Chapter 43
Monica
Twenty-two hours in transit is enough to take the shine off any bride. But when the bride is almost old enough to be the mother of a bride? Well, it’s not pretty.
“Oh, geez. Look at me,” I said, staring into the compact I’d pulled from my carry-on bag after Bob and I stepped onto the first of many moving sidewalks that would carry us to baggage claim, and seeing my own bloodshot eyes staring back.
“Why did I bother to bring a suitcase? I could have packed two weeks’ worth of clothes in the bags under my eyes. I look like a bride all right. Bride of Frankenstein.”
“So that makes me the monster?” Bob asked as we stepped onto the next moving sidewalk.
I lowered the mirror and looked at my husband. His chin was stubbly, a chunk of hair was sticking out at a weird angle from the top of his head, and his rumpled shirt, sporting a stain from marinara sauce he’d consumed somewhere between Rome and New York, looked like he’d slept in it—which he had.
“No, you look great. And very handsome,” I said. And to me, he was.
“Well, I think you look beautiful,” Bob said. “Like the Mona Lisa and Venus de Milo rolled into one. Except with arms.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” I said, wrapping both of mine around his neck before giving him a kiss. “I love you, Mr. Smith.”
“And I love you, Mrs. Smith. In fact, I love you so much,” he said, lowering his voice into that sexy little growl that he knows melts my butter, “that when we get home, I am going to make mad, passionate love to you. It’ll be the best you’ve ever had.”
“Really? Better than that first night in Rome? Better than the boat on Lake Como? Or the balcony in Portofino? Better than in Naples, in Florence, in Milan, in Venice?”
“Better than all of them,” he said, pulling me close, staring hungrily into my bloodshot eyes. “Better than all of them put together.”
“Wow,” I said, a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. “And when are you going to do this?”
“Right after I get home,” he said, “and sleep for a week.”
He groaned and all but collapsed in my arms, limp as a rag doll. I laughed out loud and kissed him again. And when we exited the door from the gate area to the terminal, I laughed again. We both did, so hard.
Alex, Zoe, and Jean Smith, Bob’s mom and the best mother-in-law on earth, who had come up from San Diego to keep an eye on the kids and Desmond while we were on our honeymoon, were standing just outside the door, wearing bedsheet togas over their clothes and waving little Italian flags over their heads. Desmond was there, too, panting and thumping his tail, wearing a circle of plastic leaves on his head that was supposed to be a crown of laurels.
They were so cute and funny and silly. And, best of all, they were mine. My family. My kids.
Seventeen-year-old Alex, now two heads taller than me and with legs that went on forever, had survived his morose and moody phase. He and Bob went running together every Saturday morning, then went to the Screen Door for fried chicken and waffles. Alex still ran cross-country and had qualified for regionals in his sophomore year, gone to state in his junior year. He’d just returned from a week-long running camp at the University of Oregon. Alex was a good athlete, a good student, a good boy. Most of the time. And even when he wasn’t, I was proud of him.
Zoe, now fifteen, could still be a royal pain in the butt, but not as often as before. She was actually starting to think about life after high school and was more sensible about boys now, less needy and prone to heartbreak. That was a good thing because there were a ton of them pursuing her. I was glad to have Bob in the picture. Any boy who wanted to take Zoe out first had to meet and pass muster with Bob, who pulled them aside and, with a heavy hand on the kid’s shoulder and menacing smile on his face, explained exactly what would happen to him if he disrespected or hurt Zoe, and didn’t have her home by ten.
Zoe ran toward me, waving her flag over her head and shouting, “Ciao, Bella!” She hugged me so hard I could barely breathe.
“Wow!” I said when she let me go and threw herself into Bob’s arms, hugging him just as hard. “That was some greeting. Did you miss us?”
“So much,” she chirped. “What did you bring me?”
“Uh-huh. I see how it is. Don’t worry,” I laughed, “we’ve got presents for everybody. Jean, your son picked out a Fendi handbag for you that’s going to make you drool.”
“Oh, honey,” she said, grinning as Bob hugged her hello, “you didn’t have to do that. What color is it?”
Alex, who had been hanging back a little, came forward, gave Bob one of those manly handshake-backslap things, then one-arm hugged me before taking my bag from my shoulder and carrying it toward the escalator.
“How was camp?” I asked as we walked.
“Good,” he said. “Really good. And I’ve got some good news.”
“Oh, yeah? What?”
“I’ll tell you later, in the car. First, how was Italy? Bet you were sad to leave, eh?”
I looped my arm loosely around his waist.
“Italy was fantastic. Amazing,” I said. “But it’s great to be home. Really, really great.”