Waking Up

Dream vacation? That's what I'd planned on, anyway. It was everything I'd imagined since I was eight years old looking at my mother's honeymoon photos. The pictures were warm and brilliant and alive, like Gaughin's Tahitian paintings, only without the half-naked natives. But as I stood on the veranda of the gorgeous resort cabana in the midst of a tropical paradise, it felt more like I was staring at a cheap giftshop postcard. It should have been just as beautiful as it had been for my parents some twenty-five years before. After all, it was the same vibrant sunset, the same golden sand and crystal blue sea; in fact, it was the exact same room. And I was even wearing my mother's dress. Everything was perfect, just as it was supposed to be, but for one important detail: there was no groom waiting for me inside.

There are some things you can't plan, like an overly enthusiastic bachelor party, and an overly enthusiastic maid of honor, and finding your best friend in bed with your overly unenthusiastic fiance on the morning of your wedding when you arrive to pick her up on your way to the church already dressed in your mother's lovely white gown, and after all the trouble having it altered to fit just right when the only people to see how fantastic you look in it would be some very startled airline employees. But then, some things work out, too, like realizing he didn't love you before you pledged yourself to him body and soul, and being all packed for a glorious week in Jamaica, and being able to exchange two business class tickets for one first class on an earlier flight and the balance in credit for the duty free shop, to be spent in chocolate and liquor and lots of both.

It was a beautiful dress. Maybe not exactly what I'd have chosen for myself, but Mom had always hoped I'd wear it, her only daughter. This wedding had meant so much to both my parents, and they'd gone to great expense and effort in preparation. I felt awful running off without a goodbye or an apology, but Travis would take care of it. He owed me that much. I was simply too ashamed to face the family's disappointment and embarrassment. I'd never let them down before.

But I had the dress and the trip and every intention of enjoying myself. And even if I didn't have a groom, I was determined to have an interesting wedding night.

So I stood on the veranda in my mother's wedding dress, so different from the little girl playing bride years before, and the one playing happy only a few hours earlier. I watched the sun set and waited for the tears I'd been expecting all day, but somehow I didn't feel much like crying.

It was my first time in such a place. I was never a big fan of sunbathing and skimpy clothing, but the sand was inviting under the stars and the moon. The resort beach was deserted, with most of the guests gathered at the main house for the evening festivities and the rest enjoying more private parties in their rooms. I was terribly grateful to have the privacy, having had enough of everyone staring at me all afternoon; hadn't they ever seen a jilted bride before?

As I stepped off the veranda toward the shore and felt the sand gently caress my bare toes, I tried not to imagine my mother screaming if she saw me trailing the gown's full skirts through the sand toward the edge of the tide. It felt delicious.

That's when I saw him. I guess he saw me first. I guess it would have been pretty hard to miss the barefoot bride wading in the moonlight, handfuls of skirt pulled to her knees avoiding the waves. I didn't notice him until he was almost beside me. He was barefoot, too, and much less formally attired. He would surely have something to say, and I could only hope it wouldn't be more of the tea and sympathy I'd been served all day, poor thing, left at the altar. He surprised me.

"You come here often?"

I had to laugh, such a trite and tired line for a time like this. I thought those lines were only used in the movies. In all my twenty-two years, no one had ever tried to pick me up in such a hackneyed fashion, and here I was in a wedding dress, supposed to be on my honeymoon. And I chose that moment to start crying.

"Hey, I'm sorry!" he began in a soothing tone. "I was trying to be funny, but I'm not really good with that sort of thing. My timing is always off."

Again I laughed, but it sounded more like a sob and it made my throat ache. His timing was ironically horrible. Turning to him, I tried to smile some sort of appreciation so he wouldn't feel bad, and he smiled back, perfect white teeth gleaming. "I'd like to lend you my handkerchief, but regrettably I don't have one. But you are welcome to use my sleeve."

My grin was genuine then, and oddly satisfying. "That's alright, my hands will do fine," I told him, demonstrating my claim by wiping my eyes not too carefully, "but thanks for the kind offer."

"It's nothing, madam, only obeying my gentlemanly duty."

"It's miss, actually," I corrected, in case there was any doubt of my marital status as I stood weeping in a wedding dress. "Gentleman, did you say? I was beginning to doubt the existence of that species."

"Rough day?" Even before I could frown, his expression displayed contrition. "Forgive me, I'm usually not allowed to mix with people socially. I'm liable to say the wrong thing at any moment."

"You seem to have a talent for it," I commented dryly, looking down at my feet, which had begun to sink in the wet sand now that I stood still. "But don't worry. This is the most pleasant conversation I've had today."

When I looked up at him again his face was very serious and I immediately regretted my small confession, worried now that he'd start to feel sorry for me. "Want to talk about it?"

I thought about it briefly, but shook my head. "Not especially."

"How 'bout a drink, then? We could go up to the main house -- "

"I don't much feel like a crowd at present," I objected, "and I'm a bit overdressed, don't you think?"

It was his turn to laugh, and the rich sound gave me a strange confidence and an even stranger impulse. "We could go back to my room. I've got a bottle...well, actually several bottles of champagne." I looked away before I finished, losing some of my courage. "I don't want to be alone right now."

He hesitated for a moment, and I was sure he would decline, but this man was full of surprises. "As the lady wishes." With a slight bow and all the comportment of a Victorian lord, he kissed my hand and tucked it under his arm. "You need only point me in the right direction, my dear girl."

The carpet inside the cabana felt peculiar after the softness of the sand, and I suddenly wanted to sit down. "If you would do the honors, the champagne's over there," I said, indicating the breakfast table near the veranda where a bottle of Taittenger was already chilling. I left him to the task of serving to sit on the bed and smooth out the full skirts of my gown.

"Did you have a party?"

"A very small one, just me and the Heidseick's, Charles and Piper," I said, gesturing to two empty bottles upside-down in the trash. "Some of their friends might have come along later, if it turned out to be a very good party."

I watched him peruse my traveling wine cellar, a row of bottles lying on their sides under the table. "You have exquisite taste," he remarked approvingly, taking a seat beside me to deliver my glass of champagne.

After a silent toast, I lifted the flute to my lips and took a swallow, giving the sparkling liquid only a brief respite before it hit my stomach. I smiled wryly, both in reaction to his praise and the flavor on my tongue. "It's my father's taste. He's definitely a connoisseur of the bubbly. My parents only drink sparkling wines, and they drink them very frequently."

He savored his sip much more properly then I had, genuinely enjoying it. "They must have a lot to celebrate."

"Not really, I think they just really like champagne."

He eyed me curiously while I emptied the glass, rising to retrieve the bucket from across the room so he could fill me up again. "Maybe they're celebrating their good fortune to afford the luxury of drinking a lot of champagne."

I'd never thought of it that way, and I was glad for his theory, as it sounded much better than my suggestion that they were extravagant lushes.

"Why do you insist on drinking it if you don't like it?"

Grimacing as I downed the second glass, I considered his question, feeling slightly ridiculous. "My parents drink it."

He smiled a little, taking my glass and setting it on the carpet, along with his own that was only half-drunk. "Do you think that's a good enough reason?"

"Sure, why not?" I shrugged, shifting to lean back on my elbows.

He offered no response to that, but there were plenty of questions in those eyes, which I now realized were a very warm brown. In the silence and the warm glow of lamplight I felt I was seeing him for the first time. Numerous questions arose, perhaps the most obvious one concerning his identity. It was highly irregular for me to be keeping company in such an intimate setting with a man whose name I didn't know. Yet there was a certain excitement in anonymity, and a safety, too. And I felt extraordinarily safe with this relative stranger sitting next to me on my bed.

There was something distinctly reassuring in his appearance. His hair was sandy blond, slightly ruffled. His face was tan, but offered little hint of his age; of course, I was never good at judging that sort of thing. It briefly occurred to me that he looked nothing like Travis, with his icy blue eyes and slick black hair and pale, chiseled features. This man who sat next to me so quiet and thoughtful was much more gentle in his good looks. His entire presence was softer, more comfortable, almost hazy.

He must have noticed my open appraisal, and he seemed to examine me as well, his progress playing out on his face. An eyebrow lifted skeptically, he gave me a lopsided grin. "Are you even old enough to be drinking champagne?"

Whether it was the wine going to my head or his droll commentary, I roared over that one, collapsing completely as I giggled almost in confirmation of his suspicion. "Just." As something bordering on relief flashed in his expression I laughed again, wishing I'd run into this guy earlier today. Or before that even. "But my parents always considered me old enough for supervised drinking, and I trusted their judgment."

"Ah," he sighed, rolling on to his stomach, propping himself up on his forearms, "so you're one of those girls who always does what her parents want."

My instinct was a flat denial, but the words tasted funny in my mouth. Still, I refused to believe it implicitly. "I'm here now with you, aren't I?"

I hadn't meant it, at least not consciously, as an invitation, but there must have been something I wasn't aware of in the tone of my voice, or the look in my eye, or maybe it was just the fact that we were lying there together on a king-size bed in the honeymoon suite in the most romantic spot in the universe. I'm not even sure if he was the one who initiated it. All I know was that in seconds his lips were on mine, so gentle that I sensed more than felt their delicate pressure. The warmth of his palm seeped through the satin of the gown as it skimmed over the bodice to reach the side, but I didn't fully understand his intentions until I felt his knuckles brushed my bared skin, tracing the path he uncovered as the fabric parted.

I wanted to ask him how he knew where the zipper was, but I forgot all about the question when I felt his hand on my bare back. His other hand cradled my neck, holding my mouth to his as he softly bit my lower lip, almost begging, pleading with me to let him in. But not demanding, never that. I could taste the champagne lingering in his kiss, and the perfume was so much sweeter than I remembered from my own glass. I was never so thirsty for it in my life. I tried to think, to remember the last time I'd felt this way, but I had no patience for those thoughts. Besides, I knew the answer: I'd never felt this way, not with Travis, not with anyone.

I don't even know when or how he managed to pull down the dress, and by the time I'd figured it out he was kissing my neck and my shoulder and...oh my. It was heaven, harps and everything. He left me for the shortest eternity, but I was so thankful for his return, because now I could feel the bare skin of his chest against my own. Giving his lips again, his hands crept down my arms to grab my wrists. Never breaking the kiss, he carefully rested my palms on his shoulders, and I realized that this was the first time I'd touched him, and I blushed in embarrassment that I'd neglected him while he took such special care of me. I suppose he noticed, because I thought I felt him laugh. It got worse when I couldn't figure out where I should put my hands, not sure what he wanted or how to ask; then he most definitely did laugh. This was all the more frustrating, that he should find my awkward manner humorous. Does he know? I wondered. Is it obvious for him and that's what's so funny, or do I have to tell him? I sincerely hoped I wouldn't have to explain myself, because suddenly that "v" word sounded dirty to me.

Somehow I solved the problem, or rather my body solved it for me. I'd never imagined my body would be smarter than my mind, but when I felt his hand on my thigh, I reacted instinctively. "Stop!"

And I only had to say it once.

For a minute the world might have stopped, too. Then he was back, stroking my cheek and kissing my eyes, and I felt terrible. "I'm sorry! Please, I'm so sorry! I just can't...I don't know, but I just can't..."

But he wouldn't let me. "Shh, it's okay, love, you don't have to."

And for the second time that night I started crying, but this time was worse, because this time I was in nothing but my underwear. But it was better, too, because he was holding me, comforting me. Heaven only knows what he said to me, but his voice was soothing and that was all that mattered. When the tears were gone, he was still there. "Are you alright?"

I nodded silently, but I was afraid to open my eyes. I didn't want him looking at me, but since I couldn't control that, I refused to look at him and pretended it was the same thing.

"Oh no, look what happened to your pretty dress --"

That got my eyes open, and I instantly regretted it, seeing the wicked grin on his face. "What did you do to my dress?"

"Absolutely nothing, and I'm glad of it, to see you so protective of it."

I was glad, too, but mostly for the natural diplomacy in his playfully deceiving ways. I struggled not to laugh at myself. "You don't know the half of it - it's my mother's dress."

"Now I understand," he sighed, reaching over me to grab the edge of the blankets and covering us both. "Your father's champagne, your mother's dress." Moving away from me slightly, he rested on his side, his brown eyes always reaching into mine. "So, what do you have that's just yours?"

I bit my lower lip, still tender from his ministrations, as I considered what to say. "Well, I can think of at least one thing, and that was very nearly yours." I smiled up at him shyly, wishing I could read his thoughts. "I guess my body is wiser than I am."

He frowned, eyes full and sober. "That's not it."

I wanted to cry again, but more from frustration than sadness. "Travis said...he's my fiance...was, I mean...he called me frigid, because I could never...do you think -- ?"

"No."

He sounded pretty certain, but I wasn't convinced. Why else would I still be a virgin?

"Did you love this guy?" he asked, his voice as soft as his touch, both feathers on my cheek.

Asked the same question twenty-four hours earlier and I would have given an emphatic yes, but then I'd also have pretended to enjoy the champagne Dad ordered for the toast and I would have agreed with Mom that the dress was the prettiest I'd ever seen. And I would have told everyone how delighted I was to be spending a week in my parents' honeymoon suite so I could have photographs just like theirs, and come back to the same silly house and the same silly jobs and the same silly friends and the same silly life. Whose life was I living anyway? Twenty-two years old, and I haven't done anything for myself! "I don't even like the beach! I wanted to go to Europe. Italy maybe. And drink some wine without bubbles in it! And pick out my own silly dress, and my own silly groom!"

Somewhere in that speech I sat up, quite agitated, maybe even before I'd begun speaking out loud. I wished my whole family had been there so I could have told them, too.

And then I remembered I was only wearing underwear, and that turned out to be pretty hysterical to me.

He was sitting up as well, no doubt wondering what was so funny all of a sudden. When I turned to answer the unasked question, he shook his head in mock disapproval, a familiar doubt shining in his eyes like fool's gold. "Are you even old enough to be married?"

I was still thinking about my underwear, so clearly there were a few maturity issues left to face. "No, I don't think I am old enough. I haven't lived at all yet. I guess I don't even know what I want."

"Yeah you do. But sometimes you listen to the wrong source. I think deep down you know the truth. You just have to trust it."

It would have been so much simpler if he could have just told me then and there what I wanted so I might avoid all future confusion. But I guess I was so much accustomed to other people helping me make decisions that I was a bit nervous left with all that responsibility. How could I accept even this revelation of independence if it came out of someone else's head? It's not always easy to determine whether you're thinking for yourself or if someone else is thinking for you. That's fine when you're a child, but you grow up eventually, and if you don't start living for your own ambitions you're going to end up on an island sitting in your underwear and talking to yourself.

"You know what I'm thinking?" I asked aloud, because I needed to hear it, now that I was finally ready to be serious and adult again and make responsible decisions. "I'm thinking I want to go sleep."

And the next morning I woke up. I had a hangover the size of Jupiter and I officially hated champagne, but the important thing was that I woke up, in every sense. In my underwear, no less. Mom's dress was on the floor, slightly worse for the wear. I must have knocked over the Taittenger bottle at some point. Champagne all over Mom's white dress. She'll get over it. I'll send it back with the rest of my traveling wine cellar; then my parents might even forget about the whole wedding fiasco. And if not, well, they can look at their own photos and pretend.

It seems like I've been eight years old for fourteen years, but somehow two and a half bottles of carbonated crazy aged me. I switched my first class return ticket for a one-way coach seat to Florence, Italy. I even convinced the hotel to reimburse my parents for the honeymoon package. It wasn't too difficult, what with the rumors going around the resort after someone saw me talking to myself last night out on the beach. I guess it would have been pretty hard to miss the barefoot bride wading in the moonlight, handfuls of skirt pulled to her knees avoiding the waves.

So I suppose it was quite literally a dream vacation, and no photo album to show for it. Mom and Dad will be disappointed.

I'll send them a postcard. A nice one even.