by MJ Fields
Standing on the balcony of our flat—she argues that it’s a penthouse— located on the Thames, the view of the iconic Tower Bridge is quite spectacular, especially at night.
Less than a week ago, she whispered, “This is where I want to get married.”
“Then we shall.” I pulled her into my arms, feeling so high.
“We’ll have to fit it into—”
“No more fitting it in, Mo Ghrá. We’ll do it now.”
“But—”
“You wanted small, simple, and elegant. My brothers and their families, Raff and Nathaniel. Your father, Julia, Layla, and Fa—”
“Julia can’t get Layla here, and I don’t even know if they have passports.”
I sigh. “I’m sure Raff wouldn’t be able to get coverage and here in less than —”
She shakes her head. “Family only. Can we have a reception in Holiday Springs when we get back?”
Standing on the balcony, in a black tux fabric, under white fabric strategically hung in the event it snows anymore, surrounded by those closest to us, my nieces and nephews yawning. I can’t help but snicker as I stand completely relaxed, gazing down the flickering light of the lanterns, seven on each side of a pathway leading from the glass doors of our London home to me.
My sisters-in-law, who’d been helping Sarah dress, walk out and stand beside their husbands. I look at my wristwatch and see it’s 11:58 p.m. Two minutes and she’ll be mine—legally.
I nod to the cellist, and she begins playing a song that reminds me of Sarah and me, and this very moment, wondering if she’d even recognize it.
“Dog Days Are Over” by Florence and the Machine.
My breath is temporarily lost when I see her, in the elegant sleeveless winter-white silk body contour gown that only a woman like Sarah would find on the rack—and on sale—and love it more than a twenty-thousand-dollar dress. Who needs to pay for grace, elegance, and beauty when you are its embodiment? Not Sarah.
She looks amazing. I love her in stilettos, and I love her tiny little feet in ones that cost a lot of money.
Her hair is in a sexy and full updo that I will undoubtedly ruin as soon as we’re behind closed doors.
I nod to her father Samuel, and together, they walk toward the Chupah, complete in the Jewish tradition.
Standing eye to eye, I stare at her beautiful face, her brown eyes shining and dewy as the rabbi and priest do their combined ceremony that I am only partially paying attention to. I have no idea how I’m repeating my vows because all I can think of is this, her is more precious to me than anything I have or could acquire in the span of a lifetime. This, her, Sarah, will be now and forever my greatest blessing and my most prized possession.
Possession, you ask?
Of course, she is.
After a sweet kiss, I guide her quickly inside and to our bedroom.
“We have guests, Mr. Hawthorne.” She grins.
“I have a wedding gift for us.”
“For us?” she asks curiously.
I reach in my pocket and pull out the gift. A twenty-carat diamond choker necklace and dangle it in front of her
Gasping, she asks, “How is this for us?”
Her eyes widen, and her jaw drops as she takes in the twenty-carat diamond ‘choker necklace.’
“Turn around, Mrs. Hawthorne,” I instruct.
Turning, she smiles, her eyes all lit up with understanding. “Are you collaring me, Mr. Hawthorne?”
“Aye, forever.”
Epilogue Two
(Ireland St. Patrick’s Day)
May you have children, and your children have children.
- Irish wedding blessing
Beckett
Two years ago, today, I met the love of my life four-thousand-five-hundred miles away from where I stand today. She was afraid to love because she didn't think anyone would love her because of her ‘condition.’ I won’t say that I’m unhappy she didn’t let anyone see her as she truly is because if they had, we might not be together today. But I can assure you no one on this planet could love her like I do, and there is, in fact, no woman who could have made me love like she does.
She asks for nothing, and in that deserves and demands everything I am and everything I have.
I’ve always had a dominant side in business, on the field, in life in general, and in the bedroom to a certain degree. That degree changed, the temperature rose a hundred degrees, when I intercepted Sarah’s naughty little email. Couple that with the realization that she was the woman whom I enjoyed so much that I bought a hotel so I’d have more of an excuse to come back to the area. All in the hope that I would run into the most enjoyable one-night stand I’d ever had—and that includes threesomes— who had a bit of a naughty imaginative side, and the rest, as they say, is history.
I laugh to myself at the realization that her ‘devious desires’ were sprung by fictional characters.
Sarah looks over her shoulder, giving me a questioning look, and I shake my head and pull her back between my legs.
“This is spectacular,” she says loud enough that I can hear her over the crowd at the grandstand seating where we are, which is surrounded by the rest of Dublin.
I remember as a child I’d beg my parents to let me out of the seating area to play amongst the locals and was always scolded because the seats ‘cost them good money.’ I used to get annoyed, gathered on the street sides watching the Saint Patrick's Day parade. As a teen, I was with friends, and as a college student, I was wherever it felt good, and for years I’ve worked through it all.
“Beckett?” I look from the crowd down to my wife. “Are you... bored?”
Leaning down, I kiss the top of her head. “Not at all. It’s been a while since I’ve done this, and I can’t wait to bring our children to the parade.”
She giggles. “Our children whom we’ve decided will be raised Jewish, to a parade that celebrates a Catholic bringing Christianity to Ireland?”
“Mrs. Hawthorne, I wasn’t going that deep with it.”
She smiles brightly. “Next year, we’ll have—”
I hold up a finger. “A toddler.”
“I can’t believe we’re having a baby.”
A little less than a year ago, I asked Sarah how she felt about becoming parents. At first, she wasn't on board. She had frozen some eggs but never intended on using them. When she couldn’t afford the storage fees, she made her peace with the fact she’d never have her own. We discussed adoption, and on her weekly conversation that week with Samuel, he informed her he’d been paying for the storage in case one day she changed her mind.
She said she was concerned with the amount of travel we do, and I reminded her that children were, in fact, portable and that we had the means to hire the most highly qualified childcare professionals when we had to work or attend functions.
She was still hesitant. I realized almost immediately she was concerned about carrying on ‘the’ gene.
After a couple of months, we decided to start slow and look for a surrogate. We wanted to be selective.
Nine months ago, we were connected with an angel from Texas, Leigh Ann.
This trip is our last out-of-the-country vacation for quite some time.
As per typical on Paddy’s day, the parade ends at Saint Patrick's cathedral. We follow the crowd and then head to Guinness for a scheduled tour. Having never done the tour before, it was interesting to hear the iconic beer's history, but nowhere near as amazing as watching Sarah take it all in. I’m honestly surprised she didn't take notes.
The tour ends in Gravity Bar, where we planned to get snockered and reenact our first time together, this time at a hotel, of course.
Gravity Bar has a great panoramic view of Dublin, and as we sit in a booth awaiting our drinks, Sarah pulls her phone from her jacket pocket.
I watch as her eyes widen. A look of worry crosses her beautiful face as she answers the phone, “Leigh Ann, is everything okay?”
Fourteen hours late
r, exhausted and excited, we sit waiting for more information on Leigh Ann and our child.
All we really know is that she is in active labor, and our baby is six weeks early. Dr. Landis has assured us that the baby will be fine.
“And Leigh Ann?” Sarah asks Dr. Landis.
Dr. Landis smiles at her. “Leigh Ann is more worried about you all.”
“Tell her we are praying for her.”
And she did, hell so did I, for four hours.
“Are you ready to meet your child?” Dr. Landis asks, and both Sarah and I are on our feet.
“Boy or girl?” I ask.
“You’ll have to wait and see,” she says, waving us down the hall.
Three days later, after a tearful goodbye and many hugs between Leigh Ann and Sarah, we finally leave Health Harris Methodist Hospital in Fort Worth to bring our son, Rian Samuel Hawthorne, home to Holiday Springs.
Once in the car, I look over our son's infant carrier at my wife as she smiles, batting away a joyful tear. “Once upon a time, I thought my life was over. But in actuality, it was just the beginning.”
A Taste of The Broody Brit
Nikki
Someone knocks on the door. I groan, nudging Townes. “Babe, someone is here. Did the doorman call up?”
“No,” he rasps. “Did you order bagels or something?” He opens his eyes, his glazed blue-green trained on me.
I turn away, lifting my phone from the bedside table. It’s 7:23 a.m. “No.”
“Well, are you going to get it?”
I throw an arm over my forehead, praying that whomever it is just goes away. The knocking doesn’t stop. In fact, it gets louder. I exhale, rising. Putting on a white terry-cloth robe Townes recently bought me from The Peninsula Hotel spa; I make my way out of the bedroom and into the spacious living area. I bite my lip and pause, noticing mounds of Townes’ files from work splayed across the kitchen counter. Even though he easily makes a mess, he hates seeing his world anything but spotless. As his assistant, it’s my job to organize his life. Naturally wanting to straighten it all up, I step toward the piles. But the knocking continues, and I walk away.
“I’m coming!” I yell.
I open the front door to Tinsley Norming, Townes’ mother, who is smiling tightly. Behind her is her driver, who doubles as her bodyguard, clad head-to-toe in black with his hands filled with brown paper bags.
“Well, move over,” she snips bossily, straightening out her cream tweed Chanel jacket and stepping forward before I even have the chance to step back. “I brought breakfast.”
With my jaw practically unhinged, I step aside. She struts through the door, her high heels clapping against the wooden floor like she owns the place. Okay, fine, maybe she does technically own this apartment. But I’m the one who actually lives here. Townes and I have been engaged for three months with no wedding date in sight. But we’ve been busy, and life has been good. At least... it’s been good when it’s just the two of us. When his family is involved, it’s another story entirely.
Tinsley makes herself comfortable in the apartment, brewing herself a cup of coffee in the Miele built-in coffee maker before eyeing the mess of files. I should go back to the bedroom and let her do whatever it is she came to do, but instead, I’m standing here, waiting for the drama to unfold. I can feel the tension from her body, and it isn’t the pleasurable kind.
“Isn’t it your job to take care of this?” She points a French manicured nail at the scattered papers.
“Well, I was going to. Last night Townes worked late, and I fell asleep—”
She inhales a sharp breath. “Fell asleep? You fell asleep before cleaning up?”
Normally, I would smile. Say something to pacify her. I mean, I always assumed that in time we’d find a way to get used to each other. ‘Kill her with kindness,’ as my mom used to say. But it’s been five years I’ve been with Townes, and her disrespect is becoming impossible to manage. Maybe it’s just the early morning. Or maybe it’s her expensive suit and perfectly blown-out blonde hair at too-early o’clock. But I can’t take it anymore. I take a deep breath, telling myself to remain calm. Nothing good can come out of an argument.
“Listen.” I clear my throat, tightening my robe. “It is a bit early. Why don’t I just give you a few moments in my kitchen while I wash up—”
“Your kitchen?” She laughs haughtily, as though this whole thing is a big joke. “This is my apartment.”
I squint my eyes. “Excuse me?” My voice comes out in a barely audible whisper.
“You heard me. This apartment,” she points to the darkly stained oak floors, “belongs to Morris and me. Townes lives in it currently, as he has a right to. You, however, are a guest.”
“Well, I will be family.” I lift my finger, the shining three-carat Tiffany diamond sparkling.
She laughs, moving her hand in front of her face as though swatting a fly. “Oh, no. That’s just a consolation prize. You can take that with you when you go. You think we would ever actually let him go through with it? A small-town Colorado girl, with my son? We both know that Townes is a prince of New York City. And you? You’re a penniless nothing.”
Her words burn like acid on my skin. I once told Townes that I felt embarrassed beside him—because she is right, he is a prince, and I am penniless. But it’s the fact that she is quoting, verbatim, an intimate conversation I had with my fiancé that has me seeing red—years of taking her abuse bubbles up my throat. The sweet girl I’ve always been to her suddenly has had enough, actually, I’m infuriated. Clearly, my kindness isn’t working. If anything, Tinsley feeds off it, and it only makes her resolve stronger. I graduated top of my class from Cornell University for the love of God. An Ivy. I am not a ‘nothing.'
“Go?” My voice is loud. Too loud, but I can’t help it. “Don’t you speak to me that way! I am about to become his wife, and you should show some respect! Otherwise, I may not take so kindly to your visits. Once we are married, you won’t be able to behave this way toward me. Not if you want to keep Townes in your life. I may be penniless now, but soon, I’ll be a princess.” The moment the words leave my mouth, I realize they were the wrong ones.
She raises one eyebrow, her gaze moving to the doorway. For the first time since I’ve known her, a bright and honest smile fills her face. She’s happy. Oh, shit. I follow her eyes to see Townes, leaning against the door frame, arms crossed over his broad, chiseled bare chest. He’s mad. Really mad. Finally crossing the room, he stands beside his mother. I always thought he took her side during arguments, but he denied it. It seems that finally, he’s admitting the truth—she will always come before me.
“Townes,” I practically beg, my heart crumbling on the floor. “Y-you don’t get it. You must not have heard the whole conversation. I just meant—”
“No, Nikki. You’re the one who doesn’t get it. I never listened to them when they called you a gold digger, but it seems that is exactly what you are.”
“Gold digger? Townes, no.” I shake my head, tears welling up in my eyes. “You know me. The real me. I didn’t mean to say that. She just doesn’t stop goading me. Telling me I’m less than. For years I was always kind, but it only made it easier for her to kick me. And you know that I’m not used to this type of life. How long do you expect me to let her talk down to me? Your future wife and one day, I’ll be the mother of your—”
“How can we get married if you can’t be decent to my mother and my family? I’ve been pinging between you and them for years. I just,” he exhales, putting his hands behind his head and pressing his lips together in that way he always does when thinking something bad, “I just can’t handle this anymore.”
“Are you joking?” My voice trembles. I want to step closer to him, touch him, remind him that I’m me—just Nikki. But my legs feel so heavy, they are almost paralyzed. It’s like my body knows what’s coming, even though my heart is in denial. “You know that I have tried every single thing in the book. I have literally done anything
I could to try to make them like me. I’ve cooked countless Sunday meals. Gone on all the trips. Wore all the clothes. I stopped seeing my own family on Christmas because you insisted on the Swiss Alps. And I did it all because I love you. But it’s no use! And did you hear what she—”
“I heard enough.” He shakes his head again and his lips turned downward. “Look, this isn’t going to work. You did your best, but clearly, the drama runs too deep with you.”
Silence ensues. I think I am literally struck dumb.
“She can stay in one of our apartments on Bleecker Street until she saves up enough to leave the city. You can help her get a job in Jersey, maybe. Anyhow, there is a vacant studio on the fifth-floor . It’s a walk-up.” She rubs Townes’ arm, holding back a smile. The white pearls around her neck gleam as she looks up at her son. “I’m glad you’ve come to your senses, darling.”
Rule Number One
Don’t date a rich prick
Nikki
Four months later...
After shutting down the cash register and turning off the lights, I pull on my camel-colored coat and wrap my pink cashmere scarf around my neck. The day was pleasant and calm, except for the regular post-elementary school rush. I’ve avoided it since returning to work here, but Nellie asked me to cover. I bet she won’t do that again until the holiday rush begins. I laugh to myself, or maybe in spite of myself, remembering the day’s highlight.
I unwrap my tenth orange-foiled wrapper and pop the creamy caramel coated in our homemade dark chocolate—with a hint of pumpkin flavor mixed in to add a seasonal flair—into my mouth as I imagine myself all but screaming at the kid in the pale blue Polo shirt for stealing a Jolly Rancher from the bulk candy bins in the back.
