“Hi, Mom.”
She kisses each of his cheeks, then wraps her arms around Nixon’s broad shoulders and squeezes tight enough to leave handprints in his shirt. She turns toward me and clasps my hands with both of her own. “Welcome, Bree.”
“Thank you. It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Voss.”
“Call me Mom or Mama. When you’re in my home, you’re part of my family.”
“Thank you . . . Mama.” I haven’t called someone that for fifteen years. It feels nice. Really nice. My scar tingles.
“Let me have a good look at you.” She fans my arms wide and inspects me from head to toe. “Tsk-tsk-tsk.”
What’s wrong?
She says to Nixon, “Tales caderas estrechas.”
“Sí.” He laughs.
This isn’t funny. What the hell are they saying?
“Ella no será capaz de bombear más de tres o cuatro bebés.”
“It’ll be okay.” Nixon pats her shoulder.
“No lo sé.” She frowns.
Nixon chuckles and says to me, “Mom’s afraid with your narrow hips you can’t pump out more than three or four babies.”
Oh, God.
“We’ll fatten you up at dinner.” Mrs. Voss hooks her arm underneath mine. “I must say, Bree, I liked you that first day we spoke. I came home and told Nixon’s father, ‘Now that’s a woman our boy should date.’” She peeks over her shoulder to Nixon. “Grab some wine, will you?”
“Sure.” He opens the coat closet and reveals a couple of stashed cases of Francis Coppola Chardonnay.
“It’s Southern California,” Mrs. Voss says. “We don’t need coats, but we do need wine.”
“Absolutely!”
We head into the open-layout kitchen, circled with spot-free windows overlooking a lima-bean-shaped pool. A built-in stainless barbecue sits beside a rectangular teak table fenced with six wicker-backed chairs. “George, the kids are here.”
The shape of Nixon’s nose is mirrored in this man. It must be Nixon’s dad.
George says nothing, nor does he look up from his Los Angeles Times crossword puzzle.
“I swear that man can’t hear a damn thing I say.”
“I can hear just fine.” He sets the paper down and peers over his reading glasses toward Nixon. “How you doing, son?”
Nixon pats his dad on the arm. “Good to see you, Dad. This is Bree.”
“Bree.” He extends his hand. “It’s a pleasure.”
“Thank you. It’s nice to meet you, as well.”
“What’s with the walk down memory lane?” Nixon points at an opened box of family pictures on the table.
“Your father thinks we had a white Honda. Bet me twenty bucks.”
“He’s wrong?”
“Of course he is. Thirty-seven years together and you’d think he’d be smarter than to make a bet with me. The car was as blue as the sky. Somewhere in that pile is a picture to prove it.”
“What’s a five-letter word for deep anxiety?” Nixon’s father asks with his pencil hovered over his puzzle.
“Dread?” Mrs. Voss answers.
“Starts with the letter A.”
“Angst?” I interject.
He smiles at me. “That fits.”
I lean close for him to pat me on the head.
Nixon pulls out a photo from the stack and hands it to me. “Check me out.” A sixteen- or seventeen-year-old version of Nixon is decked out in a black tux with polished shoes. He stands beside a curly-haired girl dressed in an off-shoulder floor-length chiffon gown. A pink carnation corsage is strapped to her wrist.
“Prom?” I ask.
“Yep.”
“Here we go.” Mrs. Voss hands Nixon and me a glass of wine. “Cheers to love.”
“Cheers.” We sip.
“Let’s sit.”
Nixon slides the chair out beside his mom, but she shakes her head. “No. No. That’s for Bree. You sit across. Get the almonds from the pantry, too.” She pats the seat and motions for me to join her.
“Thanks, Mrs. Voss . . . er, Mama.”
We sift through the mound of pictures: Christmas mornings with bows taped in Nixon’s toddler bed-head hair, various family birthdays, track and swim meets, he and a group of friends cheering at a Padres baseball game. We chuckle at a shot of Nixon dressed in his high school graduation cap and gown and muse on a tender photo of Nixon cradling his tiny newborn nephew at the hospital.
Tears line the lower lids of Mrs. Voss’s eyes as she nudges her shoulder with my own. “I am blessed with a beautiful family.”
“Yes, you are.” I muster a softhearted smile, but shame strangles my heart. What the hell am I doing? Chumming it up with Mrs. Voss. Calling her Mama. Pretending this moment is real. This is wrong. So wrong. Nixon’s family is lovely. Lovely. And I’m playing them for fools.
“What’s a four-letter word for contemptible one?” George asks.
B-r-e-e.
“Liar,” Nixon says.
Same difference.
Nixon’s dad glances at Mrs. Voss, who stepped toward the refrigerator for more wine. He slides a picture from the pile and scratches behind his ear.
I peek at the photo. Mrs. Voss dangles keys in front of a Honda. A blue Honda.
“Hmm,” he grunts.
I press my lips together, swallowing my laugh as he hides the picture underneath an artificial plant on the nearby windowsill. He winks at me, then says, “Need any help, Regina?”
“No, no. I’m fine. Thanks, dear.”
“What time is the wedding?” Nixon asks.
“Sunset. At the Vista Inn on Nineteenth Avenue. Same place we held your dad’s retirement party.” She glances at her watch. “Oh, my. I better go beautify myself. At my age it’s a process. Now you two get yourself settled. There are snacks in the fridge and clean towels in the bathroom closet. And Nixon, don’t let your dad talk you into fixing the swamp cooler. I have a repairman coming Tuesday.”
Nixon steps toward his dad as Mrs. Voss pulls me aside. “You let me know if you need anything.”
“I will, thank you.”
“He likes you.”
“Sorry?”
“My boy is in love. I can see it in his eyes.”
What? He . . . uh . . . what?
She disappears down the hall and calls out, “Stay off the roof, boys.”
“Quick look?” his dad says with a mischievous grin.
“Sure. Let me show Bree the room first.”
We grab our bags and I follow Nixon into the guest bedroom.
My boy is in love. She can’t be serious. Can she?
“Here you go,” he says.
The room is spacious, bright, and poolside, with a similar view as the kitchen. A puffy leather recliner sits in the corner beside an end table topped with hardbound copies of Great Expectations and Pride and Prejudice. Two books I promised myself to read. With CliffsNotes. At the far side of the room is a sprawling bathroom with an oval soaking tub, a vessel sink, and a stand-alone glass-walled shower.
“I’m through there.” He points at a door on the opposite of the bathroom leading to an adjoining bedroom. “Why are you staring at me like that?”
Is it true? Is there something in his eyes? “Uh . . . nothing, sorry. This is a gorgeous room. I feel like a queen.”
“Good.” He laughs. “See you in a bit.”
Half an hour later, I step from the shower wrapped in a towel. I hear voices in the kitchen and I think about how the Vosses have welcomed me into their home, the comfort and ease of sitting around the family table, laughing, teasing, and sharing intimate moments from their past. I’ve thought about what Mrs. Voss said and she’s sweet, but surely mistaken. She’s overzealous for grandchildren and would likely see promise if Nixon brought a blow-up doll. Be
sides, Nixon made it clear, these past couple weeks have all been for show.
Prickly thoughts of Sara enter my mind. Nixon and his family are great. Really great. How could she let him go?
Rubbing clear the fogged mirror, I catch sight of my scar. I know this was Nixon’s idea, but my parents would be disappointed in me, toying with this family’s emotions for my own benefit. And what about Nixon? He’s stood beside me these past few weeks and though he hasn’t asked, I haven’t told him about Sean. Doesn’t he at least deserve the truth? I hear him meandering about in his room. No time like the present.
“Come in.” Nixon, dressed in dark gray slacks and a soft-blue shirt, stands by the window tying the knot of his silk tie.
Handsome.
“Everything okay?”
It takes a moment to find my voice before I say, “We can’t do this.”
“Do what?”
“Hoodwink your family.” I repeat the word Mr. Voss spelled on his puzzle earlier. “You have such a nice family.”
“I do.”
“A beautiful family.”
“They are. Relax, now. It’s only for one night. We’ll be gone in the morning. You’re just a prop, remember?”
I nod, slightly offended by his apathetic attitude. I did buy a new dress, after all. And my Christian Louboutin tan leather pumps did not pay for themselves. But I’m quickly reminded of Sean and what I came to say. “Nixon, there’s something else I need to share with you.”
Mrs. Voss knocks on the door. “Nixon?”
“One sec, Mom.”
“Your father’s on the roof.”
“I’ll be—”
She raps the door again. “He’ll fall off and break his head. Or worse, foul up the repair even more. I need you this instant.”
“She’ll kick down the door if I don’t let her in.”
“You better go.”
“We’ll talk later, okay?”
“Yeah, sure.”
He starts to leave, but turns and says, “Are you wearing that to the wedding?”
I glance at my towel. “Too casual?”
“Actually, I like it.”
And with that he’s gone, leaving me alone with a damn little flutter.
Twenty minutes later, after I’m zipped snug in my dress and my hair is wrapped in a loosely braided side bun with a few wispy tendrils framing my face, I dab my lips with pale-pink lip gloss and head out the door.
Nixon stands in the living room, fiddling with his cuff links. He turns toward me and smiles. “You look amazing.”
“Thank you. So do you.”
“No, I mean amazing. The bride’s gonna be pissed. We’ll have to hide you in the back or something.”
“Oh, stop,” I halfheartedly protest. “Or compliment me all the way to the church. Whatever floats your boat.”
He laughs. “Let’s go.”
Half past the hour, we arrive at the Vista Inn, a Mission Revival–style historic hotel in downtown Encinitas.
“This is beautiful,” I say as we stroll under the thick arched entryway and into the courtyard. We’re surrounded by white-plastered walls veined with red-flowering vines, heavy concrete tiered fountains, and the smiles of family and friends.
Nixon says hello, shakes hands, and introduces me to other guests before we settle into our seats in the second row behind the altar.
The ceremony is tender. The bride glows. And to my body-language-heart’s content, the groom’s shoulders are relaxed and his focus never wavers as she walks down the aisle. Good sign.
Before long, the newly married couple seals their union with a kiss and walks the aisle, whispering and giggling to one another as if no one else exists. Another good sign.
Wiping a tiny tear away, I say to Nixon, “See now, how can you not like weddings?”
We make our way to the reception held in an adjacent banquet hall. The festive music plays loud, matching the vibrance of the room decorated with orange, red, and yellow flowers, white tablecloths, and dome lights.
We find our table with the personalized placement cards, cream linen card stock wrapped with a chili pepper attached to a raffia bow.
I smile at the recollection of my conversation with Mrs. Voss a couple of weeks ago. “It’s insensitive to have a reception without assigned seats, leaving people to just mill around, don’t you think?”
Nixon and I claim our seats. We chat with the six other guests at our table during dinner, clink Patrón-filled shot glasses for the wedding toasts, and eat our heart-shaped churros dipped in chocolate for dessert. It’s a perfect evening.
Nixon’s pulled aside to chat with a family friend.
I take a moment to study the room.
A cluster of people fill the dance floor, others gather around tables laughing and chatting, and a group of groomsmen are shouldered at the bar. The party is in full swing. And not a single person without a smile.
My thoughts drift to my own wedding. Sean and I haven’t talked about a venue, or a date—haven’t talked about much of anything, really—but I’m certain once the interviews are over, we’ll start planning. Or at least I will. Sean, like most men, won’t get too involved in the preparations. He’ll leave the decision making to me, asking only when and where he’s supposed to show up, letting me pick exactly what I want. What do I want?
“Drink?” Nixon’s voice startles me.
“Yes, I’d love one.”
Before we have the chance to grab a cocktail, Mrs. Voss with her nearly drained margarita approaches us. “You two need to get in line. They’re about to form the path of love.”
“What’s a path of love?” I ask.
“Hurry, they’re doing it now.” She points across the room to a dozen or so men standing in a long row opposite the same number of women. Each pair raises their joined hands, canopying a walkway like a roof. Lots of couples form a line to enter the human tunnel. The bride and groom sit at the exit, sipping Champagne and clapping to the music. A basket of rose petals rests near their feet.
Mrs. Voss swallows the last of her drink. She sets the glass on a nearby table and motions toward the group. “All lovers need to get in line and walk through the path of love. ¡Vamos!”
“No, that’s okay. We’ll just watch. We—”
“¡Vamos!”
I stumble half a step back.
Nixon snickers.
“It’s bad luck for the bride if you don’t.” She pushes us toward the line. “Do you want to doom the marriage?”
“God, no.”
“¡Rápido!” she insists.
“Guess we better do this.” I slide my hand into Nixon’s, realizing he didn’t offer.
We follow Mrs. Voss as she wiggles her way into the middle of the chain, joining hands with Nixon’s dad.
The music is bouncy and the tequila I had with dinner relaxes me. I find myself swaying along as we inch forward in the line, waiting our turn.
We watch others before us dance through the path of love, twirling and twisting toward the newlyweds. Once there, they sprinkle a handful of rose petals at the bride and groom’s feet.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you might actually be enjoying this,” Nixon says.
“You think so, huh?” But Nixon’s right. I am enjoying this.
“Ready?” he asks. The last couple in front of us exits the tunnel.
“Try to keep up.”
Nixon and I groove under the canopy of arms, our hands still linked together. We sway and sashay down the aisle, smiling, laughing, waving to the cheering crowd. The energy in the room is contagious. The affection of friends and family glides through the air. The body language is obvious. Pure love and fun.
And, I have to admit, I’m impressed with Nixon’s swagger. His hips slink and jut with the rhythm. His shoulders rise and
dip, matching the beat. He’s got moves. They say a man’s dancing skills are a direct reflection of his bedroom—Jesus, Bree. Focus.
We’re halfway through the line when Mr. and Mrs. Voss’s arms drop to our waist. They clutch us tight.
What the . . . ?
Breaking the tunnel, the remainder of the group forms a circle. The Vosses claim a spot and they all swirl around us like a whirlpool. We’ve no escape. Everyone cheers. “¡Besar, besar, besar!”
Besar?
I glance at Nixon. There’s an interesting look in his eye.
This isn’t some sort of cult ritual, is it? I don’t have to drink potion from a skull or pierce my eyebrows, right?
The group continues to spiral around us like a bunch of sharks stalking two defenseless seals. They chant. “Besar, besar, besar.”
Okay, first off, everyone needs to settle down. And second, what the hell does besar even mean? Damn, I knew I should’ve taken a foreign language in college.
“It’s bad luck for the bride if you don’t,” a woman shouts.
Yeah, I’ve been told that already.
“You don’t want the marriage to fail, do you?”
Heard that already, too. I’m beginning to think this whole path of love is some sort of scam. A cheap ploy to draw a laugh.
“Besar,” Mrs. Voss yells with an adamant tone.
“Okay, fine. You win.” I’ll be the sucker. “Besar.”
“You sure?” Nixon asks.
“Yes. Let’s get it over with.”
But I’m totally not prepared for what Nixon does next.
He slides his fingers toward the nape of my neck. Cradling my head in his hands, he strokes my cheek with his thumb. He leans toward me; his breath hovers above my skin. His mouth finds mine. He parts my lips with his own. Nixon kisses me long, soft, and slow.
The music stops.
The crowd falls silent.
There is something about a wedding. Whether it’s the amorous bride and groom, the clanking spoons sparking kisses, the smell of flowers, the flow of Champagne, the proud parents, the hunt and seek of groomsmen for bridesmaids, or the elderly couple that jitterbugs long into the night, the occasion always stirs a wistful tone within me.
It must be the promise of this day that is making me quiver as Nixon glides his hands toward my hips. The spirit of the ceremony is why my body is weakened by his touch, as he pulls me closer. It’s the vows for a new love that warm my skin as Nixon breaks our kiss, then presses his forehead against mine.
Can I See You Again? Page 24
