Chapter 23
Use your words
brOOKLYN
Tabloids and press alike were strictly prohibited from attending.
Instead, one publication of our family’s choosing had been selected to make an appearance during the first dance.
Afterward, they would be escorted off the premises where they would scurry home and work on making sure they met the deadline to run for morning print coverage.
They would want to strike while the iron was hot and before everyone else moved to get in on a slice of the pie.
The ceremony was to be held at the same cathedral where Nicolo’s christening had taken place, with the reception at the Gilded Age venue that was within walking distance to Central Park.
I seemed to have very little say over the whole thing, but truthfully it didn’t matter, because even if I did, I would’ve probably chosen this place myself.
It exuded glamour in an Old New York stylistic sense.
We had started our tour on the top floor because my mother had her sights set on the penthouse restaurant.
There was nothing wrong with it, but the way most brides felt about the dress, I felt about the venue.
Yes, the dress was all mine, all about me, and Marco would enjoy it on me and taking it off me, but the venue was ours.
It was the single place we could pinpoint as the start of our union, the place we could return to and remember celebrating with friends and family.
While this may have started out as a sham, it was beginning to feel less like one.
That wasn’t to say, though, that I would have been marrying Marco this soon if we had any say in the matter.
Although, it didn’t necessarily feel like there was a point in playing that game since this was how it had to be, and I certainly had come to terms with it. More or less anyway.
Fixing the brown suede purse on my wrist, I looked around, my fingers resting on my gold chain link bracelet as I tried not to have any regrets.
My stomach twisted, the knot growing tighter as my mother talked to the event planner and designer for the venue.
For all other matters, we had a coordinator, but the venue required we utilize their staff so as not to confuse matters.
I didn’t mind a rooftop space, and who could say no to it when it was glass-enclosed? Photographers would have a field day with a view like this. But this wasn’t what I wanted. It didn’t feel right. It felt cold and uninviting.
This was Margot Briggs, though, and whatever she wanted, she got. Neither one of my parents valued a daughter who had a lot of opinions. They wanted a daughter who was going to do as they said. So, I went into this knowing my role. I was to nod and agree, nothing more.
A heaviness settled in my chest, and I barely registered Marco’s hand as it came down on my back, resting there.
Whenever I was with my parents, I felt like I was surrounded by darkness.
Like I was about to go into the mysterious woods alone in the middle of the night.
Marco’s touch became like a flashlight, leading me out of the darkness and back… to this…life…him.
“Oh, honey, has Cecilia heard anything back from the perfumers?” my mother asked, turning her head slightly to face me as Lauren, the event planner and designer, jotted something down on her device.
I couldn’t be entirely certain what it was, but my best assumption was they had made yet another decision without me.
I didn’t fault Lauren, of course. I knew she was only following my mother’s orders, doing as she was told.
Lauren was nothing more than a stranger to me, but in that way, we were similar.
Except the unfortunate part was that she had a reason to be that way, wanting to keep her job at the venue.
I, on the other hand, simply continued to do it to maintain my role in this family.
Without it, I didn’t know where I would stand.
Blinking, I shifted in my brown loafers.
“Perfumers?” This was a private tour they had set up specifically for us, having shut down operations earlier than usual so there wasn’t a crowd.
However, we were still bound by the professional attire they required of patrons who entered the venue for one reason or another.
That was why I’d dressed in a coffee-hued fitted blazer and matching skirt.
Wanting to appear as a romantic couple and of a united front, we coordinated, Marco wearing brown slacks and a caramel dress shirt.
My mother placed a hand on her forehead, like I had caused her great distress in not knowing what she was referring to. “For the custom fragrance bar.”
I cleared my throat. “I’m not sure. If she has, she hasn’t filled me in on the details.” Why were we having a fragrance bar to begin with? Not that it wasn’t an interesting concept, because it was, but I wasn’t sold on the necessity of having one.
Shaking her head, my mother dropped her hand, using it now to speak as she emphatically flailed it around. “Well, that won’t do. I’ll reach out to her after this.”
Bowing my head slightly, I offered a contrite smile. “Sure.”
Turning her frustration toward Lauren, she sighed heavily and clapped a hand on the side of her leg as she took in the space all at once. Her eyes roamed over every inch before landing back on Lauren. “This might not be what we’ve been looking for. Maybe we should discuss it further.”
Lauren nodded, but her lips drew into thin lines.
Stepping forward, I put a hand out, ready to reach for my mother’s arm, but she moved away, walking around like she owned the place. Her brows couldn’t have touched any more. “What seems to be the problem, Mom?”
“Cecilia and I really thought the penthouse was going to be the answer. I mean, this has one of the best views of the city skyline and Central Park.” Both of which were beautiful, but neither held any particular importance to me such that I would have needed them to be the backdrop for my reception.
I swallowed, putting one hand in the other, not knowing what else to do with them. Just as I didn’t know what else to do in general. “And you don’t like it?”
Marco’s head snapped to me, and he rubbed his hand up and down my back. “What does that matter? Do you like it, Brooklyn?”
No, I didn’t really like or want anything this space had to offer.
I wanted something warm, maybe a grand staircase to make an entrance, holding my husband’s hand as we descended them together.
We’d present ourselves to everyone in attendance at each other’s side, which was exactly how I had always dreamed of my marriage being.
A partnership. Togetherness at the forefront.
I wanted to do the dishes with my husband.
I wanted to make the bed with my husband.
I wanted to fold laundry with my husband.
Not literally. We’d have help, I knew, but the sentiment was there.
Speaking in terms of this penthouse, I didn’t want an elongated table where Marco sat at the opposite end from me.
Or our guests had to shout across the table just to be heard, or alternatively, give up and eat their meal in silence.
I wanted a sweetheart table where we could look out and see everyone, talking, laughing, enjoying themselves, at circular tables with no seating arrangement.
I didn’t want to have to comb through a ridiculously thick binder with the guest list and every guest having their own personal problems or requests they needed met.
This one couldn’t sit next to this one because the divorce was still being finalized.
This one would prefer to sit next to this one after the falling out they had with this one.
It was too much drama. None of which I wanted any part in.
I deserved more, and so did my wedding. So did Marco.
Wasn’t it bad enough we didn’t even know about this until the very last minute?
So, the question of whether I liked it was a lot more complicated than that, and it also didn’t matter. “Don’t be silly, Marco.” I widened my eyes, trying to get my point across that he needed to follow my lead on this one. “Mom, you were saying?”
“It simply won’t be accommodating to the guest list we finalized.”
“What guest list? I didn’t see one.” We didn’t need to be part of every little decision, but that one would have been nice. Peering over at Marco, I arched a brow.
He shrugged casually. “Me neither.”
“Just to clarify, the restaurant has the capacity to hold up to two hundred guests,” Lauren chimed in, holding her device close to her chest.
That seemed like more than enough, in my opinion. My side of the family wouldn’t have nearly as many people, but that should accommodate Marco’s side nicely. Watching Lauren avert her gaze, I tried to put us all out of our misery, opening my mouth to explain why I thought it was going to be okay.
“That won’t do,” my mother insisted, and I immediately clamped my mouth shut, focusing on the pearl ring on my finger. Pearls symbolized innocence and quiet strength, one of which I had lost a long time ago, and the other one I never had but longed for.
“Kiki, how many guests did you want?” Marco’s voice was low, almost a whisper as he homed in on me.
His expression was soft, his eyes searching my face, probably trying to figure out where the woman he knew went.
Unfortunately, I wasn’t meant to be myself with everyone. This was just the way things were.
“This isn’t the time,” I ground out through a false smile.
He didn’t move a muscle. “Yes, it is.”