Three and a Half Weeks(195)
Mariah turns to me. “Please, Ella, please tell me that mouthwatering beauty who just walked in is single. Please tell me the beautiful girl whose hand he’s holding is his sister or first cousin or ridiculously young mother. I’m begging here?”
I grin. “’Fraid not, Mariah. That’s his brand-new wife and he’s head over heels for her. He doesn’t even notice that other women exist.” I almost add a rejoinder to Mariah to be careful what she thinks about around him, as Ian’s suspicion about Daniel reading minds flashes through mine. Tailgating that thought, I remember the day I met Daniel, at the Russian Tearoom. I’d had salacious thoughts about a three-way with him and Ian. I groan aloud as the connection is made. Oh, no. Oh, please God, no! Please don’t let it be true. I remember now that Daniel looked at me strangely when that dirty little thought went traipsing through my brain. Right now I just want the floor to swallow me up. Right the fuck now.
“Ella, are you nervous?”
I look up to see the handsome Daniel smiling at me, his green eyes twinkling, while Olivia is speaking to Zoe. “Uh,” I stammer, “not too bad, I guess.” I try, really try, to smile but it probably looks like I’m in grimacing in stomach pain.
Daniel continues, “If that’s the case, why do you look so pale?”
He is persistent, isn’t he? I want to tell him to go away and let me wallow in my shame. How will I ever live this down?
“I’m pale because that’s my natural coloring, silly,” I say instead. “Tell me, Daniel…” I pause and then gesture him closer with my fingers, “Ian thinks you can read minds,” I say, watching his face closely.
All I get is an enigmatic smile. “Hmm, if that’s the case, he’d better watch what he thinks about around me.”
“I’d better, too, I suppose,” I say suggestively, to see if there’s any reaction. Nope. Maybe I’m okay? I press my luck. “I would hate for someone to read my mind because sometimes I have naughty thoughts.” Again, my eyes are glued to his face.
“We all do at times, Ella, some more than others. I wouldn’t worry about it.” He gives me a warm and beautiful smile and moves over to where Olivia is now standing.
I think he knows, damn it. What’s more, I think he knows that I know and that I know he knows what I was thinking. He’s trying to tell me it’s okay, that he doesn’t hold it against me… which is great, but I’m still utterly mortified. What would Olivia think if she knew about my lascivious thoughts about her husband? And then I think of having a husband who could read your mind all the time. Poor Olivia.
Halfway through our party two things happen. The first is when I duck into the kitchen to get another bottle of white wine I’d chilled earlier and find Mariah and Mason engaged in a hot and heavy liplock. Score.
The second is when Ian’s two brothers arrive—separately, of course: one came from San Francisco and the other, Seattle. Quentin lives on a little, crooked block in the Mission district of S.F., and Nathaniel lives in Seattle in a converted warehouse he renovated himself. Our quiet little party rockets into warp speed when the three Blackmon brothers together in one room coalesce into an undeniable force. The music gets louder, the people get drunker, and laughter drowns out conversation. I see more people arriving, as well—people I don’t know. By eleven, I say goodnight to the people we invited and sneak away to bed. I don’t want to look exhausted tomorrow for my wedding and I need to be up early to meet up in my mother’s hotel room where I’ll get ready for the wedding.
I take one last look at myself in the long mirror. Is that really me? The reflection shows a beautiful woman, dressed in silk and taffeta. My make-up is astonishing, done by an expert. It barely looks like I have any on but all my features are accentuated. Zoe is attaching the veil so I try to hold still in my high-heeled satin shoes.
The dress makes me look even more slender than I am. My hair is swept back in a loose chignon and the veil sits just above it. Right before I exit the room, my mom and I discuss the merits of putting the veil over my face.
“It’s traditional, Ella,” she insists for the third time.
“Don’t you think it’s a little archaic?”
“No, I don’t. I think it’s a charming tradition.”
“You do know where the tradition comes from, right, Mom? Veils were used in arranged marriages so the husband didn’t see what his new wife looked like until after they took the vows and it was too late to back out.”
“Oh, Ella, that’s just not true. It’s a symbol of purity.”