TWENTY-FIVE
OUT OF THE bath, into bed, then into the shower. Theresa was doubly clean, with Alex oh-so-helpfully scrubbing her down mostly because he enjoyed running his hands over all her marvelous curves. She liked it, too, cooing and offering kisses. They didn’t have another go, as tired as they were, but they did fall into bed for a long cuddle followed by a longer nap.
They were up and at ’em at half past five, Alex putting on a white-collared shirt, an ice-blue floral tie Theresa insisted “brought out his eyes,” and a charcoal pair of slacks. He polished his shoes while Theresa put on her makeup, which was an involved process that included gluing fake eyelashes onto her already long natural ones.
“They’re blondish. Hard to see,” she offered in explanation.
He smiled. “They’re your lashes. Do what you want to them. I think you’re beautiful either way.”
When she was done, she looked like a porcelain doll with her creamy skin and perfectly painted peachy gold lips. Before she donned her strapless green cocktail dress, she put on black lingerie that made her look like she glowed: a strapless bra, a tiny pair of panties, pantyhose. He got to appreciate it for a whole two minutes before she dressed herself and slid into some low-heeled black shoes. From there it was camera-collecting time. She switched out her lenses and packed her supplies in a vinyl over-the-shoulder bag he offered to carry, but she politely declined, winking at him as they left his suite.
“You broke one. A second and I’d have to kill you.”
“Touché,” he said, leading her downstairs.
Sol and Rain had escaped to Irene’s with Sol’s mother, Nash, and the Barrington brothers. That left Theresa and Alex in the Porsche, again, but Alex didn’t complain about it, because what was the point? It ran, it got them to Royale, and he was only somewhat achy by the time the valet took his keys and drove off in the little red shitbox.
No, you’re not complaining at all.
Count your blessings, Alex.
Irene’s restaurant was tucked inside of a rustic brick building with dark green shutters flanking its floor-to-ceiling windows. The front room had a series of bistro tables with uncomfortable-looking wrought-iron chairs and leather cushions. The art deco lighting barely got it more than “tomb dark” inside, but Alex kept his complaints to himself. He just mentally judged them for wasting the space’s potential. With original construction brick walls and wide-board dark wood flooring, they could have done so much more with what they had.
And yet.
I bet this place won’t be here in a year. New restaurants always learn the hard way.
The hostess led them through the cramped dining room to a much nicer function room in the back, which could—and did—comfortably seat about thirty. Rain and Sol sat in the middle of the long rectangular table, the families and out-of-town guests split up according to allegiance. The Barrington crew was on the left, the DuMont crew on the right. Ne’er the twain shall meet.
“Alex!” Sol stood up from his seat, revealing his white suit with the mint green vest and coordinating tie. He motioned at the empty chair beside him. “The best seat for my best man. Cylan tried to sit there and I told him to fuck off.” Three seats down, Cylan rolled his eyes.
Alex cast Theresa a regretful look before leaving her side. She didn’t immediately go to her side of the table, though, instead pulling out her camera and snapping shots of the gathered families. Alex desperately tried not to watch her, not to let his eyes follow her through the room, but it was almost impossible.
So much so that Sol put his hand under Alex’s elbow and leaned in to whisper to him.
“If you want, I can move over so she can sit with you.”
“Hmm? Oh. No, no. It’s fine. Thank you,” Alex said.
“How are you two getting on?”
Sol eyed him over the rim of his wineglass. Alex sighed.
Confiding in you usually ends up biting me in the ass.
“Fine,” Alex said tightly. “Really, it’s nothing.”
Another lie. My soul is going to wither at the edges at this rate.
“Oh, it looks like everything,” Sol said. “I know that look. It’s about time, old man.”
Alex frowned. “Honestly, Sol, it’s nothing. We’re not getting married or—it’s nothing.”
Sol reached for his napkin and spread it across his lap, not lifting his head when he said, “If it’s enough for my holier-than-thou brother to dare go against the wishes of the Mother Church, it’s something, Alex. She’s the grandest lady on Royale Street right now, Rain aside, and I say that with Maddy not four seats away from me. Don’t be stupid.”
“I . . .” He wanted the perfect pithy one-liner to shut his brother up, but he had nothing, because Sol had nailed it on the head. Alex was willing to go against the Church’s fundamental wishes for this woman, not just once, but over and over again. Hell, his wrists still ached from where she’d handcuffed him not four hours ago. He’d liked it. Loved it. Was eager to see where their next sordid adventure took them.
Which probably should lend me far more pause than it does.
I’ll talk to the priest tomorrow.
He sipped from his water, kept his eyes fixed on his plate, and when the rehearsal dinner started in earnest, he smiled for Theresa’s camera, because that’s what he’d signed up to do.
The evening was a whirlwind of speeches, toasts, and standing in configurations that were fairly obvious but had to be just so anyway. At nine thirty, Rain declared she was satisfied with their practice run and they were free to go, and everyone scattered to the wind. Alex and Theresa drove back to the hotel with her hand atop his on the stick shift, and once they were back at The Seaside, they escaped to his suite to spend the night together. It was a thousand kisses, a thousand touches, a few moments of sublime reverence followed by deep, dreamless sleep. When Theresa’s phone alarm went off at eight o’clock the next morning to tell her it was time to go out with Rain and Dora for trial runs with the hairdresser, Alex had tried to haul her back into bed. She’d playfully escaped, showered, and dressed, only parting after another series of heated kisses.
She’s walking, talking temptation.
I kind of like temptation.
That might be a problem.
Those were his last thoughts before he rolled over and went back to sleep. Alex DuMont, the man who got up before sunrise every day to go to the gym for an hour and a half allowed himself another two more hours, because he was on vacation, damn it.
As soon as he set foot in the foyer at eleven, Sol sent for him, asking him and Cylan to head to Maddy’s ship to oversee the ballroom setup—Sol was handling a “tuxedo emergency,” whatever that meant. A half hour later, Alex found himself placing the very crystal swans he loathed atop more than two hundred place settings, positioning the swans perfectly on folded napkins above scalloped plates with platinum edging. The linens were in place and resplendent, the colors icy blue, white, and silver with black accents. The stage settings were ready for their musical guests. The acoustics passed all their tests. Even the ice swan was in the freezer and ready for the next day’s nuptials.
Everything was perfect.
Or, well, almost everything. The tiger roaming the deck was less than ideal. Capulet cast Alex a crabby look as her keeper leash-walked her through the ship.
Darren calls her the Murder Kitten. I wonder why.
At two, Alex and Cylan parted ways, with Cylan going back to the hotel to work, Alex escaping to the French Quarter to get himself a proper muffuletta for lunch. Nowhere else made them right, he mused, sitting on a park bench overlooking the Mississippi River. He relished every bite, not even minding the afternoon sun beating down on his scalp. He threw away his garbage and sauntered over to the cathedral for his afternoon devotions. Alex was stalwart when it came to his Saturday rituals. Making confession and attending Mass made him feel better, like he could somehow get clean despite the soil in the world. Theresa certainly didn’t make him feel dirty, but she did . . . well, she did complicate things. Premarital sex was explicitly off-limits, and yet what they shared felt pure. Right. Almost necessary at times.
How was that possible, when others would call it a sin?
It was a question for men holier than himself.
Saint Louis’s was a beautiful building with a clean white facade, the roof’s three black steeples tall enough they almost touched the clouds. Lush greenery lined the walkway, the trees kept trim to never impede anyone’s—namely the tourists walking Jackson Square—long-distance appreciation of its grandeur. The double doors were propped open in invitation despite the air-conditioning, and Alex crossed the threshold feeling very much like he was coming home. This had been the church of his youth. Midnight Christmas Masses. Easter services. Sunday school. It’d seen births and deaths and everything in between. He liked his parish in Dallas plenty, but there was something sacred about Saint Louis’s.
It was quiet inside, the pews mostly empty save for a few devotees who prayed with their heads bowed, their rosaries clenched in their fists. The occasional wind from outside made the flags hanging from the second-story balconies stir. The vaulted ceiling was covered with colorful murals, and along the back wall, above the sanctuary, were three of the church’s beautiful stained-glass windows. It smelled of incense and lemony wood polish and someone’s floral perfume. Alex dipped his fingers in the shell-shaped font held by a stone angel and genuflected as he crossed himself, sliding into the backmost pew. A glance told him the confessional was occupied, so he waited his turn, his hands folded primly in his lap.
It should have been a calming thing, knowing he was about to unburden himself of sin, but he had some concerns. The quiet moment before one talked to the priest was the perfect time to examine one’s conscience, and his conscience was rather uncooperative regarding the woman he’d been sleeping with over the last week. There should have been shame or regret. Except there was none. Alex furrowed his brow; someone so dedicated to the Catholic faith should have been at least a little contrite for sex outside of marriage.
Nope.
That was a big fucking problem, if what he wanted was absolution. Unease settled in, and with it doubt. With the doubt came irritation, which could easily turn to anger if he indulged it.
Yes, that’s it, Alex. Piggyback one sin on top of that other sin you’re not sure you regret committing, you moron.
By the time the confessional emptied, he was grinding his jaw. It would have been ideal for someone else to go before him, granting Alex a few minutes to collect himself, but no, he wasn’t that lucky. He headed in, trying to fit his very big body into a very small space. His brain leaped to how he felt in the hell-spawned Porsche parked outside, and he frowned. Grousing—even silently to himself—while in a confessional was wrong. He breathed in deep through his nose and exhaled through his mouth.
Patience, he chided himself. He pulled the door closed behind him and tried to find peace in the familiar rattle and the promise of imminent spiritual relief.
He dropped to the kneeler just as the window slid open with a low wooden rasp. There was soft light through a screen and the vague shape of his confessor. Alex crossed himself and said what he’d said a thousand times before.
Only slightly differently this time.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been eleven days since my last confession. And I need help. There’s a woman,” he said simply.
“Speak, my son.”
Alex took a deep breath and let it spill. It flowed like water: the lustful thoughts, the lustier fights, the over-the-top anger, and the multiple transgressions of virtue. That was when the problem arose. Or, well, not the problem, but when he arose. When one was trying to relay one’s last week of ecstatic sex, even using the nicest terms possible because one was a respectful person, one remembered things. One ruminated, perhaps, too long on certain details of those things.
And those certain details might give one a very awkward boner in the confessional.
It hit Alex like a brick; there he was, in God’s holy house, talking to one of God’s celibate, holy champions, and he had an erection. The shame that he wasn’t sure he could manufacture for his “communion-like” dalliances with Theresa hit all at once and in full force.
I’m talking to a priest and my dick is hard.
Oh sweet Jesus.
I can’t even . . .
“She could be the one for me,” he spat almost desperately. “We could have something wonderful and sacred—a union under God. We’re both Catholic; we hold many of the same beliefs. But I worry we’re traveling a sinful path. Does this jeopardize us or our souls? I want . . . guidance, I suppose. I want to know how to reconcile my fear and doubt with my hope for something more,” he finished.
I hate this.
I hate feeling like this.
I hate my dick.
I hate everything.
The priest paused a long while before speaking. “It’s good that you seek the will of God in your life, as well we all should; it isn’t easy to do. A woman sent your way according to God’s plan is a blessing, but I wonder perhaps, would she resolve to remain chaste with you if you asked? And if the answer is no, what kind of helpmate would she be in the years down the line?”
Alex’s stomach dropped.
I wanted easy forgiveness, but I don’t come here for self-indulgence. I’m here to make an act of contrition.
The priest continued. “Godly relationships are built on a foundation of mutual respect. You could be underestimating not only your own capacity for self-control, but hers, too. There could be peace for you both in mutual chastity. It is worth discussing with her, I would think, especially as you clearly worry for her soul, too.”
If we’re to be together, her soul would be my responsibility and caring for her means caring for her soul, too.
“I’d hate to lose her over it, is all,” Alex said quietly. “I like her very much. I don’t want her to see this as a rejection.”
“But it is not rejection, is it? It’s a dialogue. Your fears are understandable, but I gently remind you that the biggest sin anyone can commit is not trusting in God enough. Do you trust him to give you what you need?”
“Of course I do, Father. He always gives me what I need.”
“Good, then I advise talking to your young lady. I would also advise taking time to do a thorough examination of conscience if you aren’t prepared to make a perfect act of contrition at this time. Remember that God forgives all for the truly penitent.”
“For the truly penitent.”
The question is, am I truly penitent?