Chapter 4 Belong Together
Belong Together
Henry
The rehearsal dinner will not begin on time, exactly according to plan.
Franki gnaws on her thumbnail, her back to me as she stands sentry between me and the dining room, her gauzy red dress riffling in the wind.
What wind? The one I created by moving an industrial fan just outside the open terrazzo doors.
The place cards, heavy cream and embossed with gold, once sat on an elegant round table near that door. But that pesky wind blew the hell out of that table. Some of the cards are gone forever, sacrificed to the breeze.
The rest are slowly becoming a waterlogged mess from the massive floral arrangement I tipped onto the floor.
I crouch and lift the vase, placing the blooms back inside and returning it to the table. Spencer’s once-meticulous seating plan flutters on the floor like a hundred soggy elegant paper moths.
I could have trusted my conversation on the cliffside to be the end of Elliot’s troublemaking, but experience tells me these lessons stick better with follow-up. And seating him with Phyllis would be inviting a confrontation.
So I’ve addressed the issue.
The wedding planner rushes our way, her black chiffon dress understated but elegant, her shoulder-length blonde hair immaculate, and her mouth gaping in abject horror.
When she tries to step past Franki, my wife “accidentally” gets in her way. Once. Twice. Until I complete my floral arrangement and place my hand on Franki’s lower back.
Lucinda fluffs up like a puffer fish in rage. “What is the meaning of this?”
“Which this are you referring to?” Franki asks sweetly.
I’ve heard her voice described as “cotton candy.” Personally, I don’t hear it. We’ve known each other since I was twelve. Her voice is her voice, my favorite sound in the world, second only to her laugh. But there are people who underestimate her when they hear it.
They do so at their own risk.
I glance at the floor behind us. Franki’s stalling allowed the last of the place cards to become too soggy to be usable. “Thank you,” I murmur.
“You’re welcome,” she says with a twinkle.
Lucinda closes her eyes briefly and grits her teeth. “I told you I would handle it. This is my job. Do you think I haven’t dealt with situations like these before?”
“Your answer was to move Elliot while maintaining the other assigned place cards. I explained why that won’t work.
Everyone would see the seating chart originally had Elliot with his family and Dante’s parents.
It would have caused gossip among the other guests, and it would lead to one party or both feeling slighted,” Franki says.
“You overestimate people’s interest in things that don’t concern them,” the planner says.
“Taking Elliot aside and putting him at another table was an inelegant solution. It would hurt his feelings and offend both sets of parents.” I know this because Franki has assured me it’s true.
“This is sabotage,” the planner grates, indicating the fallen place cards. With her teeth bared and the industrial fan blowing her hair and chiffon gown around, she looks like a deranged Celine Dion about to tell me my heart will go on. “You’ve ruined the rehearsal dinner.”
“Each guest will be met here at the door by you and given their table number verbally, then escorted by a member of waitstaff to their table. You’ll place the entire Spencer family with Henry and myself and make appropriate adjustments,” Franki says.
“No one will know it was ever meant to be done differently. Dante’s parents will sit with Henry’s parents, which makes perfect sense since they know each other so well.
Everyone here will be impressed with the personal attention they receive. ”
“This is unacceptable,” Lucinda snaps at Franki.
“Be very careful how you speak to my wife,” I say softly.
The woman gulps nervously and looks away. “I have other tasks to oversee at that time.”
I’ve been told I’m unnerving when I smile while annoyed.
Good.
“I don’t advise lying to me. Spencer maintains meticulous records, and I’ve seen your schedule. The time period when guests arrive is blocked off on yours as ‘See to guest comfort’ and ‘Address any emergent issues.’ Clearly, this situation is both.”
I lift an eyebrow and pause to give her time to respond. When her face contorts in wordless fury, instead, I nod. “I’m pleased to see you have the situation under control.”
Franki wanted to handle the altered seating arrangements with finesse. No threats, bribes, or force. I have, in my opinion, done so extremely efficiently.
The planner lifts her hand and snaps her fingers at a passing member of the staff then points wordlessly at the floor for them to clean the mess.
I apologize in Italian to the young woman who scrambles to do as ordered and ask her to retrieve something to dry the water, though the fan is doing that job already. Then I gather the soggy paper for the trash myself. I did make the mess after all.
Afterward, I guide Franki away from the dining room.
“I’m not always a shining beacon of propriety, but Lucinda is just rude,” I murmur.
Franki presses her lips together, fighting her smile. “She has a right to be upset we interfered.”
“We outrank Lucinda. Both grooms asked for our interference. If she’d been willing to work with us, we wouldn’t have had to get creative.”
When I lead Franki down a short hallway, then pull a set of heavy keys from my pocket and unlock a dark wooden door, she looks at me in confusion. “Where are we going?”
We enter a stairwell surrounded by stone walls and begin our descent.
“Dinner guests for the rehearsal will arrive in ten minutes. Elliot is currently safely with his mother. Seating will now take an additional fifteen to seventeen minutes. Social niceties allow for up to four additional minutes before it becomes awkward that we have not arrived. This isn’t adequate time to go up to our room.
It is, however, thirty minutes we can spend alone. ”
She freezes, then glances around. “In a basement?”
“The wine cellar. There’s a tasting room down here.” I hold up and shake the key ring. “I’m going to enjoy my tasting.”
She resumes walking behind me as I continue down the stairs slowly, walking sideways to support her should she need it, a step at a time.
“You’re sure no one will catch us?” she asks.
“How would anyone catch us?”
Franki’s laugh echoes softly off the stone walls. “That’s what people say right before they get caught.”
“That’s for people who don’t plan efficiently.”
“But, why are we sneaking off?”
“I promised you three orgasms today. I’m already so far behind schedule that I’ve had to acknowledge three are unrealistic, unless we count multiple within one session, which, obviously, I don’t. That’s cheating.”
She gnaws on the corner of her lip. “We don’t always have to stick to the exact plan we started with.”
“We don’t. But we can stick with this one.” We reach the bottom of the stairs and traverse down a short corridor to another heavy wooden door. I gesture her forward with a flourish. “Behold. Phase One: Infiltration.”
She peers into the cool, dim wine cellar.
The air smells of oak and dust and faint fermentation.
Racks of bottles line the walls like orderly little soldiers.
At the far end, a small tasting room sits behind a glass partition, furnished with two narrow tables and four wooden stools, clearly intended for serious discussions of tannins and mouthfeel.
Franki steps inside, her cane tapping softly on the stone. “This feels illicit,” she says with a smile.
“Correct,” I agree, pleased.
I close the door and turn the heavy key in the lock with a decisive click of the old-fashioned mechanism.
“Mission integrity achieved,” I say. “In case you’re worried, there are no security cameras down here.”
Franki’s eyes widen. “We’re really going to . . . screw . . . in a wine cellar before the rehearsal dinner?”
I pretend to be offended. “Of course not. We’re going to make love with you bent over a table receiving my deep”—I echo her meaningful pause—“affection from behind.”
She gives a shiver, her nipples visibly hardening under her dress.
I guide her into the tasting room. She looks up at me, her cheeks already pink and her whiskey eyes bright. The dim light catches the red of her dress, turning it wine dark.
She looks me over in blatant appreciation. “You know, most people would use this time to talk.”
“I can do that too. I’ll see to your every need.” I drop a kiss on her lips. “Physical.” Kiss. “Emotional.” Kiss. “Spiritual.”
“Spiritual?” she asks doubtfully.
“I’m counting all the times you yell, ‘Oh God, Henry, yes,’” I say smugly.
She laughs, just as I intended.
I remove my glasses and set them carefully on the table because I am not an animal.
Placing my hands on her hips, I lean in, slowly, deliberately giving her time to tell me if she doesn’t want this. Semi-public sex is definitely new for us.
Her fingers curl into my lapels, tugging me closer. Her laughter dissolves into the familiar soft sigh of desire I know and love. I kiss her thoroughly, the way I’ve been wanting to do all day.
Her mouth is soft and sweet, and her tongue sends a jolt of lust that goes straight to the base of my spine, then floods through me.
“Henry,” she murmurs against my mouth in invitation.
Franki’s hands slide up my shoulders, then into my hair, undoing in seconds what took me several minutes to force into restrained compliance.
“This is absurd,” she whispers with a laugh.
“You love ‘absurd.’” I kiss along her jaw.
“Yes I do,” she says fervently.
Rock-hard behind my zipper, I tug the top of her dress and the cups of her bra down to frame her breasts and palm them, then flick and suck her nipple.
She reaches to free my erection. “This is where suspenders really are useful. We can do this without your pants getting dusty on the floor.”
I groan at the feel of her soft hand. “If you’re still thinking about logistics, I’m not doing my job.”
“You’re doing just fine.”