Here is an excerpt from my next ebook: JUST MARRIED-- the sequel to JITTERS. Please look for it on Amazon or Smashwords or check back here for a link.
1. THE WEDDING NIGHT
"A man comes to his place in the
world through his marriage," Joseph Domino informed his new nephew, Doctor
Evan Moore. He handed over his
envelope, his right hand reaching up to pat the groom's shoulder. "Through his bride he finds the
true meaning of family," the older man finished. All day long, phrases like these had been passed over to him
like ancient, family jewels.
Evan smiled down at him. "I hope so."
He had witnessed the emotional
displays of his new family all day, weeping women, gesturing men,
cheek-pinching uncles and aunts.
He had been fine until the toast.
Standing behind the head table with Rita at his side, he gazed out into
the solemn sea of Dominos raising glasses to toast his marriage, and seeing so
very many Italians pointing toward him, he did indeed feel that something
profound was happening to his life.
He was accepting full responsibility for Rita. God help him.
Even though his bride thought she was a fully privileged adult, the
Domino men were letting Evan know, in their own cryptic, half-threatening manners
that he would be the one held accountable for her happiness and well being.
"I've always wanted a big
family," the young doctor confessed.
"You've got one now," Joseph
stated, squeezing Evan's hand.
"Never forget it."
Evan nodded at the man who was nodding at him until all
communication ceased with a tightened hug. But Evan Moore was never one to believe that getting what he
wished for could ever be a bad thing.
He roamed around the massive hall in search of his bride, briefly
chatting with cousins, directing the hotel staff to pass the wine more speedily
to the Domino elders, moving through the crowd with all the grace and respect
of a favored son, his blue eyes shining out from his black tuxedo like the
rhinestones on the earlobes of his new Sicilian aunts.
There were endless tables and spaces
filled with brunettes of all age and dimension, but Evan's generous height
enabled him to see beyond all of them.
Finally, he caught sight of Rita, her white gown sweeping the floor, her
short brown hair bouncing vigorously as she danced with her sister Nancy,
bridal bouquet still in hand. He moved
deeper into the crow, his eyes scanning for relatives he dared not slight
without an appropriate greeting.
He knew the family meaning of the word provolone and was determined to avoid trouble.
Evan focused on his bride. She appeared to be having fun, twirling
in the center of a wide clapping circle.
From a distance, it was difficult to discern that there had ever been a
problem. She was dancing despite
her impaired vision, swollen mouth, patched eye, and sore ribs. Evan was pleased his prescription
seemed to be working. He watched Rita
spin from the safety of her cousins to her father, to her uncles, to her
brother in-law, and closer still, as Evan watched now with moderate alarm, to
her former boyfriend, Jeffrey. Now
there was a threat if ever he saw one.
No one had even bothered to warn Evan
that Jeffrey was not only invited to the wedding but also escorting his own
traitorous mother. Major provolone if Evan wanted one.
Even in her fifties, Andrea Moore had
no problem drawing masculine attention from all age groups. Her buttery hair and blue eyes were a
perfect match to Jeffrey's, and her figure made her look more like a bridesmaid
than the groom's mother. Evan had
to hand it to her. His mother
seemed quite adept at keeping her young date charmed despite the pack of nubile
cousins trailing Jeffrey to the bar or pastry table, doing their best to get in
his path, have a dance, and ultimately find a place in his address book.
Evan had learned of this appalling
arrangement just yesterday.
Yesterday, it had been a different
world entirely. Barely twenty-four
hours ago, after learning that Rita had been involved in a mugging, the young
doctor's world had truly begun to blend with the Domino dramatics. Reacting quickly, he had sought the
confidential counsel of his father in-law, Angelo. Together they expedited a plan to install a security system
for the couple's new home under the guise of their receiving a large,
spectacular kitchen as a wedding present from Rita's parents. Angelo's contacts would arrange for
immediate permits. Construction
teams would arrive, briefed and ready, as early as tomorrow to begin work. There were electricians, plumbers, and
carpenters, and they all knew how to get a job done fast. Angelo assured Evan that Rita would
never know the difference, construction was construction to women, and the
security system would be upgraded and made operable even as the kitchen was
being remodeled. As an added
bonus, it would be at least two weeks before Rita would be left alone in the
house, and by then, either the idiot police would have found the mugger or the
couple's home would have been pronounced impenetrable by the family's most
respected expert, Big Tony.
Security had never seemed so
important.
Even though Rita had lived in New York
City against his wishes, Evan had assumed she would be careful. He made sure he always listened as she
locked the door behind him. He had
faith she knew enough to run from trouble. He held no such illusions anymore.
The anxious groom picked up speed; his
bride was exactly two arm loops away from Jeffrey on the dance floor. Having no knowledge with which to
assess the meaning of this ethnic dance, and even less experience navigating a dance
floor of half-inebriated Italians, Evan rushed through the barricades of
leg-kickers to immediately take back his bride from his mother's date. He hoped to do this before any uncle
could think less of him, before his father in-law stepped in to resume a duty
he had only just been relieved of, and because he intended to prove once and
for all, to God, to man, and to Dominos far and wide that he was motivated
enough to rise up to his destiny.
Admittedly, Evan wasn't really sure
what that destiny would entail. As
he lit the wedding candle he could honestly feel his knees buckle. Nerves, he thought. He hadn't anticipated so many people in
the church, though he remembered the planning; he never pictured what that
final fat number looked like in loud, Sicilian color. One thing felt very true to him on that altar as at this
reception--they were all judging him. They were wondering if a WASP of a groom, even a doctor such
as he, could cut it.
As he came upon the dancing two-some,
he stepped behind Jeffrey, the only other blue-eyed male in the room, and
tapped him firmly. He accented it
with an undisguised, intimidating glare for good measure. Jeffrey stared back for a moment before
politely backing away with a bow, but not before attempting to kiss Rita's hand
that bore her shiny new wedding band.
Italians were always kissing rings and Evan didn't think a thing of it.
In the next remarkable instant, Evan
swore he could hear Rita's non-English speaking Grandmother shouting out an
objection. It might have been
intuition or paranoia, but the sound was coming through despite the volume of
the band and the cheering, laughing crowd. His eyes scanned the room. For a split second, it was the only voice he could hear. As he looked over his left shoulder, he
could see her now, a frail, elderly woman shaking her horrified head "Maledire! Maledire!"
That word sounded worse than provolone.
Instinctively, he reached down, lifted
his bride up into his arms before Jeffrey could deposit that kiss, which
somehow Evan discerned from the mad-eyed look on his new Nanna's face would
have resulted in a curse upon his marriage. That he never believed in curses and couldn't speak Italian
mattered not. All he knew was when
he looked back toward the old woman she blessed herself and nodded her
approval. Thank God.
Evan was now face to face with the instigator. He entertained the thought of popping
Jeffrey's much-adored, Swedish nose just once as a pre-emptive strike for
having put his marriage in jeopardy.
He knew the status such an aggressive act would grant him. Respect was everything. He could tell by the number of times
he'd been kissed by men that evening that masculinity had an entirely different
meaning in this culture.
Nancy, Rita's sister and Matron of
Honor, the family peacemaker, stepped in to direct Jeffrey over to the other
side of the room before the groom accidentally turned a nice family wedding
into a full-fledged, fist-flying Sicilian brawl.
"Evan," Rita said, somewhat
stunned. "Someone tossed
Jeffrey in the circle. That's how
it's done. You just get thrown in
and the bride dances with everyone."
"Didn't you hear your
Grandmother?" he half-accused.
"No," she admitted, hanging
still in his arms, her gown drooping down symmetrically from the elastic loop
upon her wrist, her half-face looking more confused than ever. "Well what did she say?"
Evan was tongue-tied, standing there
with his battered bride in his arms.
"We're leaving this madness
now," he declared, moving her out of the circle of now cheering Italian
men making sexually victorious gestures at him. He carried his bride passed the banquet table of wedding
cake and pastry, beyond the choir of drooling ice-carved cherubs, away from the
champagne-spewing Vatican fountain, and through the gold-fringed curtains that
hid their escape to a calmer world he had left at his own insistence, and to
which he suspected he could never return.
To hell with the rest of the
party. The family would have to
collect the envelopes and the commentary.
They would have to have their espresso and Sambuca without Dr. and Mrs. Evan
Moore. He had had enough. More than enough. Of smiling at what sounded like
Sicilian clichés but which effectively scared the hell out of him. Of watching Rita in a room where he
felt he could barely protect himself, much less her. Of seeing Jeffrey dance with his mother, his sister in-law,
his wife. Jeffrey, who perhaps
came in second for Rita's hand, not because his loving bride had made a rational
choice but because of his own ultimatum.
It had taken a threat to convince her to marry him. Now it was done; there was no turning
back.
His mother trotted after them. He picked up his speed.
"Evan, hey, slow down, damn
it!" yelled Andrea Moore, her legs held in check by the mermaid-tight,
silver-blue dress she wore, and the turquoise stiletto pumps she was now kicking
from her feet in an effort to catch up to the happy couple.
"What is it, Mother?" the
groom whispered back, his long legs never slowing down, his mind focused upon
exiting.
"Where are you going? There's still an hour to go."
"Rita's tired," he answered.
"Evan, Jeffrey was just trying to
be a good sport," Andrea said in defense of her date.
Rita hung her head backward in shame
for having accidentally initiated this awkward moment, closing her one good
eye.
"Rita, tell him. He's dancing with all the women. Even your sister! Now come back inside," Andrea
Moore insisted. "It's your
wedding night."
"Rita," Evan prodded,
walking onward with the same pace and determination.
"Andrea, Evan's right. We should leave before--"
"Before what?"
"Before anything else
happens," Rita shouted.
"Here, take care of this for me," she yelled, calmly tossing
her bouquet to her new mother in-law.
Andrea shook her head no and dove out of the path of the
flying flowers. When they fell
near her feet, she yelled, "And what the hell am I supposed to do with
this? What about the garter?"
she asked. But there was no
answer, only the sound of Evan's shoes breaking into a gallop as they sped into
the lobby.
The gum-chewing hat-check girl was
quick to offer Andrea her comment, "You shouldn't have let them hit the
ground. Sicilians consider that a
curse."
"No one saw," Andrea answered with a shrug.
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