The American Wife. Kristina McMorris
you did,” he replied, confusing her. “You said yes.”
Such power lay in a single syllable. Yes. Scarcely a word, a reverse gasp really, it was an answer capable of forever altering the landscape of a person’s life. And yet, to Lane’s proposal of marriage, she would say it a hundred times over.
“I’ll be in the other room,” he said. “Come out whenever you’re ready.”
Once he’d left, she brought the bouquet to her nose. At the old fragrance of home, she recalled a memory of Lane and her family. A slow month at her dad’s shop had elevated nerves while they awaited a scholarship offer for TJ. A rise in the cost of Maddie’s lessons clearly hadn’t helped. Seated at supper, each Kern drifted so far into thought, no one realized Lane had built a tower of biscuits twelve layers high. Maddie was the first to notice his attempt to crack the tension. He gave her a knowing wink, a secret traded between them. By the time her family caught on and all broke into smiles, something small but deep in her had changed. In a single look, she’d finally seen Lane as more than her brother’s friend.
She held on to that moment now, a scene of the two of them surrounded by her family’s joy. It wasn’t hard to do, thanks to the gifts Lane had given—her mother’s favorite scent, her father’s beloved notes. She drank them in as she opened the door and headed for the aisle.
In what appeared to be a dining room, lacking a table to hinder the cozy space, she walked in time to the Chaconne; its harmonic middle section resembled a church-like hymn. A stained-glass cross glowed red, blue, and gold in the window. The watercolor of light projected a kaleidoscope over her open-toed heels, guiding her to Lane. Beside him, the Methodist minister waited, wrinkled as the leather Bible in his hand. The man’s wife looked on in delight from the corner, where she supervised the Victrola.
Bach continued to roll out the carpet of chords. Once Maddie turned to face Lane, the music miraculously faded from her mind, as did everything in the room but him. Lost in his eyes, she listened as he vowed to love, honor, and cherish her. In kind, she devoted herself through good times and bad, through sickness and health, till death would they part. She embraced him as their lips met, sealing her heart and name: Mrs. Madeline Louise Moritomo.
The day unfolded with more enchantment than Maddie had imagined possible.
Never one to break a promise, Lane had handled every detail from the marriage license to the rings, gold bands perfect in their simplicity. She wasn’t a fan of jewelry that would impede her playing, and he’d understood this without being told. He understood everything about her.
For their first night as newlyweds, Lane had reserved a hotel room downtown. The accommodations were going to be nice, he’d said. Nice. His tone was one Bea would use to describe a Mint Julep or Mrs. Duchovny’s son. Perhaps a little girl’s party dress with bells sewn into the petticoat. Nice didn’t come close to describing their gilded suite.
If not for Lane carrying Maddie over the threshold, she might have fainted in the marble entry. Splat. There went the bride.
What a story that would have made for the bellboy behind them balancing their luggage. As Lane directed the placement of their belongings, Maddie explored the lavish furnishings. Copper-hued satin draped from the ceiling in a waterfall of luxury over an enormous bed. Claw-footed chairs flanked an oversized window. At the center of the framed view, a burnished sun slid behind a train station. The building had inarguably been modeled after the Campanile di San Marco. In high school, she had studied the famed bell tower of Italy. The redbrick structure boasted an arched belfry, a pyramidal spire, and a cube displaying images of lions and the female symbol of Venice, La Giustizia. Justice.
Somehow, a time machine had zapped Maddie into the drawing room of Giovanni Gabrieli. No wonder the Venetian composer had contributed such significant works to the High Renaissance. With a view like this, motets and madrigals must have flowed like water from his quill.
“What do you think?” Lane’s arms looped her waist from behind. “Not a shabby way to kick off a marriage, huh?”
Rooted back in reality, she noticed the bellboy was gone. She and Lane were alone. In a room where all barriers would soon be removed, her nervousness strummed.
“It’s marvelous here,” she said, gently breaking away. She retreated to the curtains, projecting a fascination with the embossed ivy and fleur-de-lis pattern. “Are you sure we shouldn’t go someplace else, though? This must be costing a fortune.”
“Well,” he drew out. “It does help that I secretly rob banks for a living. Including my father’s.”
She kept her eyes on the fabric and felt him getting closer. “Really, Lane, I didn’t expect all this extravagance.”
Right behind her again, he stroked the back of her hair. Each strand tingled as he offered a level explanation. “When I was in high school, my father put some funds in the bank for me, a nice start for after college. Of course, you and I will have to find a modest home at first. But that’ll change, once my internship turns into more. Or I’ll find an even better opportunity near Juilliard.”
It suddenly hit her that she hadn’t considered any details past their nuptials—where or how they would live, before and after his graduation. Everything had happened with the force and urgency of a tornado. Besides thoughts of her father, the sole concern crouching in the back of her consciousness had been her brother.
As far as TJ knew, she was traveling with Jo to visit the Allisters’ cousins in Sacramento for the weekend. To cover her bases, she’d told Jo she would be away for a performance. This time, more than any other, she’d despised fibbing. She just couldn’t jeopardize complicating her decision with others’ opinions. Better to ease them into the news once all was solidified.
Lane turned her around with care. “All of that,” he said, “we can talk about later. This is our wedding night, and I don’t want you to worry about anything.” He pressed her hand to his chest. “Just know, I’m going to take care of you, Maddie. So long as we’re together, the rest will work out.”
The assertion cradled her, as solid and real as the throbbing of his heart. With every beat, the trust he had nurtured expanded, pressing down her defenses.
She linked her hands behind his neck and brought him to her. Lane trailed kisses across her cheek, into the curve of her neck. A soft moan escaped her. No longer would they hide in the darkness of a drive-in, shadowed by worries of who might see. From the freedom they’d been granted—in the eyes of God and the law—she yearned to be closer than ever before.
Sensibility, nonetheless, reminded her to do this right. She forced herself to pull away from the magnetism of his hold. “I’d better freshen up,” she rasped.
He paused before yielding a nod, his breathing heavy.
Regaining her composure, she slipped into the bathroom fit for a palace. Steam crawled up the mirrors as water filled the porcelain tub. She unboxed a bar of honey-milk soap and, when the bath was ready, twisted off the faucets. In the vaporous space dripping with gold and marble, she removed her clothes, then remembered. She’d left her nightgown in her suitcase.
Drat.
A problem, yes, but easily remedied. She threw on a plush hotel robe from the door hook. To fetch her garment, she would sprint both to and from her luggage. That was the plan, anyhow, until she stepped into the room, its fabric-lined walls aglow with candles on the nightstand.
“Thirsty?” Lane’s voice came gently from the side, inches from her ear. The smell of champagne sweetened his breath. Candlelight flickered over his bare chest and down the muscles of his stomach. At the sight of his pajama pants, relief battled disappointment, her curiosity swelling.
She ignored the flute of champagne in his hand and ran her fingers along the contours of his shoulders. For years, while he and TJ played basketball at the park, she had witnessed a younger, leaner version of this very chest, these same arms. She’d pumped away on the swings, on a pendulum in her own universe. That girl had no inkling that one