through with it? Are you married?”
“Of course,” I said. “The wedding was hours ago.”
Maureen hesitated. “Where are you now?”
“Where do you think?” I said. “It’s my wedding night. I’m at the hotel . . . with Daniel .”
“Then why are you answering your phone?” She sounded like she didn’t believe me. “Where’s your husband?”
I peeked around the corner to see Daniel’s shoulders half in, half out of the door. All I could make out from his conversation was words like, “discretion,” “appreciate,” and “privacy.” Rolling my back around the doorframe, I slumped against the crimson-painted wall.
“He’s having an unusually long conversation with the bellhop and hotel manager.” Blowing out a breath, I gathered my thoughts before trudging on with what I wanted to discuss with her.
“So, it’s not too late?”
“Too late for what?”
“To back out, to rethink this whole thing,” she said, her voice a mixture of excitement and relief. “You haven’t consummated the marriage, so it can still be annulled, and you can come home.”
I pushed away from the wall to stand at attention. “Seriously, Maureen.” Sure, I was experiencing some post-wedding jitters that border-lined on trepidation, but I wasn’t about to abandon my marriage just yet. “Not this again.”
“You can’t stay with him! You don’t even know him. A weekend here, a few days there, doesn’t a relationship make. And you and I both know you don’t have the best track record when it comes to choosing husbands. This one could be a child molester for all you know.”
“Maureen, I know what I’m doing this time,” I disagreed and prayed what I’d just said was true. “Besides, he’s a state senator—he’s not a child molester.”
“Right, he’s a politician.” I could hear the eye roll in her voice. “What about all those senators out in DC who take advantage of young interns? You’ve heard the stories.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose between my finger and thumb. As usual, she was taking her sisterly concern for me too far. “Yes, and this isn’t DC. This is Nashville. Please tell me you haven’t been dipping into your painkillers again.”
“No!” she said, her voice insistent. “You’re the one who’s acting like she’s been drugged—”
“He’s not a child molester,” I reiterated. “Look, there’s something I wanted to—”
“Fine, but what if he has some twisted sexual dysfunction and he wants you to do all these demented things in bed?” she cut in, upping her game. “What about that? You haven’t slept with him, so how could you know?”
My lips parted to refute but then closed again as what she’d said gave me pause. In some ways, I was an old-fashioned girl and had insisted that Daniel and I waited until we were married to sleep together. So what? Was my sister insinuating that our lack of premarital intimacy might have misguidedly contributed to our hasty nuptials? My gaze drifted across the room to the king-sized bed. Over the headboard hung a painting of a single rose in a bud vase sitting on an iron table, surrounded by a lovely French garden. It was the type of painting that became clearer the further one stepped away. How does an artist paint something he’s unable to see clearly at arm’s length? But then we can never quite get a grip on the things we hold too close.
I dropped my face into my hand, worried again over what I’d gotten myself into. The door in the other room clicked shut, followed by the squeak of Daniel’s Prada’s on the marble floor. I knew I was out of time.
I crossed my fingers behind my back for luck. “He doesn’t have a sexual dysfunction,” I whispered into the phone.
“What if he does?”
“Then you can be the first in a growing line of naysayers to tell me, ‘I told you so, ’ ” I said. “I have to go. Love ya, mean it, bye.”
Pressing the end button on my touch screen, I held my iPhone to my
“Of course,” I said. “The wedding was hours ago.”
Maureen hesitated. “Where are you now?”
“Where do you think?” I said. “It’s my wedding night. I’m at the hotel . . . with Daniel .”
“Then why are you answering your phone?” She sounded like she didn’t believe me. “Where’s your husband?”
I peeked around the corner to see Daniel’s shoulders half in, half out of the door. All I could make out from his conversation was words like, “discretion,” “appreciate,” and “privacy.” Rolling my back around the doorframe, I slumped against the crimson-painted wall.
“He’s having an unusually long conversation with the bellhop and hotel manager.” Blowing out a breath, I gathered my thoughts before trudging on with what I wanted to discuss with her.
“So, it’s not too late?”
“Too late for what?”
“To back out, to rethink this whole thing,” she said, her voice a mixture of excitement and relief. “You haven’t consummated the marriage, so it can still be annulled, and you can come home.”
I pushed away from the wall to stand at attention. “Seriously, Maureen.” Sure, I was experiencing some post-wedding jitters that border-lined on trepidation, but I wasn’t about to abandon my marriage just yet. “Not this again.”
“You can’t stay with him! You don’t even know him. A weekend here, a few days there, doesn’t a relationship make. And you and I both know you don’t have the best track record when it comes to choosing husbands. This one could be a child molester for all you know.”
“Maureen, I know what I’m doing this time,” I disagreed and prayed what I’d just said was true. “Besides, he’s a state senator—he’s not a child molester.”
“Right, he’s a politician.” I could hear the eye roll in her voice. “What about all those senators out in DC who take advantage of young interns? You’ve heard the stories.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose between my finger and thumb. As usual, she was taking her sisterly concern for me too far. “Yes, and this isn’t DC. This is Nashville. Please tell me you haven’t been dipping into your painkillers again.”
“No!” she said, her voice insistent. “You’re the one who’s acting like she’s been drugged—”
“He’s not a child molester,” I reiterated. “Look, there’s something I wanted to—”
“Fine, but what if he has some twisted sexual dysfunction and he wants you to do all these demented things in bed?” she cut in, upping her game. “What about that? You haven’t slept with him, so how could you know?”
My lips parted to refute but then closed again as what she’d said gave me pause. In some ways, I was an old-fashioned girl and had insisted that Daniel and I waited until we were married to sleep together. So what? Was my sister insinuating that our lack of premarital intimacy might have misguidedly contributed to our hasty nuptials? My gaze drifted across the room to the king-sized bed. Over the headboard hung a painting of a single rose in a bud vase sitting on an iron table, surrounded by a lovely French garden. It was the type of painting that became clearer the further one stepped away. How does an artist paint something he’s unable to see clearly at arm’s length? But then we can never quite get a grip on the things we hold too close.
I dropped my face into my hand, worried again over what I’d gotten myself into. The door in the other room clicked shut, followed by the squeak of Daniel’s Prada’s on the marble floor. I knew I was out of time.
I crossed my fingers behind my back for luck. “He doesn’t have a sexual dysfunction,” I whispered into the phone.
“What if he does?”
“Then you can be the first in a growing line of naysayers to tell me, ‘I told you so, ’ ” I said. “I have to go. Love ya, mean it, bye.”
Pressing the end button on my touch screen, I held my iPhone to my
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