A soft breeze disrupts Niko’s thick hair, his face wearing that impenetrable mask he wears so well. I’d said: “I do,” and so did he, which for all intents and purposes means we’re married. We hold hands as we wait for the denouement—the final words—from the man in the too-tight Aloha shirt.
And then they come.
“Niko, you may kiss your bride.”
Shock holds me motionless as his hand cradles my cheek, his lips a sweet slide over mine. People clap. A childish cheer goes up, and all of a sudden we’re laughing. He takes my hand and turns to our audience. Sergei and Mary, the almost invisible housekeeper, who are also our two legal witnesses. Hugh and Archie, their arms slung around each other. The pair smiling so wide, their faces are mostly teeth.
“You did it!” Archie yells. “Now let’s eat cake!”
38
Isla
As nervous as a bride on her wedding night.
I’m nervous, of course I am. I’m nervous as we return to the house. Nervous as I oversee the boys getting ready for bed. The rhythms are the same as every night, teeth to brush, showers. No need for a bedtime story given the late hour, not that it stops Archie’s diversionary tactics.
“Uncle Van said you can get married again in the kirk when we get back,” he begins as I pause by the bedroom door. “If you want to, he said, so Uncle Sandy and Holland can be there. Chrissy says you have to get married in a kirk”—a church—“to be married in the eyes of God.”
“You don’t think God was watching us this evening? I thought he must’ve had a hand in the day looking at the glorious sunset.” A flash of memory flits through my mind: Niko sitting on the sand, his arm hooked over the seat of a low, cream chaise. Behind him, the sky dark, but no less majestic in its velvety blanket. His eyes on my face, he lifts a glass of champagne to his mouth as though to hide the smile building there. The smile seemed to say you’re mine and I have plans for you later.
We’d eaten grilled lobster and drank champagne, and when the sun set, the boys requested the guitarist play everything from Bach to Beyonce, and we’d all danced under a sky strung with nature’s fairy lights. But Niko didn’t mention anything about getting married in a church in Scotland, though the conversation has clearly been had. I’m not sure I’ll ever get to the bottom of this man.
“Or you can just have a party, if you want.” Archie’s hopeful voice brings me back to my hand wrapped around the handle of the door. He adds, “Personally, I think you should just have a party.”
“That’s just because you want to eat more cake,” Hugh says from the bed on the other side of the room.
“True,” Archie admits, “I love cake. And this cake was delicious. What was your favorite tier, Hugh? Was it the lavender and lemonade, the orange and poppyseed, or the big cake on the bottom with chocolate hazelnut?”
“Silly question,” Hugh grumbles.
“Mine was the chocolate, too.” Apparently, the flavors were chosen by the boys. “But I love Uncle Sandy and Holland more than I love cake, and I think they would like to see you in a pretty dress,” Archie continues. “Maybe you could do the same as them. Their wedding was also like Christmas.”
“That’s because it was Christmas.” Hugh folds his hands behind his head and stares up at the ceiling as though appealing to the heavens for strength to deal with his brother’s incessant talking.
“I don’t think I need another wedding.” I glance at both boys, their (mostly) happy faces, their hair flaxen and their golden skin, thanks to this escape to the sun. “I don’t think there could be another day as lovely as this.” It strikes me as an odd thing to say, considering I almost had to be manhandled onto the jet, but a break from real life is what we all seemed to need. It’s strange how things have changed in a few days.
“What was your favorite part of the day?” asks Archie just as I remember I was about to close the door.
“That there was just us. Me and my boys.” All three of them, God help me. “Good night, my lovelies.”
“Night, night,” they return in chorus.
“Sweet dreams,” Archie whispers as I pull the door almost closed. But will I sleep?
The house seems silent like it’s holding its breath as I walk the hallway to my own room. Grains of sand rub the skin between my toes and dapple my arms like glitter. The French doors are open in my room, the sound of cicadas and frog song drifting up from the gardens. A cool evening breeze ruffles my hair as I pick up my brush and pause, no longer able to ignore the way my stomach somersaults as I stare, unseeing in the mirror as my mind slips back an hour.