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“I hope whoever's red jacket that was, they don’t find the stain until after they leave. Oh! Emily! How are you? ‘Scuse me, darling. That’s my editor. Talk later, yes?” She asks, not exactly waiting for an answer. She walks towards an older woman in a plum dress and leaves me against the wall to recover completely.
“What’s Mama said to you?” Sabrina asks,eyes wide.
“For me to not stop fucking you. That she knows about the three of us. Also, we need to burn that red jacket you brought.”
“What?”
“Your mom and Derek are freaks, Duchess. She and Derek had a little post-wedding coitus in the coat room on a red jacket. Or beside it. I’m not sure. I didn’t exactly ask.”
“Of course I know they fuck a lot - she writes bodice rippers for a living. The kind with the shirtless man in a trench coat on the front. They’re old, not abstinent. I’m not worried about that. I’ll leave the jacket here, so she can keep it.” She shudders. “I meant about the three of us?”
“Oh,” I reply as she stops dabbing at the wine on my suit jacket. “Apparently we aren’t as broody or dreadful and you… glow.”
“Ridiculous. I do not glow.”
I smile down at my gorgeous wife, “You absolutely do.”
“Yes, well, if you ever think being eighty is an excuse not to fuck me, it will prove to be an egregious error on your behalf. And it will not bode well for you, dear husband.”
“What, you’ll kill me?”
“No, darling. Trying to leave me constitutes keeping you tied up in the secret room in my basement.”
Fuck, yes. She's crazy. For me.
Wait.
Is there a secret room in her basement?
Fuck it.
Maybe she can tie me up when we get back.
I love it when my wife takes control.
I almost purr when she slips her hands under my jacket and rubs on my chest. “Not fucking me means a little blue pill will be slipped into your morning espresso. Shall we dance?”
With what I’m sure is a dumb grin on my face, I slink an arm around my wife’s waist, lead her to the dance floor, and put her little gloved hand in mine.
She makes a littlehmmmsound, takes her gloves off, and slips her bare hand back in mine. I spend the evening having fun with my wife. We dance, we eat, welaugh. Together. Cue the fucking movie montage, because that’s how this feels. Especially when they bring out the sparklers as we wish the couple a happy and safe honeymoon.
I regret being a fucking beast to her at our wedding again.We could have made so many better memories.
My wife simply kisses me, green eyes crinkled at the sides, as she smiles at me.
And then it’s a two hour drive back to Wales.
My wife is not a very stealthy person when she tries to leave in the morning. Adorable, but not stealthy whatsoever. We fell asleep in front of the fireplace of the massive bedroom we were using last night after drinking a bottle of Sabrina’s favorite wine. She was not lying when she said a lot of the bedrooms are full of unused furniture. It’s like being in a museum full of odd things. You could get lost here if the staff hadn’t closed most of the doors of the unused rooms. Parker almost diedlaughing when I told him what Tildy said to me at the renewal. He told us all the gossip he heard including who slipped away with whom.
Sabrina trips over my foot, and catches herself on the arm of the sofa with a small groan. I blink as I watch her fumble around. Not getting up just yet, I see when she goes to the suitcase in the corner and slips on a white thermal, Parker’s sweatpants, and her ‘trainers.’ She leaves the room, Parker still softly snoring where he fell asleep. I quietly get up and get dressed into something warm. Much like mid-September in New York, England is cool in the mornings and evenings. I set out to follow the Duchess.
I hear the door downstairs slam shut. I peek out of the window to the Winter Manor’s expansive gardens below. I shove on my own trainers and proceed on my quest to be with my wife. I lose her momentarily when I get to the grassy knoll, but spot movement between the trees towards the end corner of the acreage, where she had pointed out the familial burial grounds. I pause in my tracks, thinking I might intrude on something extremely personal. But when I don't see her anymore, I don’t like the feeling of not having her in my sight.
I really should insert a tracker in my wife.
Suddenly, like there’s a whisper of a push on my back telling me to continue, so I do. I jog down to where I last saw her. I come to a stop at a small pond, fog rising from it as more mist coats the surrounding land. Then I hear it - Sabrina’s soft tone as she speaks. I follow it, staying between the veil of the tree line. I find my wife with her back pressed against a giant monument - an angel with its wings spread far and wide.
The nameCHARLES KOEN WINTERSis etched in large font.