December 7th
“Do you think I should throw our annual Christmas party this year?” Cecelia asked.
Antony peered over the edge of the Car and Driver magazine he had been perusing for close to an hour as Cecelia readied for bed. “Bit late to start considering a party that large, isn’t it?”
“Well, I know I usually begin planning earlier.”
“Yes, at the start of November, Cecelia.”
She met his gaze in the vanity mirror while she massaged lotion into her hands. “What if I handed the reins over this year?”
“To who?”
“The girls.”
Antony lifted a single brow. “The boys’ wives, you mean.”
“Who else would I be talking about, Antony?”
“Hard to say with you,” he mumbled under his breath.
Cecelia shot him a look, but Antony only winked in response.
“Would you actually do that, though?” he asked.
“Do what?”
“Hand the reins over, as you said. Give up control. Don’t micromanage every detail over their shoulders. Let them have the freedom to actually plan.”
“You make me sound like a tyrant.”
“You are,” he replied easily, “especially when it comes to parties or your kitchen.”
“I am—”
Antony’s green gaze pinned Cecelia in place as he said, “You absolutely are. I didn’t say it was a bad thing, Tesoro, but own it, at the very least.”
She sighed dramatically. “They don’t complain.”
“No, because they love you.”
“I think you’re exaggerat—”
“Cecelia, you broke my knuckle with a wooden spoon once when I meddled with a stew.”
“I apologized for that!”
“And yet, here I am, still bringing it up.”
“Antony.”
He chuckled from his side of the bed. “I’m kidding, amore.”
Cecelia pouted. “I don’t think you are.”
“Half-kidding, then.”
She loved her husband.
Even when he infuriated her.
“I would,” she insisted.
“Would what?”
“Hand over the reins to the girls.”
Antony stared up at the ceiling. “If you want to have a party that badly, then we’ll have one. No need to try to convince me with lies about letting the girls plan it.”
“It’s not lies.”
“Cecelia.”
“I’m Catholic. I don’t know how to lie.” Sort of, she added silently. “The nuns beat that out of you in Catholic schools.”
“The nuns were the worst.”
“See, you agree. Now about this party …”
Antony chuckled under his breath, and shook his head. “Okay, then let the girls plan, but I mean actually let them plan, Cecelia. No stepping in. No making demands. No traditional if they want modern. No ordering them to cook every last dish when it’s already this late in the month, and it would just be easier to get a caterer.”
“Oh, my God, a caterer?”
“And there’s your no,” Antony said.
Cecelia pressed her lips together tightly before forcing herself to say, “Okay, a caterer.”
“Stop saying it like that.”
“Like what, Antony?”
“Like it makes you want to scream.”
“But it does!”
“Maybe they will cook. I didn’t say they wouldn’t. I said you needed to let them decide, should they agree to plan it.”
This was going to be harder than Cecelia first thought.
“I know the girls can throw a good party,” she said after a long moment.
Antony smiled. “Then allow them to do that.”
“Fine.”
“And stop making it sound like you’re about to walk through hell for some eggnog.”
Cecelia stood from the seat at her vanity, and turned to her husband. “You could … indulge me, Antony. Let me meddle a little.”
“No.”
“Antony.”
“No.”
“But—”
“No.”
“You are impossible!”
“Says you,” Antony shot back. “Now get in bed, donna.”
Cecelia slipped under the covers just as Antony turned to shove the magazine into his nightstand. She expected him to roll back over empty-handed. Instead, he held a bright red folder. Wordlessly, he held it out for her to take.
She hesitated.
“What is it?”
“Something special,” he told her.
“A gift?”
“A big gift.”
“For …?”
“Christmas,” Antony said, grinning, “now open it.”
Cecelia plucked the folder from his hands with her own smile. “You couldn’t wait for Christmas?”
“That would defeat the purpose.”
“Of what?”
“Well, open it.”
Cecelia enjoyed teasing her husband when she actually got the chance to, and that wasn’t very often. Usually, it was him pulling tricks on her. She set the folder on top of the covers over her legs, and drummed her fingernails to the bright red top.
“You didn’t spend very much time wrapping it, huh?”
“Cecelia.”
“What?”
“Open that damn folder,” Antony muttered.
“Gosh, you’re so impatient.”
“Someone’s certainly testing my patience tonight.”
She smiled sweetly. “Yes, but you like it.”
“Would you open that folder?”
Deciding she had teased Antony enough, she quickly flipped open the top of the folder, and peered at the contents inside. Papers, it seemed. Documents of some kind. Cecelia picked up what looked to be a deed, and a small geo-map right underneath.
“What is this for?” she asked.
“Read it.”
She did.
“An island?”
“A private island,” Antony said.
“In the Caribbean.”
“Yep.”
There were a couple of photographs, too. A quaint, tri-level cottage with huge windows covering the front wall and a massive wrap-around porch sat in the middle of the island. It seemed the place was fitted with generators to maintain its own power supply, and boats to travel back and forth to the mainland. It was beautiful.
“Did you seriously buy me an island?”
“Depends on how you feel about it,” Antony replied.
“Well …”
“Oh, and you need a way to get there, right?”
Cecelia glanced over at him.
Antony simply handed over a set of keys.
“What is this for?”
“A sixty-foot luxury yacht I decided to call Beauty.”
“Antony …”
“Too much?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, “but not for you.”
Without warning, Cecelia found herself pulled into her husband’s lap. He kissed her mouth once, then twice, and grinned against her lips.
“So, this was probably why you didn’t want me focusing on getting everybody together, right?”
Antony shrugged. “I would really like to try that island out.”
Cecelia held his gaze as she stretched over his form. “You better play one hell of a Santa, Antony Marcello.”
“Already working on it, Tesoro.”
She had no doubt.