson, could barely pull her eyes away from some point over my shoulder and thus, was not a good conversationalist. I finally turned around to find King Midas staring at her hotly. “Excuse me,” she muttered, put her cup on the table, and brushed past me to join him. They promptly disappeared.
Then there was Giselle Kenard, fanning herself with
a handful of napkins, her face flushed from dancing nonstop. (With her complexion, she’d flush from jogging up a short flight of stairs.) She had apparently noticed Eilis’s abrupt departure and said, rather apologetically, “Three kids. Who have completely wrecked the Taights’ sex life. But you watch. Nine months from now? Taight number four. That woman’s more fertile than the Nile and for her, pregnancy is a permanent state of euphoria.”
I was only a little older than Eilis. I couldn’t imagine starting a new family at my age, but my train of thought derailed when Giselle finally got to her point.
“I saw the way you looked at my husband in December.”
The edge in her voice was unmistakable. It was probably the first time she’d ever been confronted with another woman who found him and his mangled face sexually attractive—and she didn’t know quite how to deal with it. I smirked. “Well, dish.”
“Yes. He is that good.”
“He looks like he’d be rough on a girl.”
“He is fabulously nasty.”
“For what it’s worth, I’m no threat to you.”
“That presumes that you think you ever could be.” I laughed. “But as it happens, I have also been watching you watch Mitch this evening.”
“Look at him,” I said, pointing to where he was teaching Paige how to cha cha. Ballet, jazz, and contemporary dance had superseded proper ballroom dance lessons when the girls were growing up. “Do you blame me?”
She snickered. “Ah, okay. If that’s what you want me to think, I’ll go with it.”
My amusement vanished. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I have never seen a woman so in love with a man.”
“Please. I only married him to fuck him. I’m pretty sure you all got the memo.”
“Do you lie to yourself a lot or is this an aberration?” No, I did not like this woman. “Look,” she said, and turned to the refreshments table to write on a napkin, “I don’t like you, but I like what you do for Mitch.” She offered the napkin, her phone number on it. “Call me when you figure out you’re in over your head. We can go wreak havoc on Manhattan and, while I am bankrupting my husband at Manolo Blahnik, I can give you the nitty gritty of your new culture.”
