The Honeymooner Read online

  My mum won’t be at the wedding, by the way. I didn't invite her because having her appear would create more drama than nine bridesmaids in a limo. Her presence would be an utter disaster, especially around Richard's very posh, ultra-conservative, and slightly disapproving family.

  Anyway, Alice and I are finally on our way from the salon to the church where I will become Mrs. Libby Tomy. Oh, did that sound really old-fashioned? I hope not. I’m just a little excited. Taking Richard’s last name will make things so much easier when we have children. I briefly considered hyphenating our names but quickly realized it wasn’t a good idea. If you say Dewitt-Tomy out loud, you’ll hear the problem. Tomy is pronounced “to me,” which means my name would be Libby Do It To Me. Since I’d rather not have people snickering every time I introduce myself, I’m just going with Tomy.

  Richard and I are perfect for each other — we’re both professionals with busy work lives. I'm a business analyst in mergers and acquisitions at the world’s largest luxury hotel chain, GlobalLux Inc., and Richard is a corporate tax lawyer at Avonia’s largest law firm, McDougall, Grammit, and Fitzpatrick. We've been together since university. After surviving the chaos of campus life, we then spent the next five years climbing our respective corporate ladders. We’re both go-getters who thrive on routine and a healthy lifestyle, although on Saturday mornings, we do have a bit of a lie-in while we catch up on the news via the weekend edition of the Financial Times. Don't tell anyone, but Richard loves to read the comics (which I find adorable).

  While I’m sharing secrets, I have my own guilty pleasure, too. It’s a shame to have to keep this one, because it smacks of kowtowing to elitist literary snobs, but I absolutely love all things romance. Romantic movies, television shows, and books are what I secretly devour when no one is looking. I know it’s a total juxtaposition to be a very organized, logical, professional woman and to also turn to mush over a predictable-yet-heartwarming tale, but I just can’t seem to help myself. I’ve loved a good hero ever since Mr. Darcy admitted to Elizabeth Bennet how ardently he admired and loved her. Sigh…

  But that’s fiction. This is the real world where romance is just a phase at the beginning of a relationship. Richard and I had our time like that, but after several years together, we’ve now settled into a comfortable routine we both find quite pleasing. Hmm, when I really think about it, I’m not sure we ever had a wildly passionate phase in which we had spectacular rows, only to make up all night. Not that that matters.

  What really counts is building a relationship on the solid foundation of shared values and goals. We both want the same things — a four-bedroom house in Hanover (considered by most to be the best neighbourhood in Valcourt), a small but roomy yacht, and two to three children (depending on how it goes once we have the second child). In addition to yachting, each of us will develop two hobbies to be enjoyed individually and one together during our retirement, which will happen at age fifty-five based on our annual income, investment savings, and projected inflation rates.

  So, I guess you could say we’ve already charted our course and the waters are calm. Yes, it’ll be smooth sailing for Mr. and Mrs. Richard and Libby Tomy.

  Then why do I have that nagging feeling like something is wrong?

  I stare out the window as the limo smoothly makes its way through traffic. We’re five minutes ahead of schedule, every detail has been taken care of, and it's a beautiful, sunny autumn day. There’s really no reason for me to feel worried at all.

  I glance at Alice, who is on the phone with her husband, Jack. Alice’s father and my mother are siblings. After being dumped at my grandparents’, Alice and I were together so much, we might as well have been sisters, except to look at us, you’d never guess we’re even related. She’s a tall, willowy woman whose skin turns a lovely bronze in the summer, whereas I’m curvy, short, and can get a sunburn if I even think of going out without a hat. Alice also got lucky when it comes to hair. I inherited our gran’s wildly curly red hair, while Alice has beautiful, straight raven-black hair she got from her mother.

  I’ve always envied Alice, and not just because of her supermodel looks — she’s also utterly confident and commands respect wherever she goes. She has a loving, normal family, including two parents who dote on her and a brother who drives her nuts but would do anything for her. Alice was a surgical nurse before she had children. Now she’s what I call a Pinterest Mum. You know the type — she could whip up a festive table centerpiece fit for the royal family out of some toothpicks, a handful of cotton balls, and some homemade beet dye, all the while breastfeeding a newborn and making a Béarnaise sauce. Please don’t hold that against her, though, because she’s also ridiculously nice.

  But I don’t have to wish I were Alice anymore because now I’m one step closer to having a perfect life like hers.

  Six years ago, she married Jack McTavish (her boss at the time), who, although a very competent oral surgeon, seems to have no clue how to look after their three-year-old son, Colby, and their six-month-old baby, Maisie. Every time Alice leaves the house, she can expect a barrage of texts and phone calls from her bewildered husband. But you can hardly blame him — she leaves a large void of perfection when she glides out the door.

  Alice nods while she listens, then says, “The frilly part goes in the back.” Pause. “I don't know why, maybe it's for extra padding.” Pause. “I promise her nappy will fit under the tights.”

  Knowing she’ll be a while, I sneak my mobile out of my white pearl-encrusted clutch and decide to answer a few work emails. Alice glances over at me, rolls her eyes, then notices what I'm doing and swats my arm, giving me a rather irritated look. She made me promise I wouldn't do any work today, and yes, I agreed to it, but I mean, seriously, she's busy on the phone and it just makes sense to turn this downtime into something productive.

  She hangs up the phone and sighs. “Honestly, I love Jack dearly, but when it comes to the children, he's absolutely useless. And you…” she says, fixing a steely gaze in my direction, “…promised not to work today. It's bad enough you've turned your honeymoon into a business trip. Don't do the same with your wedding day.”

  She's referring to the fact that Richard and I will be spending three weeks at a resort my company is looking at taking over. But really, why not have your boss pay for your honeymoon? It's rather brilliant, if you ask me, because it allows us to have a holiday and get one month closer to the down payment on our dream house. And honestly, how much lounging around beside a pool can a person do? “If it doesn’t bother Richard, I don’t see why you’re so offended by it. Besides, I'm not going to work that much while we’re there.”

  “Well, be glad you're marrying Richard and not me. I would've killed Jack if he suggested turning our honeymoon into a business trip.” Alice glances at the window and gasps. “Is that a cloud? On the great Libby Dewitt’s wedding day?”

  I crouch down a little so I can look out her window. “Oh, I told the weatherman I would allow the white, fluffy ones.” I give her a wry smile, then notice the limo is no longer moving. Glancing around, I realize that the traffic has come to a standstill. “What the hell? Why aren’t we moving?”

  “Ooh, slide the glass thingy down and ask Xavier what's going on.” Alice looks suddenly gleeful, which I'm sure has nothing to do with the fact that our driver is stupidly handsome. She chatted him up while she was waiting for me to pay the salon bill. It turns out he used to be in the military and has recently moved to Avonia in hopes of getting a high-end security job. For now, he’s driving limos.

  I find the privacy screen button and press it. “Excuse me, Xavier, do you know why the traffic is backed up?”

  “They opened that Krispy Kreme Doughnuts this week.” He shakes his head. “I have a bad feeling it's going to negatively affect both traffic and people's waistlines over the next several months.”

  Damn. Why didn’t I think of that? I vaguely remember hearing about it and realizing it would be right
before the wedding, but I didn't anticipate the extra traffic. My gut tightens at the thought of being late. “How much of a delay do you think this will be?”

  “According to the GPS, we’re looking at about a fourteen-minute wait.”

  “Crap. That's going to put us behind for the pre-wedding photo shoot. I should text the photographer.”

  “Better yet, let’s open the champagne!” Alice says.

  “Oh, you won't want to do that,” Xavier says over his shoulder. “If you start drinking now, you’re going to end up with a headache in about two and a half hours, so it's probably best to wait until dinner.”

  I’m just about to murmur to Alice that Xavier is a bit of a know-it-all, but the look of adoration she’s wearing says don’t bother. She asks him if he has an interest in health and fitness while I text Roland, the photographer, to let him know we’re delayed. As soon as I send it, my mind wanders back to feeling like I’ve forgotten something.

  “Alice,” I say suddenly. “Did you have a sense of foreboding the morning you married Jack?”

  “Foreboding? That sounds ominous,” Alice says jokingly.

  My expression must tell her I’m not kidding because her face falls.

  She looks at Xavier and says, “Sorry, Xavier, I think the bride needs a little girl talk.”

  “Say no more,” Xavier replies. A second later the screen slides up.

  Alice turns her body to face me. “I guess I felt nervous, like I needed to pee even though I knew I didn't really have to. Do you know what I mean?”

  “I think so.”

  “But I definitely didn't have a sense of doom or something. When did this start?”

  “Just this morning.”

  “Oh, hon, don't worry about that.” Alice puts her hand on my forearm and gives it a slight squeeze. “It's just nerves. Totally normal.”

  I let out a long, slow breath, trying to steady my racing heartbeat. “And you and Jack, you're happy, right? Like, you know for sure he's it for you for the rest of your life?”

  “Well, nobody can be sure every minute of every day. I mean, there are times when I wouldn't mind pushing him off his parents’ yacht and watching him disappear into the sea,” she says casually. “But that's usually when I’m short on sleep and haven’t had my Kombucha. The rest of the time, I'm totally sure.”

  I chew on my bottom lip for a second while I digest what she's just said, then I nod confidently. “I'm sure it's just nerves.”

  “Definitely. You and Richard are perfect for each other. Nothing's going to break you two up.”

  “Yes, you're right.” I do a quick mental body scan, noting that I still feel rather tense.

  “You know what? I'm pretty sure it's this traffic. We’re off schedule, which is bound to make you feel tense. You need to find a way to relax.” With that, Alice grabs the bottle of champagne out of the cooler, opens the window, and holds it outside while she pops the cork off. It dings off the side of the van stopped next to us. Pulling it quickly back inside, Alice giggles as she does up the window.

  “You’re such a badass,” I say as she hands me a flute. She pours me a drink that comes dangerously close to the brim, then does the same for herself. “A little Zen compliments of Dom Pérignon.” Clinking her glass to mine, Alice says, “To happily ever after.”

  “Amen, sister.” I tip the glass up, feeling the cool bubbles bounce across my tongue. Taking three big gulps, I smile, deciding to fully give in to Dom.

  There really is nothing to worry about. Everything will be just fine as long as we can get to the bloody church on time…

  TWO

  The Laid-Back Guy’s Guide to Handling Everything…

  Harrison Banks

  Long Beach, Santa Valentina Island, The Benavente Islands, Caribbean

  “Don’t fight the current next time, okay buddy?” I smile and ruffle the young boy’s drenched hair. “If you get caught in a riptide again, try to relax and let it carry you — eventually you’ll get to the shore. Otherwise you’ll tire yourself out and end up being a shark’s lunch.”

  That’s actually not bad advice when it comes to life. Sometimes, you get hit hard and fast by a crushing wave, and your first instinct is to fight it, even when you know nothing can be done. You’ll save yourself a whole lot of trouble by just going with the flow.

  After the boy’s mum gives me a teary-eyed thank-you, I dislodge my surfboard from the sand and start the long trek back to my favourite entry point on Long Beach. I was paddling out for my first run when I heard screams coming from the shore and took a hard right to play lifeguard.

  Glancing at my watch, I see that detour didn’t leave me with much time to catch a few waves before I need to head back to the resort to sign off on the pay-stubs. Not that I’m complaining — I know I’ve got it good. Inheriting a resort in the Caribbean isn’t exactly a burden. It just doesn’t leave me with all that much free time, and today I really need some time on my own to think. I’m pretty sure I’m about to get slammed by one of life’s shit waves, and I need to figure out how to avoid it if at all possible.

  I’ve been shit-slammed more than once. The first time was the night my parents went out for a dinner date and never came back. Up to that point, I was a pretty typical eleven-year-old, dawdling on the walk to school each morning, yanking at the irritating tie that went with my St. Mary’s uniform, and occasionally teasing my little sister, Emma, and my baby brother, Will (but only when I was bored). I played football on the weekends with my mum cheering from the sidelines and my dad coaching. I complained about bedtime and begged to watch movies I was too young to see but ‘everyone else in my class had already seen.’

  The oldest child of a school teacher and Valcourt’s best podiatrist (according to the Podiatry Association of Avonia), I was doted on and fussed over. Everything was safe and cozy and perfect. Right up until it was yanked from me in the time it takes to run a red light.

  At the funeral, we were introduced to Uncle Oscar — my dad’s older brother and a man I’d only heard stories about. I knew he lived a bit of a ‘wild life on some tropical island in the middle of nowhere’ and was not my parents’ ‘sort of person’ based on the hushed tone they used whenever his name came up. It was for that very reason I was absolutely riveted by any mention of him. What did they mean by wild? Did he swing from jungle vines, eat with his hands, and beat his chest? I expected him to show up at the funeral with long, shaggy hair, an out-of-control beard, and be dressed in only a loin cloth, but he looked disappointingly normal. Black suit, white shirt, clean shaven. He looked a lot like my dad, actually, only with grey hair around his temples and a dark tan.

  I spent most of the service glancing at the pew behind mine, trying to catch a glimpse of him. He was one of the pallbearers for my dad’s casket, so he left the church ahead of me and stood on the opposite side of the grave site as I held Will and Emma’s mitten-clad hands and tried to wrap my head around the fact that my parents were in those boxes being lowered into the ground. After that, I completely forgot about my wild Uncle Oscar until the luncheon at my great-aunt’s house.

  I was eating the corner piece of a chocolate cake (for maximum icing-to-cake ratio) when I felt a tap on the shoulder. I looked up, and for the briefest moment, I thought I was looking at my dad. An incredible wave of relief washed over me until reality bashed me over the head again.

  Uncle Oscar shook my hand, told me he was sorry about my folks, then dropped the next bombshell on me. “Well, I guess you’re coming to live with me now. Do you like boats?”

  Two weeks later, Emma, Will, and I were living halfway around the world on Santa Valentina Island. Instead of St. Mary’s, I went to San Felipe Secondary School (where at least the uniform had short pants instead of thick, wool, long ones). I still played football, but this time, my mum wasn’t there to feed me orange slices and my dad wasn’t there to get on me about my inability to hook the ball. Instead, when I went to the field, I had
to bring Emma and Will along for the walk from our new house — an ocean-front cottage badly in need of a feminine touch (or at the very least, some curtains). At the park, there were no uniforms, no coaches, and no regulation nets. We’d meet whichever kids happened to show up that day, split into teams, and play until the sun started to go down. It didn’t take me long to realize that football, like most things, was a good deal more fun without all those adults around, not that I wouldn’t have traded every second of fun for another day with my parents.

  But I’m not telling you this so you’ll feel sorry for me. Being pitied is almost as bad as being stuck behind a desk. I only told you about that so you’ll understand the importance of going with the flow in life and the wisdom of not getting too attached to anything with an expiration date — pets and humans included. A laid-back, island-life approach makes everything so much sweeter — especially relationships, because like the tides, relationships come and go, and you’ll be much better off if you know that going in.

  Anyway, over time, the resort became our home, and the staff our surrogate family, as cliché as that may sound. Oscar did a pretty decent job raising us — he taught us the three s’s of Caribbean life: surfing, sailing, and scuba diving. Other than that, he let me take over as de facto parent for Emma, who is four years younger than me, and Will, who is five years my junior. I made them finish their homework and eat all their peas, and for some reason, they actually listened to me. I have to say, they’ve both turned out to be pretty decent human beings (but don’t tell them I said that).