Chapter 35
Five Years Ago, Winter Park
“What about Capri?” Beau asked, handing me his phone so that I could see the photo he’d found of a cliffside view of Capri’s emerald-blue waters and jagged Faraglioni peaks.
“Everyone there is so obsessed with the see-and-be-seen crowd.” I winced. “Don’t we get enough of that here?”
With a hand, I gestured toward the Interlachen Country Club patio. Beau had played a round of golf that morning, and I’d come up to meet him, lazing by the pool with a stack of wedding magazines.
It had been a few weeks since I proposed, and we were in the thick of wedding planning. We had taken to tossing destinations back and forth.
He’d say Ireland, and I’d protest about the cold. I’d suggest the Maldives, and he’d describe the twenty-plus-hour odyssey that would require.
“I hate to interrupt,” Carol Parker said in a voice that made it perfectly clear she did not, in fact, care if she was interrupting, “but the space you’ve parked your car in today is reserved.”
I handed Beau’s phone back to him and looked up without standing. “Oh. I thought that sign was decorative.”
Beau choked a little on his iced tea.
Carol had been after me for months now, never missing the opportunity to point out my lack of decorum, often using Autumn as her perfect model for “how it should be done.” And I had taken a liking to how easy she was to fluster.
Carol’s eyes narrowed. “There are rules here, and following them is a matter of respect.”
“Totally,” I said, and nodded; I was trying to sound reverent but trying harder not to laugh.
The way she hissed in her tennis whites reminded me of a territorial goose, and that only made it harder not to laugh.
“Give me a second, Carol, and I’ll move the car.” Beau stood, clearing his throat.
Carol’s smile was brittle. “Thank you, Beau.”
She turned on a heel and stomped off, and I let myself dissolve into giggles.
Honk, honk, silly goose.
“Don’t conform to her stupid rule,” I whispered to him as he dug around in my purse for my car keys.
“They’re even fussy about the brands of water they drink.
Water, Beau. The single most essential thing keeping them alive.
They would rather die than drink off-brand water.
That parking space is the tip of the iceberg.
When I picked up our lunch order the other day, I asked for a tap water—plain old tap water, instead of some sparkling artisanal whatever-the-fuck—and everyone acted like I had volunteered to gargle the runoff from a rain puddle in the street. ”
He laughed, finding my keys and pulling the weed pen out of his pocket. He offered me a conciliatory hit. I took a quick inhale and blew the smoke out before having a sip of wine to wash away the earthy aftertaste.
“Feel better?” He winked.
“Barely.” I waved at him. “Have fun moving my car, narc.”
He laughed again.
This place is ridiculous, and apparently, Beau and I are the only ones in on the joke.
But Beau’s little trip to the car gave me time to keep searching, and when he returned, flopping into the lounge chair next to mine, I had the perfect pitch.
“Mallorca,” I said, dropping a magazine spread of the island in his lap. “That’s it.”
He thumbed through the feature photos, showcasing olive groves and stone villages. A sky-blue sea hugging the Spanish coastline.
“Sunny weather, sea breezes,” I cajoled. “Mountains and coves, and if there’s a celebrity sighting, everyone’s cool enough to keep it to themselves. It could be perfect.”
Marrying on the island became the dream. I fantasized about exchanging vows under a weathered stone arch with the Balearic sea glistening in the background.
But soon, the details crept in. Paperwork and permits. Venues that didn’t care about my fantasy, only cared about their years-long waiting lists. I started to worry we’d never pull off a wedding before the season ended.
Capri would have been easy. There are more high-end venues, more loopholes that can be closed with a check.
But Mallorca? That took Delia.
The grande dame of the French Quarter had a way with local officials and a contact list that stretched back forty Mardi Gras seasons.
“Give me the afternoon. I know someone at the Spanish consulate in Miami,” she said when I called, and I could hear her shuffling papers around like she was looking for a lost business card.
Delia was in her sixties by then, and she was as formidable as ever.
Moments like this were when Delia shone. If I had a plan? She’d drive through every locked door to make sure it came to fruition. When there was action to take, she was first in line.
It’s how she reached me so quickly the morning my parents died, hitching a ride on some friend of a friend’s private jet. How she made sure I had the best college consultants to get into my first-choice school. And how, after a few hours, Beau and I got our fantasy wedding in Mallorca.
Some people are made for tender moments. Others are made for action.
True to her word, our paperwork was miraculously expedited. A caterer called for a head count, and before I knew it, I was standing in a centuries-old courtyard that wasn’t even on Google.
It was a small wedding. Only Beau’s parents, Marcus, and Delia came. Marcus officiated. We’d handled the legal paperwork back in the States before we said “I do,” but the moment Marcus pronounced us married was the one that felt real.
When we got back from the wedding, tan and happy, I couldn’t resist slipping a copy of our wedding announcement—including a photo of Beau and me postnuptials—in Carol Parker’s mailbox.
Who’s temporary now?