I Take You (23 page)

The doors open at the top floor. He pulls me out and we stumble against the wall, kissing and clawing at each other. I try to pull away, to make him wait, but he’s insistent, forcing my mouth open with his, pressing a leg between mine, holding me so tight it almost hurts. Somehow we make it inside his room, and things slow down. He pulls my sweater off my shoulders. He unzips my dress and lifts it over my head. He unhooks my bra and lets it fall to the floor. Slides my panties down my legs. Slips my sandals off my feet. Kissing me the entire time, everywhere. It feels unbearably good.

I unbutton his shirt. “Human beings are terrible to each other, aren’t they?”

“Monstrous,” he agrees. He lifts and kisses my breasts as I pull his undershirt over his head. His chest is broad and strong, lightly freckled. He’s wearing some sort of cologne. I inhale deeply, loving the scent. I bend my head and catch a nipple between my teeth. I feel it harden. We sink to the floor. I kiss his rib cage, his belly, the bones of his hips. He’s pushing up against me now, his heels digging into the floor, his hips rising. But I take my time.

“Why do you think men and women mistreat each other so badly?” I ask.

He takes my face in his hands and kisses me deeply. “You’ve a very funny notion of foreplay.”

I unbuckle his belt. I unbutton his jeans and pull them down. I run my hand up and down the hard length of him. “And you’ve a very beautiful cock.”

“I bet you say that to all the boys.”

I smile at him. “Yes, but I don’t always mean it.” I kneel and take him in my mouth. His hands are in my hair, gripping my head and pushing it down.

“Your friend is wrong,” he gasps. “There are so many good words for women like you.”

I look up. “Give me some examples.”

He pushes me back down. “Later, love. Later.”

After a while I find his jacket and search through the pockets in the hopes of finding a condom. I do. I put it on him and then lower myself, slowly. He groans. I put his hands on my breasts. I move up and down, taking all of him inside me. I kiss him, my teeth catching his tongue and biting gently.

“Lascivious,” he says. “There’s a word.”

“Give me another.”

He wraps his arms around me and we roll over. “Licentious, of course.” He enters me again, deeply. “Lecherous,” he says. “Carnal.”

“Carnal is good.” I push up against him. “I like carnal.”

“Lewd,” he says. “Lusty.” With each word he thrusts deep inside me. “Smutty. Filthy.”

I grab his hips and pull him into me. I smack his ass. He pins my arms to the ground. “Wicked,” he says. “Very, very wicked.”

We end up on the balcony, our skin prickled by the night air. He has me up on the railing. My legs are wrapped around his waist. He buries his fingers in my hair and forces my head back as he moves in and out of me. He kisses my neck, my breasts, my shoulders. The metal is wet with spray from the ocean. I could slip and fall, but I don’t care. Instead I come, endlessly. He does, too.

He draws a bath. We sit in the steaming water, facing each other.

“Ian?”

“My dear?”

“Your theory is ludicrous.”

He looks wounded. “I didn’t convince you?”

“No,” I say. “But it might be the most effective pickup strategy I’ve ever heard.”

He leans back contentedly against the tiled wall. “I’ve spent a lot of time working on it.”

“As a conspiracy, though, it doesn’t make any sense.” I move my foot so that it’s resting between his legs. I start playing with him. “Why would we choose misery?”

“We like it,” he replies. He lifts my foot out of the water and examines it. He kisses my big toe. “Misery is safe. It’s more comfortable than happiness.”

“More comfortable?”

“Certainly.” He kisses another toe. “We never have to worry about losing it.”

“I don’t like misery,” I say.

“No? What do you like?”

I sit up and move toward him. “I’ll show you.”

Soon I’m on top of him again. “I wish I’d met you months ago,” I say breathlessly.

“I agree.” He kisses me. “I thought it such a shame when you missed the holiday party.”

I stop moving. “What?”

He laughs and kisses my breasts.

“The holiday party,” I say, trying to think. “The holiday party.”

Oh, shit.

I struggle to get up, but he’s holding me tight.

“Ian!” I say, striking my forehead with the heel of my hand. “Ian from the museum!”

He’s one of Will’s coworkers.

Technically, his boss.

And one of his groomsmen.

He laughs softly, kissing my neck. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

I try to get up again, but he doesn’t let me.

Just when I thought I’d gotten over feeling guilty about everything. He’s watching me, smiling.

What’s the harm at this point, though? I mean, seriously? What does it matter?

I stop struggling. Ian’s hands are stroking my back lightly. “Will’s a lucky man,” he says.

“You think so?”

He laughs again. “Oh, absolutely.”

I open my eyes
. I’m lying in bed, staring straight out the window at the shimmering sea.

I am perfectly sober. My mind is clear.

I’m going to tell Will. I’m going to call it off, right now.

I take a deep breath. I roll over.

He’s not there.

I sit up and look around. The room is empty. When I get out of bed, I see a note on the desk.

The Audubon House? Oh, right—we’re meeting Mattie there this morning for a walk-through. Of the wedding that’s not going to happen.

I order breakfast and eat it while I get dressed. I start berating myself about last night, but I stop. It doesn’t matter. I mean, it does matter—seeing my father, that nonsense with Ian? Further proof that I have no business getting married.

I leave the hotel and head down United Street. This little wedding preview is going to be gruesome. With all of Mattie’s talk about wanting the event to be such a storybook affair, a fairy tale come to life? I’m picturing showers of rose petals, roving ice sculptors. Runaway kids in fluffy wings.

No doubt in my mind: there will be doves.

Maybe I can pull Will aside before she arrives and get it over with.

I turn onto Whitehead Street. Will is waiting by the picket fence in
front of the Audubon House. Standing beside him are his mother and father. I freeze.

He comes up and kisses me. “Morning, sleepyhead!”

“What are they doing here?”

“My parents? They’re interested. Especially my mom.”

Who’s smiling at me right now in her special, special way.

“Will?” I say. “We need to talk.”

Then Mattie tears up in her car, one wheel bumping up onto the sidewalk. She tumbles out, hair a mess, dragging an overstuffed tote bag and an enormous binder and dropping her phone and losing her glasses and calling out “Hello! Hello there!” and waving frantically, even though we’re all standing about ten feet away.

“I’m so sorry I’m late! Oh, look—
parents
! I’m Matilda Kline—delighted. Just delighted. Delightful. And how is everyone this morning? Fine? Fine?
Fine.
I was checking the weather report, and it looks like we’re in good shape for the next few days. Very good shape. Nothing to worry about on the meteorological front. Not down here, anyway. The rest of the country, well … Now, let me … there’s a …” She fumbles through her tote bag, spilling papers onto the sidewalk. “Oops! Alrighty then. The house and gardens are open to the public today—they’ll close early on Saturday so that we can set everything up, of course. Right now we’ll pop in so that I can show you around and give you an idea of what’s going to happen in just two days!”

Mattie hustles us through the small gift shop, waving to the woman at the ticket desk, and leads us into the garden along a winding brick path. Sunlight sparkles on the lush greenery all around us. We end up at the back of the mansion, in a courtyard circled by tall palms.

“Here we are!” she cries. “Now then. Let me see if I can help you visualize it.” She drops her things on a bench and steps into the courtyard, turning to face us. A calm seems to settle upon her. She smiles beatifically. “The guests will be seated in rows of white chairs, down
here.
The ceremony will take place on the back veranda of the house, up
there
.” She points to the steps that lead up to the wide, wood-planked porch. “You two will have a good view of the crowd,” she explains. “People often forget that part—that a wedding ceremony should be as much about you seeing your loved ones as it is about them seeing you.”

Will squeezes my hand. Mattie goes on to explain various things about flower arrangements and bunting and how the parents will walk down the aisle and be seated.

“Now, Lily. Your bridesmaids will emerge from the garden over
there
—the irises are in bloom, so I think it will be beautiful. They’ll walk down the aisle, and you’ll follow them. Dusk will be falling, so as you proceed we’ll turn on the lights in the trees and around the garden. It’s a little theatrical,” she concedes, “but then, it
is
a wedding.”

“Sounds beautiful,” Harry remarks. Anita is staring at me, arms crossed. I turn away. It’s all very lovely, and much more tasteful than I expected. But so what?

Mattie leads us to another open space in the garden, beside a rectangular pool thick with lily pads. “The dinner tables will be scattered throughout the garden, but the heart of the reception will be right here. We’ll start with champagne and a little music immediately after the ceremony, when you two will be busy with the photographer. I found a bluegrass duo—a husband and wife. I think you’ll like them.”

Will grins. “That sounds great!”

“I thought you’d like it. You know,” she wags a playful finger at us, “I feel like I’ve gotten to know you both pretty well in the past week. It’s helped me incorporate a few fresh ideas.”

Fresh ideas. That’s what I’m talking about. Bring on the cracked-out cupids!

“For example, I’ve noticed how much you love spending time with your friends. So I called around and found …
this.
” Mattie opens her binder and shows us a picture of a vintage photo booth, with a red velvet curtain and a stool. “Your guests can use it all evening and take home the photo strips as souvenirs. The machine keeps copies so that you can make an album out of them. What do you think?”

Will laughs. “It’s awesome, Mattie.”

She beams at us. “I’m so glad you like it. Now over here, we’ll set up a standard bar. And beside it,” she gestures to a little nook next to the lily pond, “is where we’ll station your wedding mixologist.”

“Our mixologist?”

“I met the most wonderful young man last week. His name is Joseph. He recently moved here from Brooklyn, and he knows
hundreds
of drink recipes. He invented one recently that he thinks will be perfect for your signature cocktail. It has champagne, key lime juice, some French liqueur I’ve never heard of and then, what was it? Oh, yes—a gin-soaked strawberry. You drop the strawberry in the champagne, and it fizzes up! It’s delicious,” she says, giving me a wink.

Mattie is
on fire.

She found an amazing swing band. An award-winning cake baker. At the end of the night, an ice cream truck is going to pull up and pass out key lime Popsicles to departing guests.

Popsicles!

No question, this would have been a great party.

“What happened?” I ask her. “You’re so … with it, all of a sudden. No offense.”

She smiles bashfully. “This always happens a few days out. I’m in the zone now.”

We continue strolling around the garden, listening to her describe more details, more little touches. Then she stops and strikes herself on the forehead. “Goodness! I nearly forgot.” She pulls two little booklets out of her tote bag. They’re made of creamy card stock. Champagne-colored ribbon ties the pages together. “The programs,” she explains. “I just picked them up from the printer.”

She hands one to each of us. The cover reads:

I stare at the phrase in Latin. I read it maybe three or four times. I turn to Will. “Did you tell her?”

“She asked me how we got engaged,” he says. “But I didn’t know she was going to—”

“No no, this was my doing,” Mattie says eagerly. “Will told me about it, and I thought it was so lovely. True love …” She turns to Will with an embarrassed laugh. “I’ve forgotten the rest of the translation. What does it mean?”

“It means …” He hesitates, then clears his throat. “It means, ‘true love holds fast to those it once held.’”

Mattie puts a hand over her heart. “Beautiful! And who wrote it?”

“Seneca,” Will says. “A Roman philosopher.”

I tear my eyes away at last and look up at Will. He’s still staring at the program.

“What do you think of the font?” Mattie asks.

I don’t say anything. I can’t. I’m caught up in the memory of a night in the middle of September.

It was a Wednesday. Will called me at the office and asked me to meet him at eight o’clock outside the museum. I’d spent a more-than-usually-insane amount of time at work that week, and I was tired. “Does it have to be tonight?”

“Yes,” he said. “The moon is out.”

Mysterious. I texted him when I arrived at the imposing steps on Fifth Avenue. He directed me to a side door, where he was waiting to usher me inside. I followed him through several dim, hushed galleries, into the Great Hall. The only illumination came from the half-moon windows high above us, and the emergency lights over the doorways. The room, which I’d only ever seen filled with hundreds of people, was empty. Our footsteps echoed across the marble.

We passed the entrance to the gift shop and the main staircase, where Will waved to a security guard. I was secretly hoping he’d invited me here so that we could do it in the Temple of Dendur—a long-standing dream of mine—but instead Will led me into the Greek and Roman wing. We walked through a long gallery filled with statues and urns and pieces of mosaic, until we came to a glass-covered courtyard, with columns spaced around a central fountain.