Man of My Dreams (25 page)

After a few minutes inside my head, I decide to focus on what’s in front of me. “So, where are you taking me?”

“Not one for surprises, huh?” He smiles, the sparkle in his eye reminding me why I’m here again.

“Just curious is all.”
And I don’t want to end up at a restaurant that will remind me of Declan or a place where our mutual friends will see me and make assumptions based on things they don’t know.

“You’re nervous.”

What an understatement. “You have no idea.”

“Just relax, Mia. I won’t bite.” He chuckles.

Maybe I want him to bite and that’s the part that scares me most.

We pull up to a large wrought iron gate and Noah rolls down his window to punch in some numbers on a keypad. Now I’m really curious. We travel down a winding cobblestone road, accentuated with some of the most beautiful landscaping I’ve ever seen. It’s only March and spring hasn’t even begun, but I can imagine what this place looks like once everything is in bloom. Hydrangea, daffodils, tulips and cherry blossoms—the color palate would make Van Gogh’s
Garden in Bloom
look bland in comparison.

When Noah comes to a stop, we are in front of an enormous tudor-style home. It reminds me of something out of a storybook, too elaborate and grand to be a cottage, but too modest and quaint to be a castle. The stone and brickwork on the outside of the home is exquisite and unique. I ogle again over the landscape designs; so many different shades of green in an otherwise cold, barren backdrop.

My eyes pop open wide, at the sight of a gorgeous Japanese garden towards the back of the property. A red wooden foot bridge extends over a lotus pond that I imagine is filled with colorful Koi fish. Beyond that is a waterfall and rock garden surrounding a large stone lantern centerpiece. It’s breathtaking, stunning. What an escape.

“What is this place?” I say, mesmerized by the calming, majestic beauty of it all.

“Home.” He smiles proudly, extending his arm Vanna White style.

“You live here?” I gawk.

He nods his head.

“Wow, Noah. It’s amazing. Did you do all of this yourself?”

“Yup. I don’t like to brag, but this is my handiwork. I mean, I didn’t actually do it all alone, but I designed it all. The house was built in the 1920s, but we redid all the outer stone work and, of course, did a full gut and remodel inside. The property always had potential, but aside from the contracting I really enjoy landscaping design. The two go hand in hand and it’s always been a true passion of mine.”

“Huh, go figure. A high school jock with a green thumb.” I tease him. “I thought you went to school on a baseball scholarship. How did all of this come about?”

“We have all night to catch up, Mia. Why don’t I show you inside?”

I simply nod, taking his lead.

He places his hand at my back, persuading me along to his front door. This time there’s no flesh to flesh sensation. My attire is much more casual—jeans and a flowing silk top seem perfect for what Noah has in store for us. Suddenly the idea of staying in seems a lot more dangerous than going out.

“I hope you don’t mind that I’ve taken you here instead of some fancy restaurant. I wasn’t sure you were ready to...”

I interrupt because I know exactly where he’s going with this. “Be seen in public with you? It’s okay, Noah. Don’t be afraid to talk about it. It’s a weird situation...probably strange for you and even stranger for me. But I appreciate you taking that into consideration.”

He unlocks a pair of large, vintage, carved mahogany doors. I’m already impressed by his remarkable attention to detail and I haven’t even been inside yet.

We walk into a large entryway decorated with a circular table that matches the wooden doors. It holds an arrangement of flowers so large and fragrant that it almost stifles the aroma coming from what must be the kitchen.

“Noah, please tell me you have a personal decorator—or a sister. I’m sorry, but there is no way a man as rough and tough as you could pull all of this off without a woman’s touch.” His home should be featured in a catalog or an interior decorating magazine.

“I should take offense to that, but I can’t—I like the idea of you calling me rough and tough.” He leans down and kisses me just below the earlobe, sending prickles across my skin.

I practically melt, taking in a deep breath to ease my nerves. Once I do, the delicious smell from the kitchen invades my senses and I find myself walking towards the scent without even being invited into the house. “Tell me you cook too and I might have to pack my stuff and move in.”
Yikes, too much? Too soon?

“It’s been a long time since I wanted to impress a woman. I pulled out all the stops for tonight, Mia.”

Boy, am I in trouble.

How many different shades of purple are there?
It’s my favorite color. I should know. It’s what I wanted, what I envisioned. But whether you want to call it lavender, fuchsia, magenta, or violet, the arrangement of different hues, no matter how beautiful, is doing nothing to calm my nerves. As I stare down, picking at the elaborate mixture of tinted calla lilies, orchids, hyacinth, and ranunculus, all I can think about is running.

Don’t get me wrong, I love Declan with all my heart. But marriage already? Right out of college? What’s the flipping rush?

After the proposal, I had to ward off Grace and my mother. It started with a new bridal magazine crammed in my tiny mailbox once a week. Then came the emails, jamming up my campus account with dress designs and venue suggestions. Finally, after weeks of being attacked with seating arrangements and arguments about why Aunt Margie couldn’t be seated next to Aunt Ida, I had to put my foot down. I wanted to plan the wedding on my terms, on my time! They got the picture when I stopped taking their calls and deleted their emails before I even read them.

Declan wasn’t opposed to waiting until after we
both
graduated and until that date got closer, I didn’t want to hear anything thing from Martha Stewart or her overzealous side kick. I’d managed to keep them at bay until my graduation day, but even Declan changed once I donned the cap and gown and received my diploma. Instead of that day marking the culmination of my achievements, it became the day the countdown began.

I wanted to be Mrs. Mia Murphy, but my only gripe was that it had to be so soon. Was it wrong to want to establish myself in my career? To relax a little after so many years of studying? To want to enjoy being a grown up without any responsibilities for just a little while?

Apparently, those things were all wrong. No matter how much I hemmed and hawed (as my mother put it) getting married was the right thing to do. I had listened to my parents and Grace and tell me countless times Declan was a good man, that he wore his heart on his sleeve and that there was nothing wrong with someone so young knowing what they wanted. I shouldn’t make him wait. He would change his mind and I would lose the best thing to ever happen to me because of cold feet. Everyone, including my own stubborn subconscious, convinced me that that’s all it was—cold feet. I felt then that I would regret it later if I turned my back on my happiness and the wonderful life that Declan could offer me.

So why, now, as I am about to walk down the aisle, are my metaphorical feet frozen solid in their Jimmy Choos?

“Mia?” my mother calls from behind the door of the bridal room of the church.

“In here, Mom.”
Where I’ve been for the last twenty minutes figuring out if I can escape through the window.

“Can I come in? The ceremony’s about to begin.”

I walk over to the door, the large mass of organza and lace hindering the simple voyage and filling my ears with sounds of crunching crinoline. I unlatch the lock and come face to face with my mother.

“Oh my God, Mia. You. Are. Stunning.” She wipes away a tear with the embroidered handkerchief I had made for today. It matches the one I gave to my dad that says ‘to remember the day I gave you away.’ I knew it would come in handy.

“Mom, are you going to cry every time you look at me today? You helped me get dressed at the house. It’s not like it’s the first time you’re seeing me.” I hate that I’m snapping at her, but it’s my fight or flight instinct kicking in. Flight wants its turn.

“I know, I know. You hate being gushed over, but I can’t help it. You’re...”

“Stunning. I know. Thank you, Mom.” I close my eyes, bringing my hands up to rub my temples, but my mother stops me.

“No! You’ll smudge your makeup. Come here, let me fluff you up and make sure everything’s perfect before it’s time to go out there.”

I want to tell her that everything can’t possibly be perfect. My stomach is doing somersaults, my head feels like it’s about to explode, and it is taking every muscle in my body to hold back the tears that want to pour out of my eyes and test out the waterproof mascara. But I can’t admit this. She’d be devastated. And so would Declan. If I pulled a
Runaway Bride
he’d be heartbroken.

My mother takes my hands in hers, rubbing them, sensing the need for a relaxing stimulation, perhaps. “Mia, your hands are shaking.” She drops one of my quivering hands and places the back of hers on my forehead. She shakes her head and pats me on the cheek. “Cool as a cucumber. Don’t worry, sweetie, every bride is nervous on her big day.”

Oh, Mom, you have no idea. I’m scared shitless. I can’t do this.
“Yeah, I guess it’s normal.”

But it’s not normal. I swallow hard, trying to moisten the aridity of my throat. I start to see tiny black spots as I blink rapidly, my vision becoming blurry. I feel the sweat beading over my lips, threatening to spoil my perfectly made-up face. I don’t feel right. This is what claustrophobia feels like, isn’t it?

“Mom? Can you get me a glass of water?” I interrupt her adjusting the train of my dress.

When she comes back around and looks into my eyes, I recognize her infamous look of concern. I’m not sure why it’s taken so long. She’s usually very perceptive. I guess the wedding-day-mayhem is clouding her judgment today. “Mia, are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. I’m gonna get Grace. Stay put.”

“Water, Mom. Water first. Then Grace.” I don’t elaborate. I just need something to calm me down and some H20 and my BFF will hopefully do the trick.

Minutes later, Grace rushes through the door and I guzzle down the tepid glass of church-bathroom water she hands me.
Who do you have to kill for an ice cold Poland Spring?
But beggars, or better yet, runaway brides, can’t be choosers.

Grace takes the cup from my still shaky grip and pins back a curl that’s escaped its hairspray captivity. “You better now?”

I want to say yes, but it’s easier to tell Grace the truth. “No, Grace. I’m not. I don’t think I can do this. I’m just not ready.”

“Okay.” She says, walking to the door and latching the lock in place. She makes her way in my direction all matter-of-factly. She’s calm and cool, exuding the unruffled attitude I wish I could have right now. “Not ready as in, you need a few more minutes or not ready as in, you need a few more years?”

Thank you, Grace for being the only one who gets it!
“Time. Just time. Why are we rushing into this? I want to marry him. I love him. I can’t imagine a day without him in it, but we’re so young. Aren’t we just setting ourselves up for failure?”

The divorce rate is high these days. Something like 50%, or
more
, of marriages end in divorce. I don’t like those odds. It’s like putting all your money on red and hoping for the best. I’m not the type to hope for the best. I like to think things through, analyze, beat the issue ‘til it’s dead. No one gave me the opportunity to do that. They were too busy smothering and choking me with wedding plans for me to speak my mind.

“You’re scaring me, chicky. You having second thoughts? You want me to go out there and say something?”

As much as that would save the day, I’m not one hundred percent sure I want to call a kibosh on the whole thing. “No! Don’t go out there. Can you just...I don’t know...talk to me? After today who knows when we’ll have time to just be me and you again. So many things are about to change.” An image of a butterfly wrapped in a tight cocoon flashes past me. But my version of the metaphor is far from pretty. Yes, I am the butterfly and this dress, this church, Declan and the wedding represent the cocoon, but the problem is that I won’t be spreading my wings freely once I escape it all.

Grace finds my purse on the couch beneath a picture of the Pope.

I don’t like the way that man’s been eyeing me today.
Yes, your Holiness, I am going to hell for my views on the sanctity of the sacrament of marriage.

She brings the purse to me, taking out a lip gloss and a pressed powder. As she reworks my face, fixing the smears and smudges, her tone becomes soothing. “Mia, yes, things are going to change. But not everything. I’ll still be me, you’ll still be you and, believe it or not, Declan will still be the man of your dreams. So what? You’ll have a different last name and live in a big fancy house. We will still continue our daily hour long phone conversation rambling on about random BS, you’ll have me over for dinner as much as Declan can tolerate, and don’t forget our private book club meetings, where we trash Oprah’s suggestions and only read the books covered in pictures of men who look like Fabio.”