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We land on a huge stretch of immaculate lawn that’s a short distance away from a cluster of large saltbox buildings. Clearly the wedding venue.
It’s just beginning to get dark now.
The pilot jumps out and comes around to open the door for us.
“Are you ready?” Alexander asks me.
This is it. Show time. “How do you want to do this?” I ask him. “Should I…hold your hand?”
Those little crinkles around the edges of his eyes as he smiles are unfairly…endearing. “How about I hold yours. Don’t worry about anything. I’ll take care of you.”
It’s a heavier offer than I was expecting and it touches some deeply-rooted emotion in me that I can’t name. No one’s ever said those words to me before. Not once.
He unfastens my seat belt and helps me climb down from the helicopter. Alexander’s hand, as he takes mine, is warm, his grip sure and strong.
I’m a little nervous, but I’m used to being stared at. I’ve spent a lot of time on stages and I live my life in the public eye.
Still, this is different. This role is new. I’m fending off Alexander Maddox’s rabid admirers, and one in particular. I’m the enemy in this situation. Or at the very least, the rival.
I psyche myself up for the performance I’m about to give. Whenever I’m about to go on stage, I visualize a glowing orb of power inside my chest that radiates warm stars of energy that charm everyone they touch. It sounds crazy when I describe it, but it works. An old jazz pianist who I happened to meet the night I had my debut solo performance at a little venue in the West Village called Eva’s gave me that advice. His name was Rocky and he told me it’s what he always does when he plays; he pictures every musical note he’s playing as “a firefly of magical resonance that charms everyone who hears it.” I loved that. The words stuck with me and I’ve used Rocky’s method ever since.
So I do it now.
Alexander squeezes my hand, glancing down at me from his six-foot-whatever, and his expression is sort of beguiled, like he can feel my little fireflies. “I’ve got you,” he says.
And there he goes again with these intense little promises that are basically the nicest things anyone has ever said to me.
I’ve got you?
No one’s ever had me. Not really. Not my mother, who handled her imploding marriage, her bitter divorce, her sudden and very solo parenting gig and her illness as well as it could all be handled. But she was understandably overwhelmed. Distracted. Heart-broken. And because of all of that, profoundly disengaged from having my back. It became too much to ask and so I never expected it.
Not my father, of course.
Not my brother, who always saw me as a guide, a provider but also as an annoyance, at least some of the time, cramping his style, like a typical teenager does.
So the words hit me harder than maybe they should. Tiny pieces of my soul react to them like parched earth that’s just received its first drop of rain. I want to drink them in.
I’ll take care of you. I’ve got you.
Not only is my soul reacting to Alexander Maddox in a way I can’t quite control, so is my body. It’s an intimate thing, holding hands. His grip is firm and sure. The contact causes my heart to beat faster. I’m aware, again, of a pulsing warmth between my legs. A light, tingling ache and a low excitement that’s needy and slippery and restless.
Wow.
Fairy lights and lanterns are everywhere, and carefully-placed spotlights illuminate statues and trees around the expansive lawn area. Under a grapevine-laden pergola, tables have been set, decorated with flowers and dozens of candles. There’s a stage, where instruments and a sound system have already been set up and a lone harp player is playing Mozart.
There’s a dance floor. A stonework path leads toward an arch, covered in roses, looking out over the beach. Rows of chairs have been set up for tomorrow’s ceremony.
The hotel is stately and picturesque, Cape Cod-style but with white columns and a modern, luxury flair.
Clearly no expense has been spared. Every single detail screams this cost a boatload of money!
We walk toward the small crowd of people who are all watching us approach.
A gorgeous blonde woman in a light green dress comes running over to us on sky-high heels. She’s followed closely by a good-looking man dressed in an outfit that could be straight out of a Tommy Hilfiger catalogue.
“You made it!” the woman exclaims. “And you’re only half an hour late! Just joking.”
“My fault,” I confess. “I’m so sorry.”
