Chapter 1

MacKenzie

I wouldn’t trade places with anyone in the world.

Well, at least not at this very moment. Ask me again in a month, and I might have a different story, but I doubt it.

I mean, who wouldn’t want to be me? If there’s one thing my father taught me, it is to envision myself where I wanted to be someday, and my choices in life would take me there.

I’m finally done with school. Not like, “Now I’m going to pursue a higher degree,” but like, “I’m done.” Now. Forever. It’s been a long time coming, but Dad is right, I finally got there. I framed my diploma from Wellesley in a shabby chic frame and hung it next to my vanity. That was my first goal from the moment I climbed onto the cushioned piano bench in the family room before I was old enough to start school.

Mom is holding out the lure of getting a master’s in music performance at the Paris Conservatory, but that’s on the other side of the Atlantic, and Antonio is here. No contest. We could do Paris on our honeymoon, but Antonio couldn’t do me if I was there, and he is here, within reach of a dozen pair of waiting arms. Antonio is my second most important goal, and I do mean the man.

Antonio Tyler is hands and ass down, the most handsome man at the country club. He plays all the right sports: tennis, polo, rowing—you get the picture. He’s got a rock-hard athletic build and obsidian black hair that makes the marine blue eyes he inherited from his dad stand out. Antonio wears clothes like a mannequin, and I know from personal experience that he is endowed with more than just money.

I hear everyone say he’s a bit of a headstrong playboy. People whisper he gets his arrogance from his Cuban beauty queen mother. I guess in his shoes, I might be, too. That will be off the table soon, though, because when he walks down that aisle with me on June twenty-fourth, the only one he’ll be playing from then on, is me.

My mother is happy. That may not sound like a deal breaker to most people, but believe me, in my house, it is. Mom is the center of her social universe. I doubt whether there is a party planned by anyone in her club group who hasn’t run the idea past her first. She actually keeps a calendar open on her desk and pencils in all the events. No overlaps are allowed, and if you need to cancel at the last minute, don’t expect to get back on the calendar for some time. Things are just easier if you have Mom’s Pope-like wave of approval.

So, now that my childhood is formally over, according to that diploma, I can settle down to planning my wedding. My best friend, Abby Rodriguez, is my partner in crime. We’ve worked out a pretty good partnership. I come up with the ideas, and she executes them. Don’t get me wrong; I don’t make her. She just happens to love it. I think for her it’s a little vicarious living. A wedding like mine probably isn’t in the cards for her, so this is her chance to be a part of it.

We were roommates in college, and even though she’s my polar opposite, somehow it works. Mom and Dad paid my ticket, but Abby … now that girl earned her degree. She is smart and resourceful and stacked up the scholarships. When I say smart, I mean it. She’s going to go a long way in her career. I think she chose something in medicine or science—I keep forgetting after she explains it. She’ll probably cure cancer. Too bad we can’t do anything about her hair; dull black and more slick than sleek, or the way she wears clothes that look like they came from Goodwill. Oh, crap! Maybe they did! Why did I only think of this now? Anyway, she’s my bestie and will be my maid of honor. The other girls are more of a like size and build so they’ll wear one color, while Abby, well, we’ll find something to fit her.

Antonio’s dad and mine are friends. Don’t read too much into that. It’s not like they’d run into a burning fire to save one another; it’s more like they’d double-team any guy trying to rob their bank. Not exactly heroic, considering they’re insured, but it’s the category of importance I’m trying to illustrate. It’s their idea that Antonio and I get together. Actually, it is one of Dad’s better ideas; it must have come to him in a sober moment. I’ll forever consider it a fond memory that my entire future was decided by two old guys on the 9th hole, comparing their bankbooks instead of scorecards. But, hey! I’m the winner; I get to benefit from both of them. Antonio isn’t exactly a booby prize—nah, that’s my job!

Friends say part of my charm is my wacky sense of humor. I can vouch that it’s gotten me through some rather uncomfortable situations in the past. Why gripe when you can laugh, right?

So, Abby and I have set aside this afternoon to shop for my wedding dress. Now, this is one area where humor doesn’t apply. There’s a science to selecting the right wedding gown. Not everyone understands this. I’m trying to explain this to Abby as we drive downtown in my pale yellow Thunderbird convertible. “The first thing we do is analyze body type,” I explain.

“Body type? Whose?”

“Mine, you ninny! Which are my best features and which would be better off covered up?”

She shrugs. “I didn’t know there were options. Don’t you just pick a pretty one off the rack and try it on in a mirror and get thumbs up from whoever’s with you?”

I try not to roll my eyes, but Abby is so brilliant in a classroom but so clueless in a dressing room. “A rack dress? I don’t think so. We’re just going to look at styles. It’s definitely going to be custom.”

“Do you have time for that? Don’t they take like months and months to be made?”

I laugh. “Not for what Dad will be paying. Believe me, they’ll set up a sewing studio in his study if it means getting the price they want.”

Abby nods. “Can I comment on something?”

“Sure! That’s what maid of honors do. What’s up?”

“When did you become such a bitch?”

“Excuse me?” My eyes widen at her audacity.

“Shoot, Mac, you’re a typical bridezilla. What happened?”

I think about her comment a few moments. “Really? I didn’t realize. I suppose everyone else arranged this wedding, so I’m trying to keep control over some part of it. The dress seems to be one of those things. Mom’s got the rest of it firmly gripped in her fists, so there’s no way I’m getting in on that part.”

“I guess,” Abby shrugs. “But I think you could back it down a little. I’m not impressed, in case you’re wondering.”

Abby and I could be like this with each other—we didn’t spare words. We’d made a pact early in our friendship that we’d never lie or bullshit each other. I might have an edge when it comes to social skills, but Abby can spot bullshit from a pair of spike heels away and has a tongue that can slash you to pieces. So, we agreed early on not to dig at each other. It makes things simpler.

“How many bridesmaids are you having?” she wants to know.

“A dozen,” I say casually.

“A dozen? Where are you going to put them all? Jesus, the processional alone will take an hour.”

“Good point, but Mom has already figured it out and has a guy lined up for each of them. You’ll get the cutest one, I promise.”

“Don’t waste your prime meat on me, Mac. You know guys roll their eyes when they see me.”

“Are you kidding? They’d be lucky to escort you!” I tell her, but I know I’m bending our bullshit code. I hurry on before she can call me on it. “I thought the bridesmaids could wear a pale turquoise since we’re getting married in that beautiful chapel on the beach.”

“Oh, my God. You’re going to put me in turquoise? Are we carrying miniature flamingos in our bouquets?”

“What? No good?”

“I should point out that any shade of turquoise in the spectrum has the subliminal effect of making people nauseous. That’s why you never see it on airplanes or in hospital rooms.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I don’t kid about this stuff. You put us in turquoise blue with nervous stomachs, and you’re looking at a definite puke or two in the aisle to step through.”

“Abby! God, don’t be so disgusting! How am I going to get that image out of my head?”

“Just saying …”

“Well, keep that kind of stuff to yourself, would you? What about salmon? Does that offend your senses?”

“Same effect, and it’s not flattering across the board. Blondes will look dainty and dark brunettes, like me, will look whorish.”

“Oh, my, God, Abby. You’re a real mood-killer, you know that?” I lay on the horn as a car tries to cut us off. “Learn to drive!” I shout.

“You’re doing it again …”

“The bitchy thing?”

She nods.

“Sorry, I’m all wound up. I just want everything to go well, and even though Mom never lets anything go wrong, I just have this sense of disaster. Don’t know what it is, but something doesn’t feel right.”

“Just nerves.”

“I guess so. Okay, so what color do you want? After all, you should get some preference since you’re the queen of the bridesmaids.”

“I vote for a subtle gold.”

“Really? You? In gold?”

“You have a problem with that?”

“No, I guess not. Why gold?”

“It flatters my complexion. I thought I’d take a stab at looking good since it’s your wedding and all. Might be as close as I ever get.”

“I wish you wouldn’t put yourself down like that. You only make it worse, especially when you do it around the guys. Freaks them out, you know? Makes them feel like they got a bad deal.” I’ve been chewing the same sugarless gum for the past two hours. I throw it overboard.

“And … your point?”

“Oh, stop it! Subtle gold, huh? Okay, we can do that. Your dress can be one shade lighter than the rest, but not as light as my cream white. How’s that sound?”

“Deal.”

“Hey, a thought just occurred to me. What if we go with a Grecian theme? You know, Poseidon and all that? We can do columns lining the bridal aisle and behind the minister, fountains, you get the idea.”

“Not very original, but acceptable.”

We pull into a parking lot with a red-carpeted, awning-covered entrance. It looks cool and inviting in the afternoon’s heat.

“Ugh! I need something cold to drink,” I announce as we head inside. I’m in luck. One of the saleswomen hands me a flute of champagne the moment I clear the door.

The next two hours are filled with a continuous line of models in wedding gowns while Abby and I sip champagne, although she cuts me off after the second glass. “Keep your head unless you want me to drive.”

I immediately stop. Putting Abby behind the wheel of my little sports car isn’t going to happen. She might be able to build an atomic bomb, but her eye to hand connection sucks big time. I’ve seen her serve a tennis ball straight into the viewing stands from a standstill, mid-court.

We make notes of what I like, snapping pictures. As the last model leaves the room, I stand up. Marjorie, the saleswoman who has been rubbing her hands together in the anteroom, particularly when she heard there were a dozen bridesmaids, approaches.

“So, are there any you’d like to try on?”

I open my mouth but get the warning look from Abby. “Thank you very much for the showing. I’ve taken pictures of the gowns I like and will put these together and bring you back a design. I assume you have a seamstress you can dedicate to a quick, custom gown?”

Marjorie smiles and now reassured, nods, “Of course.” I notice she looks at my middle and realize she thinks I’m pregnant, accounting for the rush and the custom design.

“Oh, no, I don’t have to get married,” I explain hurriedly. “Oh, my God, Dad would kill me,” I mutter over my shoulder to Abby. I turn back to Marjorie. “Well, then, I’ll be in touch. You have a card?”

“Oh, of course!” She disappears into the anteroom and reappears, the card in her hand. She holds it out. “It has been our pleasure, Ms. Duncan.”

I smile and choke back my normal sassy response. “I’ll be in touch in a day or so. Let’s go, Abby,” I say, pulling at her arm.

We get outside, and I beep the auto start on the car, hoping the air conditioning will begin punching at the heat inside. Abby doesn’t waste any time in her comments.

“That woman hates you.” She is rolling down her window, fanning herself with an empty Subway bag as we wait for the air.

“What? Why?” I dig around for fresh gum to cover the champagne breath.

“She thinks you just drank her liquor and added sweat stains to all those dresses for nothing.”

“Oh, she’ll get my business.”

“Just saying.”

“Sometimes I wonder about you, Abby.”

“Uh-huh.” Abby isn’t concerned. As usual, her scintillating personality is brighter than the sun—not.

“I need to get home and get ready for the party,” I tell her, flipping down the visor to block some of the wind buffeting my hair.

“Oh, thanks for reminding me. I had a few pleasant hours not thinking about it,” Abby says, her voice droll. “Why does Candice think she’s supposed to throw a pre-wedding party for you. Isn’t that my job?”

I pat her hand. “Oh, now don’t be offended. Candice does this sort of thing all the time, and she knows it’s not your cup of tea. I think she’s just trying to save you the trouble. Anyway, I’d rather you be doing what you’re doing right now, helping me shop for a dress than planning another boring party.”

“You don’t want a party?”

I need to be careful. I take a moment to find an answer that won’t be twisted when it’s repeated—and I know it will be repeated. “I’m so anxious to begin life with Antonio that all this wedding stuff is just building the anticipation.”

Abby looks sideways at me. “You took fifteen seconds to come up with that drivel? Please …”

“Okay, so Candice can be a little heavy-handed in her party planning. No matter what she says, they’re all about her. But, I’m willing to be polite and dutifully thankful if it means I get to spend time with Antonio.”

“Okay, whatever you say. You going to get mad if I don’t get drunk this time?”

I roll my eyes. “I never got mad because you didn’t get drunk. I just didn’t want you to be a party pooper.”

“So, I’ll repeat my question. Are you …”

I interrupt. “No, I won’t get mad.”

“Good because I’m not going to get drunk.”

“Me, either.”

Abby rolls her eyes this time and looks out her side window in disbelief.

We’ve arrived at Abby’s apartment building, and she climbs out. “See you tonight,” she says and heads up the staircase to her third-level apartment.

“Later!”

* * *

Candice’s parties have a reputation of their own. She still lives at home, and her parents’ estate is huge, limited only by the ocean. I pull up to where the naked-chested valets wait to park cars. They’re wearing black bow ties and black dress slacks, but their tanned pecs are on full display.

She meets me inside a flower-covered arch, arms wide and the customary double-cheek kisses precede her pinning a huge orchid corsage onto the strap of my dress. There is even a little applause as she walks me up the sidewalk to the party proper. She stops, turns to another girl I don’t recognize who produces an overly-flashy tiara, which Candice puts on my head. That’s when I see the dais—that’s also when I see an impatient Antonio sitting on one of two gilded thrones.

Holy shit. She’s really going overboard this time. Now I understand what the applause is about, but more importantly, why Antonio doesn’t look happy. I glance around and see Abby standing next to the dais, her arms crossed across her flat chest and an I told you so look on her face. There is nothing for me to do but climb onto the dais and sit next to Antonio.

“Is this your idea?” he mutters through his improvised smile.

I smile, too, and talk through my frozen teeth. “I swear, babe, I didn’t know a thing about this. You know Candice. She always goes too far, over the top.

“Get me the hell off this thing.”

I cringe. “Could you just play along for a few minutes? Candice went to all this trouble.” I’m torn. I don’t like this any better than he does, but I’m much better at the social niceties. Antonio is a rogue.

Candice steps forward with a microphone and starts in on some little improvised speech that includes a few half-ass jokes that aren’t funny. I laugh at what I think are the right intervals, while Antonio glares. She finally finishes, there is half-hearted applause, and then her disk jockey begins his button-driven band. I look toward Antonio to find that he has already gone.

Now I feel awkward, but I hide it and move around, looking for him. I finally see him in a circle of girls who are laughing at every cocky thing he says. A couple of them spot me coming and suddenly wander away, leaving him engaged with just one girl.

“Where’d you go?” I ask, trying not to sound catty.

“Won’t be part of a circus,” he says, and the other girl laughs.

I glance at her and then face him again. “Come with me, hey?”

“Where now?”

“There’s food in the house. Let’s check it out.” I could tell he’d been drinking for some time and has lost the thin layer of socially expected behavior he normally manages to have.

He is grinning in that glassy-eyed way that tells me he is drunk. “Sure,” he drawls and takes me by the hand into the house.

The kitchen area is filled with empty bottles so I know that the party had started long before I’d gotten there. Another shirtless guy with a bow tie approaches. “You’ll find a buffet in the next room,” he directs us. Antonio is weaving—not a good sign. It’s like having a 200-lb. Latin King Kong drunk and chained to you.

Antonio is in conversation with yet another girl, his white teeth adding charm to the upturned lip he tries to use when he’s flirting. I’ve seen it so many times.

“Hey, honey,” I carefully say in a low voice next to him. “Let’s get something to eat?” I tug at him, but he bats my hand away.

“Go feed your face if you want. I’m just fine right here.”

I open my mouth to protest but then remember where I am and that the goal is to get married, so I leave him there. I make a plate of a few shrimp and some caviar and wander around the party. The whole thing is a farce. I don’t even know most of the people there—my upcoming marriage is just an excuse for Candice to outshine me. I’m keeping my eye on Antonio from a safe distance. The girl had been lured away to dance with someone else, and Antonio has a drink in one hand, and his eyes are wandering. He sees me watching him now and comes over.

“You come with me this time,” he pulls at me and heads for the stairs.

“Oh, Antonio, we can’t. Not here and not now. We’re the guests of honor.”

“You really think anyone gives a shit if we go upstairs and fuck?”

I cringe at the vulgarity of his remark but know I have to get used to the way he talks. It is his Latin roots that make him so cocky. I follow him upstairs, and he kicks at doors until he finds an unoccupied one. He jerks me inside and gives me a push—hard enough that I land on the bed that’s covered with frilly pillows and a pristine white comforter. Candice’s mom always does have good taste.

“Take off your clothes,” he orders me, grabbing at the strap of my dress.

Frowning, I cajole, “Aren’t you going to at least kiss me first?”

“Don’t get mushy. C’mon, get those clothes off, and let me fuck you,” he demands, grabbing the neckline of my dress and tugging. Wafts of alcohol are emanating from him, and I can taste bile in the top of my stomach.

I pull back, afraid he will rip my dress, and I’ll have to leave the party half naked. “No, Antonio, don’t do this, not this way. I don’t like you being rough.”

He slaps me then. Not hard, but it stings across my cheek. “You’ll do what I want from now on,” he counters, rubbing his erection and grabbing for me. I hurriedly roll away from his grasp and get to my feet. Luckily, he is drunk enough that his reactions are slow, and I get past him and out the door. I dash down the stairs and out the door into the party.

I find Abby, sitting in a chair and just watching the others dance. “Come with me,” I tell her, grabbing her arm. She doesn’t seem surprised, but then Abby isn’t an alarmist. She sets down her drink and follows me into the outside darkness.

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

“Antonio. He’s drunk and got me upstairs and then got rough with me.”

She just stands there, looking at me. It is code to tell me that I’ve finally recognized what has been obvious to others.

“What?”

“Nothing, never mind. C’mon, let’s go back to my place, and I’ll make us hot cocoa. You can sleep on my sofa, and we’ll watch old movies half the night.”

Her offer is tempting. I’m confused and completely turned off by Antonio’s behavior. I look over my shoulder at the house, remembering what had just gone on. “Okay,” I nod, and we leave.

I have no idea of the consequence of my actions.