Remembrance by Meg Cabot (37)

We had a church wedding after all.

It wasn’t under the grand, sweeping arches of the basilica at the Carmel Mission, as we’d always planned. It was in the much smaller, more modest chapel at St. Francis Medical Center in Monterey.

But somehow I felt it was better that way. There were no statues of the Madonna (rumored to have once wept tears of blood because a virgin—me—graduated from the school) or Father Junípero Serra to gaze down upon us, only the familiar faces of friends and loved ones—our true friends and loved ones, because we’d invited only Jesse’s colleagues from the hospital and my friends and family members who happened to be home for Thanksgiving.

Father Dominic was still there to perform the ceremony, but it was from his wheelchair rather than the intimidating altar at the San Carlos Borromeo de Carmelo Mission, which I preferred.

The ceremony went off without a hitch, with the exception of the performance of the flower girls, who, in the tradition of flower girls throughout history, stole the show. Only Jesse, Father Dominic, and I knew, however, that their antics were due to the fact that a few additional guests had shown up to the ceremony uninvited . . . an elderly woman who’d passed away moments before in the cardiac ward and decided to stick around because, as she informed us, “I love a good wedding.”

Then there was a forty-niner (the gold mining kind, not a member of the professional football team) who simply stood in the back, his battered top hat in his hands to show his respect for the bride.

Finding a venue for the reception afterward was simple. We invited everyone—minus the deceased—back to 99 Pine Crest Road for cake, champagne, barbecue, and beer.

“Well,” my mother said as she stood with her arm around my waist on what had once been her back deck, but was now mine. “I don’t know how you did it, Suzie. Or why. But I approve.”

“Thanks, Mom.” I clinked her champagne glass with my own. “Jesse and Jake worked really hard on it. David helped, too.”

I didn’t mention how David had arrived unannounced at Snail Crossing on the Saturday afternoon that Jesse and I had first made love, demanding to know where everyone was, and accidentally walked in on Jake and Gina having a romantic interlude of their own.

Then, upon discovering that I had somehow managed to procure ownership of our old house, and that there was no longer any danger from “the curse” he’d flown over three thousand miles to help break, David had proceeded to have a miniature nervous breakdown, from which we’d had to nurse him back to health with great quantities of brewskis and za.

“I don’t mean the decorations,” Mom said, indicating the party globes we’d strung across the backyard to light the picnic tables at which our guests were enjoying the barbecue Andy—ever the chef—had insisted on providing. “I mean the house. Suze, I had no idea this house meant so much to you. Why didn’t you tell me? We’d never have sold it if we’d known.”

“Oh,” I said, sipping my champagne. “The timing wasn’t right. Jesse and I had some things to sort out first.”

What was I supposed to say? Well, the truth is, Mom, my husband—how I loved thinking, let alone saying, the word—died and was a ghost in this house for a while. He needed to work through that. And I needed to work through some crap that was haunting me.

But it’s all good now. Well, all good for now.

“But how much did you pay Paul for it, if you don’t mind my asking?” Mom looked around nostalgically. “Please tell me you didn’t blow all your savings.”

“Well, I won’t lie to you, the taxes are going to be a bitch, but nothing I can’t handle. I got a really good deal on the place, though.” It wasn’t hard to keep a straight face. “Paul practically gave it to me, as a matter of fact.”

Mom seemed impressed. “Well, wasn’t that sweet of him? See, I knew you two could work out your differences.”

“Yeah,” I said. “You weren’t wrong about him.”

“Simon!” A familiar male voice startled me from behind. I turned around to see Adam MacTavish, accompanied by one of my bridesmaids, CeeCee. “Or is it de Silva now?”

“We’ll see,” I said, and hugged him. “I haven’t decided yet. Wow, don’t you look like a young urban professional.”

“You don’t look so bad yourself, Simon. May I admire you?”

“You may.” I handed CeeCee my champagne glass and curtsied in my couture gown. Adam applauded.

“Love. Big fan of the sweetheart neckline and mermaid skirt, always have been, it’s a classic for a reason. Now spin.”

I spun. CeeCee pretended to be bored and studied the clouds overhead, which had turned orange and lavender as the sun sank into the western sky.

“Gorgeous,” Adam said. “Love the lace, and the corset back does amazing things to your boobs, Simon. You look like a Victorian hooker.”

“Geez, Adam.” CeeCee handed my champagne glass back to me, then took his from him. “You’re cut off. Her mother is standing right over there.”

“I don’t think she heard you.” My mother had become involved in a conversation with Debbie Mancuso’s parents, whom I’d noticed shaking their heads earlier at how little furniture Jesse and I possessed.

We didn’t care. We had each other (and Spike and Romeo, who’d settled into an uneasy truce), and that was all we needed.

Plus the sizable gift certificate Mom and Andy had given us to one of the home-furnishing stores Andy represented. He’d said I could use his employee discount. I already had new curtains and carpets picked out.

“Mrs. Simon didn’t hear me,” Adam was saying. “And it was a compliment. By Victorian hooker, Suze, I meant, you know, one of those virginal-looking hot ladies from a vampire movie, or an old Western.”

“Just the look I was going for,” I said. “Will you two excuse me? I spotted some people I want to say hi to.”

“Of course,” CeeCee said. As I walked away from them, I heard a muffled thump, and Adam cry out in pain.

“What?” he asked CeeCee defensively. “I said it was a compliment!”

“You’re such an idiot,” CeeCee replied, but there was affection in her voice. Since the story on Jimmy Delgado’s “suicide” broke, CeeCee had gotten a lot more confident about her professional prospects. The subsequent story she’d done on Father Francisco’s arrest—and the arrest of the several other prominent Monterey Bay area residents who’d been members of Delgado’s “private client list”—had been picked up by the Associated Press. CeeCee had been offered a promotion at the Carmel Pine Cone that she still claimed to be “mulling over.”

This was a far greater gift than any I could have purchased for her online, although I was still looking for the perfect way to thank her.

She’d said, however, that my having had my wedding a year early—and in such a rush as to have no time to select bridesmaid gowns—was thanks enough.

I hurried down the steps from the deck, toward the newcomers I’d seen striding down the walkway from the front yard—or at least I hurried as quickly as someone in a tightly corseted, mermaid-skirted couture wedding gown could hurry.

“Becca. Kelly. Mr. Walters.” I still could not bring myself to call him Arthur. “Hello. I’m so glad you could come.”

“We wouldn’t have missed this for the world.” I saw Kelly’s gaze flick quickly over my waist and abdomen. I knew she was trying to see if I looked pregnant, and if this could be the reason for my hastily thrown together nuptials. “Don’t you look nice. Is that a Pnina Tornai?”

“No, Galia Lahav.”

For once I had the pleasure of seeing Kelly struck speechless.

“I don’t know if you girls are speaking English or what,” her husband said in a jovial tone, “but you look stunning, Susan.”

“Thank you, Mr. Walters.” I smiled at Becca. “You look nice, too.”

I wasn’t lying, for once. Though it had been only a week since Lucia had left her, Becca looked like a different girl, standing with a newfound confidence, and wearing her dark hair away from her face. Her skin was clearing up, and the cream-colored dress she wore actually fit her. She still had a ways to go, but she no longer seemed frightened of the journey.

“Thank you, Ms. Simon,” she said, giving me a shy look. The crowd in the backyard, which was considerably more sizable—and boisterous—than the one in the chapel, was seeming to intimidate her. Plus Jake had insisted on “treating” us to a live mariachi band—in full costume, including sombreros—and though talented, they were surprisingly loud. “Where can we put this?”

Becca was carrying a large, beautifully wrapped gift.

“Oh,” I said. “On the table over there. Thank you so much.”

“It’s a tortilla maker,” Kelly stated baldly. “You weren’t registered anywhere, so we had no idea what to get you. I figured it’s something he’d like.” Her gaze flicked toward Jesse, who was radiating good looks and happiness in his tuxedo as he laughed with Brad and Dr. Patel at some mischief the triplets and the mini-Patels were getting up to over by the cake table.

“Well, how kind of you, Kelly,” I said. I could afford to be gracious, since I was so happy. “Please help yourselves to a drink over at the bar. Oh, here’s Debbie, she’ll take you there.”

Debbie had hurried over, having spotted her friend’s arrival. “Kelly, oh, my God, it took you forever, was the traffic bad coming over? I’m so sorry. Arthur, come here, my dad wants to say hi. You, too, Becs, I want you to meet my adorable little brother-in-law, David. He goes to Harvard, you two are going to love each other.”

Both Becca and David looked stricken, but only David, who’d been sitting at a picnic table next to Jake and Gina, turned nearly as red as his own hair. He’d invited his “good friend” Shahbaz to be his plus one at my wedding, then made it clear to all of us that they were more than friends by kissing under some mistletoe at Debbie and Brad’s house during Thanksgiving dinner.

The Ackerman-Simon family did not shock easily, however. Brad had remarked only, “Dude, we get it, you’re gay. Now pass the gravy.”

Shahbaz handled the Ackerman family and their many quirks with good humor. He’d even asked me, with a friendly wink, how my research project on ancient Egyptian curses was going.

“Go on, Becca,” I said with a grin, giving her a little push. “Don’t worry, he’s taken.”

“He’s not,” Debbie insisted. “He’s just going through a stage.”

I rolled my eyes. Debbie was the one person in the family who was resistant to change, but I knew she, too, would come around. She’d agreed to mediator school—and even vaccines—for the triplets, after all. “Did you have a good time at Sean Park’s party, Becca?”

“It was okay, I guess. I didn’t win at Ghost Mediator.”

“You don’t always win at Ghost Mediator, Becca. Trust me, I would know. Go hang out with David and his friend. They don’t bite.”

Fingering the horse pendant she still wore around her neck, she said, “Okay,” in the grudging voice my stepnieces reserved for agreeing to try a new vegetable, and gingerly followed Debbie across the lawn, toward David and his boyfriend.

“Nicely done,” said a voice at my elbow, and I turned to see a small, very elegantly dressed woman with bright white hair and even brighter red lipstick standing beside me.

“Dr. Jo! You came!” I leaned down to hug her. “I’m so glad.”

“How could I not?” she asked, hugging me back. “I was so curious as to where you’d disappeared to these last few weeks. We all were.” She released me and nodded at Jesse. “Now I know. He’s the doctor I’ve heard so much about?”

“He’s the doctor you’ve heard so much about.”

“Be still my heart. And this is where the two of you are going to live?” She looked at the back of the house that, from behind, somehow managed to look even larger and more impressive than it did from the front.

“Yes. It’s sort of a long story—”

“And I trust you’re going to tell me about it someday. Well, as much as Suze Simon ever tells anyone.”

I don’t know what made me do it. Maybe it was because I couldn’t believe she’d come. Maybe because we weren’t in her office, but standing in the backyard of the home I’d come to love so much, and feel so safe in. Maybe because it was my wedding day, and I felt so happy.

But I found myself looking into her eyes and saying, “Dr. Jo, I’ll tell you one thing, though I’m not sure you’ll believe it. Your husband Sy has a message he wants me to give you. He wants me to remind you to worry less about your patients, and more about yourself. He says you need to remember to get the tires rotated on your—”

Dr. Jo stepped away from me so quickly I thought she might stumble, so I put a hand on her elbow to steady her. All the blood had drained from her face, except for the scarlet smear of lipstick across her lips.

“What . . . how could you possibly—?”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to scare you. It’s just that you said you thought I suffered a trauma in my past, and I haven’t. Not really. I just speak to the dead.”

She reached out to clutch my arm. “I think I need to sit down.”

Jesse chose that moment to come over. “Is everything all right?” he asked.

“Not really,” I said. “Could you get Dr. Jo a chair?”

“Certainly.” He disappeared, then reappeared just as quickly with a chair, into which he helped Dr. Jo. “Is that better?”

She’d closed her eyes, but once she sat, she opened them again and looked at him kneeling beside her in the grass, then back up at me.

“I’m assuming he knows about this . . . talent of yours?” she asked.

“Oh, yes,” I said. “He has it, too. Way more than me, actually.”

“Of course he does,” she murmured. “Why did I bother asking? Well, go on. What did Sy tell you, exactly?”

“I’m sorry. It’s just that your husband won’t move on because he’s so worried about you. He’s very upset because you haven’t remembered to have your tires rotated—”

“That’s Sy, all right,” she muttered. “That car. That damned car.”

“I didn’t know how to bring it up with you. But I see him almost every day in the faculty parking lot. One of my stepbrothers works at a car dealership, maybe he could—”

Dr. Jo wasn’t listening. “That damned car. It was all he ever cared about.”

“It’s you he cares about, not the car,” Jesse pointed out.

She reached out in a dazed way to pat his cheek. “You’re adorable. But I think I need some alone time right now. And a drink. Would one of you mind . . . ?”

Jesse said, “Of course,” and took me by the waist to physically steer me not toward the bar, but away from it. “Was that really the wisest idea? Isn’t she your advisor?”

“And my therapist, yeah. But I think she needed to hear that. Why aren’t we heading toward the bar? She said she wants a drink. I wouldn’t mind another, either, after that.”

“I’ll have your stepbrother take it to her.” Jesse signaled to Brad, who was acting as de facto bartender at the de facto bar, a couple of saw horses we’d placed a board between, then covered with a red-and-white-checked tablecloth. “If she’s a therapist, he’s exactly who should be speaking to her anyway. He needs a little career counseling. He’s not going to be working for his father-in-law much longer, you know.”

I sucked in my breath. “What?”

“No. He was telling me last night. He’s hit up your parents for a loan so he can enroll in the police academy.”

“A cop? Brad?” Somehow, preposterous as it sounded, it also seemed strangely right. Brad had thrived after the babies were born, loving the structure fatherhood brought to his life. A job on the police force would provide him even more structure. “Wow. Ackerman family get-togethers are about to get even more interesting.”

“Yes. In the meantime, there’s someone here who wants to speak to you.”

“Who? I can’t talk to anyone else, frankly. I’m in too much shock. Besides, I’ve already spoken to everyone, except the one person I most want to talk to. You.” I turned to put my arms around his neck. “I’ve barely had a minute alone with you all day. What do you think of my dress? You’re the only one who hasn’t told me.”

He reached up to take the empty champagne glass out of my hand and place it on a picnic table.

“I have an opinion on it,” he said, “and you’re definitely going to hear it, but not now.” He removed my arms from his neck and spun me around to face Father Dominic a few yards away, still sitting tucked beneath a blanket in his wheelchair beside an outdoor heat lamp we’d rented.

“But I’ve already talked to Father D,” I whispered. “Several times, as a matter of fact. And Sister Ernestine. She completely loves me since I got Father Francisco arrested. She says I’m hired . . . on conditional probation, of course, but that’s fine by me. So since I’ve done all my obligatory chatting to the sweet old people, can we please just sneak—”

“Susannah,” Jesse said, basically steering me until I was in front of a giant wearing a long black leather trench coat who was standing beside Father Dominic’s wheelchair. “Do you remember Jack Slater?”

I had to crane my neck to look into the giant’s face. When I did, I saw that it bore only the slightest resemblance to the child I remembered babysitting so many years earlier at the Pebble Beach Resort and Hotel.

“Jack?” I heard myself ask in a voice that sounded nothing like my own, it was so squeaky.

The giant smiled. “Hi, Suze,” he said in a strangely youthful voice. He held out a massive right hand. He was wearing fingerless gloves in the same black leather as his trench. “Congratulations to you and Jesse.”

I slipped my hand into the giant’s and allowed him to pump my fingers up and down. Glancing surreptitiously at Father Dominic, I saw him grinning, though after such a long day—Dr. Patel had only granted him permission to leave the hospital for a few hours—I imagined he had to be feeling overwhelmed.

“Thanks, Jack,” I said, feeling a bit overwhelmed as well. “You look . . . different.”

“I know,” he said with a chuckle. “Weird, right? Hey, it was really decent of you both to invite me.”

This sobered me up even more quickly than the sight of his giant teenage hand. Jesse and I exchanged glances.

“Uh,” I said. “No problem. We’re so glad you could come.”

But of course we hadn’t invited him. I hadn’t wanted Paul to discover we were getting married—we’d had enough trouble from him to last a lifetime.

So I’d taken care not to allow anything about the event to be posted online, and I’d especially not sent an invitation to Paul or his younger brother, Jack, though I’d felt badly about it.

“Er, yes, Susannah,” Father Dominic said, looking slightly embarrassed. “Wasn’t it nice of Jack to come? And all the way from Seattle, where he lives now.”

I gave him a dirty look. Now I knew who’d invited Jack.

“Yes,” I said. “So nice.”

“I see that my brother isn’t here,” Jack said. “I asked him if he was coming, and he said he wasn’t sure. Did he not get invited? He hasn’t caused any more trouble, has he?”

“No, not trouble, exactly,” I said, while beside me I saw Jesse set his jaw. I couldn’t hear him grinding his teeth over the sound of the music, but I was sure that’s what he was doing.

Now we knew how Paul had found out we’d moved up the wedding date, despite the care I’d taken.

The box had arrived via FedEx earlier that day, along with a card from Paul wishing us “many years of happily wedded bliss.”

Inside the box was a framed notification letting the applicant know that, per their request, 99 Pine Crest Road had been determined eligible for the National Register of Historic Places, due to its being associated with “events that have made a significant contribution to the broad pattern of history” and with the “lives of persons significant in our country’s past.” As such, the property could never be torn down or altered in any way.

The request had been made by the Carmel-by-the-Sea Historical Society four months earlier. The notification was dated the day after Paul would have begun demolition on my house . . . if I hadn’t stopped him.

I thought that Jesse and I had already had more than our fair share of miracles. But I was happy to take this one, too.

Jesse took a great deal of satisfaction in prominently displaying the notification over the fireplace in the front parlor. An official seal—the same as the one on the wall outside the Monterey County Jail, another historic landmark in which Jesse had spent time—would be following, according to the notification, as soon as it could be engraved.

To give Paul credit, I don’t think he could have found a better wedding present . . . then again, the text he’d sent me later probably expressed his true feelings about my marriage:

Insulting as it was, it was nice to know he was feeling better. It meant that while his jaw might have been broken, his heart never truly was—if he had one, which I wasn’t sure.

I’d already decided, however, that it would be best not to reciprocate with a framed copy of the results of the paternity test I’d paid an extra thousand dollars (out of my own pocket) to have rushed during a holiday week.

Paul’s probability of paternity for the triplets (or Child A, B, and C as they were referred to by the lab) had come back at a whopping 99.999 percent certainty . . . not that I’d ever doubted it, nor had any intention of telling anyone else, save Jesse. It was just a nice piece of insurance to have in case I ever needed it in the future.

“Yeah,” Jack was going on. “Paul and I aren’t very close anymore. Not that we ever were, really. I basically only see him at shareholder meetings.”

“Oh?” Father Dominic asked. I could tell that the old man was thoroughly enjoying himself. Bored from having been cooped up in the hospital for so long, even a normal wedding would have been very exciting to him. But this one was of particular interest to him. “Did your grandfather leave you a stake in his company?”

“Oh, no, not at all,” Jack replied. “Gramps didn’t leave me a dime. I bought into Paul’s company with my own money. I design video games. Turns out I’m pretty good at it. Who’d have thought I’d be good at anything, right, Suze?”

He laughed at himself in a self-deprecating manner that was completely unlike his brother. The laugh, however, reminded me eerily of my stepnieces.

“Video games?” I echoed. “I thought you liked to write screenplays.”

“What? No. Well, sort of. See, it’s a bit stupid, actually. You’ve probably heard of one of them.” Jack said the words aloud even as I mouthed them along with him. “Ghost Mediator.”

Jesse looked astonished. “That’s you?”

Jack laughed some more, shaking his head as if he couldn’t believe it himself. “I know. Weird, right? I mean, I know we’re supposed to keep the mediator thing a secret, but I never expected anyone to see my game, much less take it seriously. I submitted it to a contest. Honestly, I never expected to win. They’ve even made a stupid TV show based off it.”

“I’ve heard of it,” I said woodenly.

“I know, it’s really bad.” Jack looked a bit deflated by my lack of enthusiasm. “It’s taken off, though, internationally, and I get a ton of residuals. That lady who stars in it—”

“She’s fake,” I interrupted. “Her readings aren’t real.”

“Yeah, I know. But people really seem to like her. I try to give a lot of the money to charity. Animal shelters, mostly, but children’s charities, too. Hey, I could give some to the hospital where you work, Jesse. That would really annoy my brother.”

“That sounds wonderful.” Jesse slapped Jack on the shoulder. “Keep up the great work.”

Of course Jesse would say this.

“Thanks.” Jack looked around shyly. “So, I don’t suppose there are any, uh, girls my age here? It’s cool if there aren’t. I know it’s asking a lot.” His gaze was following Gina, who looked amazing, as usual, but had just finished dancing with Jake. Both were smiling at nothing. Gina had been doing a lot of that lately, not only because her romantic life was improving, but because she’d landed a plum role in Carmel’s outdoor production of Pippin. Local theater wasn’t exactly Hollywood, but it was better than nothing.

“Not her,” I said to Jack. “She’s too old for you. And I think she might be taken.” I looked around, noticing that Adam and CeeCee were having one of their epic debates over by the cake table. Then I spotted Becca.

“You know what?” I smiled. “That girl sitting over there by my stepbrother David, looking bored? She actually likes Ghost Mediator.”

Jack brightened. “Does she? Oh, great, maybe I’ll go say hi. Thanks again for inviting me. I’ll talk to you later.” He was smiling as he made a beeline toward Becca, casually sidestepping his nieces, who were teaching Dr. Patel’s children how to play “flower girl” (in their version, it was played by violently hurling pinecones at one another).

“So,” Father Dominic said, hardly bothering to lower his voice. “The boy doesn’t know those girls are his brother’s children?”

“Shhh!” I glared at Jesse. “You really did tell him everything.”

“Of course. You told her everything.” He pointed at Dr. Jo, who’d recovered from her shock and was enjoying cake and champagne with Becca’s father and stepmother. I couldn’t tell if she’d met them before—perhaps because they’d set up an appointment for family counseling—or if their meeting was merely felicitous.

“Not everything,” I said with a glower. “Thanks a lot for inviting assorted randos from my past to my wedding reception, Father D. Who else can I expect to show up? If you say the Backstreet Boys, I won’t be held responsible for my actions.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Susannah,” Father Dominic said. “Jack Slater shouldn’t be ostracized because of his brother’s antisocial behavior. Now who is that lovely woman over there?” He gave Dr. Jo an appraising glance. “Why have I never met her before?”

I looked from Dr. Jo to Father Dominic and then back again. “Nope,” I said firmly.

He had the grace to appear discomfited. “Oh, Susannah, please. I’m not interested in her romantically. I took a vow of chastity over sixty years ago and that’s not something I’m likely to abandon, even if others in my profession seem to take it—and every conceivable limit of morality—lightly.”

It was going to take him far longer to get over the revelations about Father Francisco than the injuries he’d sustained at the hands of Lucia.

“Whatever, Father,” I said. “I’m not introducing you.”

“Susannah, you do have a tendency to think the worst of people—even people you supposedly know and trust. I’m not saying she isn’t a very pleasant-looking woman. I’m only saying it would be enjoyable to get to know someone my own age who isn’t affiliated with the church or the school. This is a small town and I rarely meet new—”

“Nope,” I said again, even more firmly, and took Jesse’s hand. “You’re on your own with that one, Father D. You wheel yourself over there and make your own introductions. We’re going inside now. I need to have a word with my husband.”

Husband! It was fun to say, and even more fun to drag Jesse from the party and into the house—the house that we owned—and not have anyone say a word about it. They couldn’t, because we were officially a couple now, and it was officially our house, and we could do whatever we wanted in it.

It was quiet inside since everyone was gathered outside, drinking, eating, laughing, and listening to the loud, joyful music. Now that we’d had the chimney swept and the power transferred to our names, so that there was wood burning in the fireplaces at night, and air-conditioning cooling the rooms during the day, the house did not smell so much like “books” anymore.

But there was still a faint odor of them, and not only because Jesse owned so many, enough to fill all the built-in bookshelves, and then some.

I pulled Jesse by the hand up the stairs, using the other to hold the train of my very long dress, so I wouldn’t trip.

“What’s so important,” he wanted to know as he followed me, “that we couldn’t talk about it downstairs?”

“Nothing,” I said when we got to our room. It really was our room now, not mine. Jake had helped move Jesse’s enormous bed from Snail Crossing, and it now took up a tremendous amount of space—and had been nearly impossible to wrestle up the stairs. But it was worth it. “I just thought it was time for us to gracefully retire to the bedroom.” I reached out to playfully tweak his bow tie as he lay down beside me. “I need you to unlace this corset so I can breathe, pardner.”

“If that is another remark about me being a cowboy, you know I do not appreciate it.” He traced a shape on the swell of my breast above the neckline of my wedding gown. “Do you really want to take off your dress? You haven’t heard yet what I think of it.”

I rolled over onto my back. “Oh, I have a pretty good idea what you think of it already.”

He laughed and climbed on top of me. “Do you? You have a very high opinion of yourself.”

“Healthy. I have a healthy opinion of myself.”

He kissed me, laughing. “I think dresses like this are what you ought to be wearing all the time, Susannah. Although I suppose I’m lucky you don’t, or I’d be in the Monterey County Jail every night.”

“Ha! Are you saying I’ve finally done something of which your mother would approve?”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” he said, and kissed me some more.

A little while later the last slanting rays of the sun were creeping into the room, making bright gold splashes on the walls and wainscoting and occasional bare patches of skin—we’d been in too much of a hurry to bother to unlace the corset—and I was dozing in his arms. I’d discovered, after so many years, that I could fall asleep easily, as long as Jesse was in bed beside me.

Of course, I might also have been dozing because he was reading aloud to me from one of his innumerable ancient books, this one by the poet William Congreve.

“ ‘Thus in this sad, but oh, too pleasing state! my soul can fix upon nothing but thee; thee it contemplates, admires, adores, nay depends on, trusts on you alone.’ ”

I heard him close the book, then lean over me.

“Susannah,” he whispered. “Susannah, are you awake? We’ve been away from the party for too long. We should get back to our guests.”

“In a minute.” I reached to wipe the corners of my eyelids.

“Susannah.” He sounded pleasantly astonished. “Susannah, are you crying?”

“No,” I said with a smile. “It’s my allergies again.”

Jesse laughed and kissed me as the sun slipped beneath the sea.