Twenty Four Karat Cake
LILA
We decide to FaceTime my family from Slade’s house. My stomach is knotted with dread at having to make this call and deal with all of them, but with Lucky laying across my feet and Slade standing next to me at the kitchen island, I feel like I can do this without throwing up.
We have to be close to each other to both fit in the video frame, but if he notices the fact that our bodies pressed up are tight against each other, he doesn’t say it.
“Ready?” he asks.
I nod. I scheduled this call through the family lawyer, who will also be present, so they all know something significant is happening.
“Wait,” I say. “We need to set a date. I know we can go back down to the courthouse for the marriage itself any time, but we’ll have to tell my family a date.”
“About that…” Slade’s fingers tap on the stone countertop. “I was thinking we could get married at Rosemont.”
Surprise moves through me. “You want to have the ceremony at your family’s estate?”
He shrugs. “Feels right. My sister Josie will be flying in for this. And Walker and Sadie will have the kids there. Be easier to wrangle everyone if we do it at home.”
“We only need one witness,” I say faintly. “I didn’t realize you wanted your whole family there.”
Hesitation flickers through his expression. “Is that okay? We don’t have to, if it’s too much. I just…” He scrubs a hand down his jaw. “I know what this is. But you’re going to be my wife. Even for a little while. Seems worth doing right.”
I think I understand. He’s spent more than half his life moving between cities, between teams, between temporary apartments and temporary arrangements.
It’s got to be hard on your psyche, never settling down.
Maybe he wants to do this one thing in the place that has always been permanent. The one place he always comes back to.
“I’d love to get married at Rosemont.” I look at the ring on my finger. “But that doesn’t leave us much time to plan something.”
“My brother had a wedding planner who put everything together last-minute and it all came together. If you just want someone to take it all off your plate.”
“Okay,” I say, relieved. “Truthfully, it’s music to my ears. You’d think in my line of work I’d want to be involved in every little detail, but…”
He understands instantly. “You’ve got a lot on your plate already. Let’s let someone else handle logistics. “
“Exactly.” The designer in me has me saying the next thing immediately. “We can keep the budget low—”
He shakes his head. “Nope.”
“Nope?”
“This wedding can be anything you want. Budget isn’t a concern.”
He said the same thing about the house renovation. And the vet bill. And the locksmith. And the ring. I’m starting to see a pattern. I’m beginning to think Slade Rhodes has two modes: not doing something at all, and doing it without any regard for what it costs.
I’m about to object, because there’s a difference between a client telling you there’s no budget to speak of, and your husband-to-be telling you to spend all his money on a wedding. Seven years of financial independence and I still feel the reflex to object to someone spending money on me.
I try to keep a straight face as I say, “What if I want an ice luge you can take shots out of?”
“Okay.”
“A six-tier wedding cake decorated with twenty four karat gold flakes?”
“Done.”
“Fireworks?”
“We’ll have to get a permit, but I know people at the county. I’ll handle it.”
Slade saying “I’ll handle it” is really sexy.
But I can’t keep a straight face anymore. I dissolve into giggles. My poor husband-to-be just looks confused.
“I’m teasing, Slade,” I assure him. “I don’t want any of that. Let’s keep it simple.”
“No budget,” he says firmly. “And for the date, how about October fifteenth?”
That’s a lot sooner than I might have picked. Fourteen days from now and I’ll be married.
To the hottest cowboy I’ve ever seen in my life.
This is all completely normal.
“Okay.” I take a breath. “Let’s call my family before I lose my nerve.”
He reaches over and takes my hand. Squeezes once.
“We’ve got this,” he says.
We.
As the ringer chimes, the faces start populating onscreen.
My mother and father are first. Charles Sherwood in his wood-paneled office, reading glasses on, face already set to the blank expression he deploys when he’s decided something is beneath his attention but feels obligated to show up anyway.
I’ve seen that look a lot in my life, directed at me. When I was cast as one of the leads in the school play. When I graduated from design school. Every time I did something I was proud of and made the mistake of wanting to share it.
Beside him, my mother Philippa is in one of her silk designer blouses, pearls gleaming at her neck, peering at me through narrowed eyes.
My brother Peter appears next, in his home library. His hairline has retreated further since I last saw him and there are bags under his eyes. Bad real estate deals are apparently not restful.
Then my older sister Celia last. The kitchen behind her is enormous and immaculate, all marble and shades of white. She’s holding a glass of white wine. It’s eleven in the morning there, so it might be her first or her third drink of the day. She once told me morning mimosas don’t count.
Then again, if I had to endure her marriage, I’d probably be three drinks deep before noon too.
Celia confessed to me last Christmas the reason she wants a vacation home: because her husband spends his weekends with his mistress in their NYC pied-a-terre, so she’s going to spend hers in a home of her own, in blissful solitude with a view of the water.
I always thought there would be no money in the world that would make me endure a loveless marriage like hers.
The irony of entering into a completely fake one instead is not lost on me.
Finally George Aldrich, the family lawyer, appears gray and neutral in his dark office.
“Lila,” my father says. By way of greeting. Nothing else.
“Hi Dad.” I keep my voice steady. Slade’s shoulder is warm against mine. “Thanks for making time.”
“Your message said it was important.” He glances at his watch. Not subtly.
My mother leans slightly toward the camera. Her eyes move over me the way a jeweler examines a piece they already know is flawed. “Lila, darling, you look tired. And your hair. Still?”
“Still,” I agree.
“It’s very…” She searches for the word. “Youthful. You’re aging out of that sort of thing, no?”
It’s par for the course from my mother, this insult merely her opening volley. I’m used to it. This is exactly what I’ve been bracing myself for. I feel Slade shift slightly beside me. Still quiet. Still watching.
“Who is this?” Peter asks. His beady eyes focus on Slade.
“This is Slade Rhodes,” I say. “My fiancé.”