Shopping for a Billionaire's Wife (32 page)

A leisurely walk through the convention center section of the resort reveals the chapel, tucked away behind bright white doors, a little oasis of peace in the go-go-go atmosphere of the casino and malls.

The chapel is simple and stately, with pews that look like we could fit as many as fifty guests. Dark, polished oak contrasts with bright white trim and a soaring ceiling, support beams cutting through visually, the altar like the bow of a boat, the windows facing the elaborate gardens in the courtyard.

Tasteful flower arrangements dot the end of each pew and cover the altar, which isn’t religious. It’s ornamental, meant to be a symbol, a holding place for the wedding party.

The color scheme is generic yet complementary, sedate and yet welcoming.

It’s simple.

It’s quiet.

And there are no tauntaun cats acting as flower girl.

We have the license. Declan’s arranged for an officiate. Andrew and Amanda have agreed to be witnesses.

At 3:13 p.m., too many days after our original wedding date, we assemble, rings and hearts and all, and get ready to make what is true in our souls a legal record as well.

“Are you sure this is fine?” Declan asks for the third time, giving me pause. He generally asks a question once and takes the answer at face value. 

“I said ‘yes’ twice. Why do you keep asking?”

“Because you look like you’re about to throw up, cry, and punch someone at the same time.”

“That’s just my Resting Bitch Face look.”

His eyes soften, compassion radiating out to me. “Shannon.” The way he says my name makes me melt. “You don’t have a Resting Bitch Face face.” 

I try.

“You just look like you’re nauseated.”

I try again.

“You look like a Vermeer painting.”

I give up.

“You don’t look so calm, cool, collected, and like you have the pulse of a corpse yourself, mister.” 

“I knew I picked you for your complimentary nature.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere.” I’m right, though—he
is
nervous. What’s going on? As I start to ask, Amanda and Andrew arrive. Andrew’s wearing a lovely Armani suit without a tie, and Amanda’s dressed in Dior with high heels that carry the signature Louboutin red sole. 

Las Vegas loves when people are in the red.

“Ready?” Amanda asks, giving me an extra-long hug. 

“More than ready. You’re sure Mom and Dad don’t know?”

“Your mom was offered the opportunity to emcee a male strip-a-thon at the trade show convention for the adult sex toys.”

“What?”

“Which happens to be right now.” Amanda waggles her eyebrows. “I made a few calls.”

“What kind of people do you know that you can call to accomplish that?” I ask.

Andrew frowns and looks at Amanda. “Yeah. What kind of people do you know?”

“You’re the one who paid me to mystery shop the O spa,” she says, patting his cheek.

He sighs heavily, turns to me, gives me a hug that smells like limes and cardamom and soap, and a big, dazzling smile. Andrew looks around the room and declares, “Not a shred of tartan in sight!” then grabs Declan for a manly hug. 

We all laugh.

Nervously.

James appears, a bit winded, his eyes settling on Amanda as he walks across the room, regal in his fine, dark wool suit, his hair a shock of grey against the collar.

“I have Marie firmly in hand,” he assures her.

“What did you do?” Declan’s voice is filled with a delicious mirth.

“I tried to offer her a position as the emcee for a ‘battle’ between two different male dance revues,” James explains.

Strippers
, I mouth to Amanda, who giggles.

“But she said she and Jason are renewing their wedding vows.”

Declan, me and Amanda stare at him, mute.

“What? Where?” I peep. 

“They didn’t say. She told me they want to be alone, and they’d be back later today.”

Any worries about not inviting Mom just went out the window. A wellspring of emotion rises in me, because it was one thing when I wanted to choose whether she attended.

It’s quite another to have that choice removed.

Amanda and I share raised eyebrows. “She’s up to something,” we whisper to each other.

James looks at Amanda with concern. “Your mother is in her room with Spritzy, resting. She said something about a flare?”

Amanda’s expression changes, matching James’. “I’ll check on her later.” She pulls back slightly, processing James’ tight worry. “Thanks.”

He nods and looks at Declan.

“May I have a word?” James asks, pulling him aside. Dec’s been nervous, touching something in his inside breast pocket, little sighs and toe taps unusual for him. Maybe it’s nerves, but there’s something else. The two huddle, heads together, one dark, one the color of ashes in a fireplace. In twenty years, Declan will be more ash than coal. In twenty years, I’ll be thicker and greying, with skin that wrinkles and fine lines from smiling so much that my love folds in on itself. So will Declan, his face marked by time spent being thoroughly, utterly, madly adored. 

And I get to watch it all happen in real time, day by day.

What an honor.

Mild surprise covers Declan’s face, shifting into a look of deeper contemplation as whatever James says hits him emotionally. People who don’t know him like I do wouldn’t catch the difference, but I do, antenna picking up signals and musing about their significance.  

James says something more, his arm going around Dec’s shoulder, their eyes catching in an intense look. Declan’s face changes, eyes widening, throat working hard as he struggles to control his emotions.

A hug follows. A long one, full of promise and love, with James closing his eyes and holding on to Declan like he’s savoring every second of this connection with his son.

The first in many years.

As they pull out of the hug, their faces are close, a sign of camaraderie and the tearing down of walls erected when Declan was just graduating high school. Maybe this crazy mess does have a purpose in the end. Perhaps my mother’s maniacal obsession with offering the perfect wedding has yielded a perfect result.

James walks down the long path between the pews, Andrew giving Declan a puzzled look, the officiant beginning to herd us for the ceremony. I watch Declan, knowing that some major emotional event just took place before my eyes, and that he’s still experiencing it in the moment.

Being given the gift of time with this man is a cosmic blessing. 

As James reaches the main doors leading to the large walkway outside near the ballrooms, Declan suddenly shouts, “Dad! Wait!” Holding one finger up to James, Dec turns to me and says in a rush, “Can he stay? Please?” 

Please?
Did Declan really just say that?

“Of course he can,” I whisper, my eyes full of tears, my empathy off the charts for whatever just passed between them. I can feel Declan’s full heart.

Declan waves to James, then leans over to me and whispers, “He told me that if Mom could have handpicked someone for me, she would have chosen you. And he asked me to forgive him for—” Dec’s chest begins to shake. The rest of him is stoic, but the body leaks emotion. It has to come out somehow, somewhere.

If you’re lucky, it pours out in words and deeds.

Otherwise, it’s on a mission, and like water flowing downhill, uses the laws of physics without mercy.

“What do you need, son?” James asks. Andrew’s watching every second, his eyes blinking rapidly, and there’s hope in him. I can tell he’s holding his breath, so I breathe for him. I breathe and I breathe, as I hear Declan say one word that carries the antidote to more than a decade of pain:

“Stay.”

“Stay? For the ceremony?” James looks at me and I nod. 

“Yes. Please. I want you here,” Declan confesses. 

James’ eyes shine under the glow of the lights, and if he were a slightly different man, he’d let those tears spill over. Even
his
body leaks.

But it does not overflow.

“Of course, Declan. Of course.” He beams. Andrew starts breathing again.

And I’d like to think that somewhere, Elena McCormick is watching all of this. Sadly, the laws of physics apply to her, too. She’s here in spirit, but not body. 

James reaches for my left hand, Elena’s ring shining in the sunlight that pours through the windows. “She’s here.” The look he gives me is stark and stripped to bone. Did he read my mind?

Or maybe he just read my heart.

James opens his arms wide. I have to take the first step, and the embrace is sweet and fatherly, open and informal.

As he lets me go, he whispers, “Take good care of him.”

“I will.”

“I know.” He kisses my cheek and steps back, motioning for Declan to stand next to me, as it should be.

And so the ceremony begins with me in tears. I don’t hear most of the words, my eyes reading each person’s intentions, my body and mouth moving as needed to act or speak based on nonverbal observation, a mimicry of expectations based on anticipation. I don’t need to hear the introductory words, the platitudes, the codification of sentences designed to lend stability to a tradition that stretches back millennia. 

This I know: he is mine. I am his. For better, for worse, for billionaire, for Turdmobile.

For Toilet Girl and Hot Guy, there’s only one choice:

Forever.

Andrew flanks Declan on his right, and Amanda’s to my left, holding a tissue discreetly. I don’t reach for it, instead letting my emotions pour out of me like that waterfall, not caring. This is my wedding. My ceremony. My show—mine and Declan’s—and if crying like this is what happens when I realize I have so much love in my life that it truly overflows, then so be it. 

I cry because the excess of love should be shared and spread, dissolved and displayed, made public so that it can be taken and absorbed where it is needed most.

“Do you—” The officiant says the words and Declan’s eyes become all that exists in the world, two green circles of life where my true self resides, my heart tucked under his, my stardust buried in his marrow, my spirit rejoicing at the touch of his hand against my finger. The ring he procured this morning at Tiffany fits just right, a simple band designed for a simple purpose: 

A claim.

We claim each other. As he says
I do
and I say
I do,
we do. We
are
. We kiss, we hug, we rejoice, and we laugh.

Oh, how we laugh. I’ll hear the echo of that warm, rich baritone in my last moments in this lifetime, as my consciousness fades into whatever comes next, and I will smile wherever I am, for this lifetime is ours.

“I now pronounce you Mr. and Mrs. Declan McCormick,” the officiant says, a genuine smile turning his face to hills and richness, the flat, polite look of a man whose business it is to pin down love on paper gone, swept away by the force of our bliss.

“You did it!” Amanda squeals, hugging me until I stumble, while Andrew embraces Dec.

My husband.

I close my eyes and imagine Mom and Dad, wherever they are, renewing what they needed to escape to more than thirty years ago. Their wedding was fraught with disappointment, but never their marriage.

Never their connection.

Never their love.

We reach for each other, and in the space between us I find lifetimes.

.

Chapter Twenty-One

We’re in the lobby of Litraeon, just after the wedding ceremony, and Declan insisted on coming through here to look at some new fountain. Made Andrew follow us, which means Amanda’s coming, too.

“Why in the hell do you need me to look at a fountain?” Andrew asks, his hand running through his dark waves, the gesture similar to Declan’s. “We’re headed over to a private fitting for Amanda.”

“They put diamonds on diaphragms now?” I ask.

Amanda snorts. Andrew rolls his eyes.

“I’m not going to give that the answer it deserves because today is your wedding day and I’m supposed to be nice to you,” he replies, but he’s smiling.

“Speaking of gifts, though...” Declan’s voice is so full of triumph it makes Andrew’s hands curl into fists. As my husband—
husband!
—reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out an envelope, Andrew watches with great suspicion. 

“Here. Your wedding present,” Dec says to me, eyes darting to Andrew, who smirks.

“I thought you were paying off my student loans,” I whisper to him.

“Done. This is a little something else. And before you even try—no. You can’t return it.”

I open the envelope, which is made of a heavy linen paper that feels expensive. When I unfold the thick packet of papers inside, I find the name of a law firm in the upper left-hand corner, with what looks like nineteen lawyers listed beneath the address.

“Dear Mr. McCormick,” the letter begins. The first paragraph is legalese, something about the final sale of all private shares of a company. Majority ownership. Minority ownership. Transfers.

I see the three best words on the planet other than
I love you
and
Ben & Jerry
.

Grind It Fresh!

Declan pulls his coat away from his waist and buttons a button, taking in a deep, satisfied breath as my eyes race over the paperwork.

“Does this say what I think it says?” I gasp as I realize what my sweet, new husband has done.

“What do you think it says, Shannon?”

“You—you—!” I look up in amazement, my chin dipping down to read, then back up as I look at him. “You bought me
Grind It Fresh!?
”

His face splits into a dazzling grin.

“What the hell is Grind It Fresh!?” Andrew asks, his brows turned down.

Amanda grabs me in a hug and we jump up and down, squealing.

“Your husband bought you a coffee shop!” Amanda crows. “Oh, my God!”

I can see Andrew giving Declan a dirty look.

As we bounce and shriek, it starts to sink in. The man bought me a
store
. My wedding present to him was a case of his favorite wine and a private tour of the vineyard.