Marriage Penalty
The day was wedding perfect-crisp and sunny. April is capricious in the nation's Capital but the weather gods smiled on us today. I studied my reflection in the gilt pier mirror. My dress was perfect, silky soft and dare I say it-virginal. The bouquet of orchids and baby's breath added just the right touch. A garland of the same flowers contrasted nicely with the highlights in my hair. Modesty aside I had to ask: is it right to look this sexy at a wedding?
Patrick stepped up behind me and gently kissed my neck. I leaned back as his hands explored the silky fabric and the lace underneath. "You feel good, Convent Girl," he whispered, "in your first communion dress."
I looked him over. His tuxedo fit him like a sleek second skin. Tuxedos flattered most men but Patrick Fong upped the ante. He was jaw-droppingly beautiful, six feet of sheer perfection in one incredibly hot, brainy package. His eyes were alight with mischief and he'd slicked his shiny black hair into a ponytail just to please me. Saints preserve us!
"You'll do, Dr. Fong," I said. "Maybe I'll keep you."
Control yourself, Grace. Act civilized. Don't ravish the poor man until after the wedding. Three years with him and you're still a fool for ponytails.
"Today's the day." Patrick kissed the emerald engagement ring he'd given me. "You look like a dream straight out of Byron. 'She walks in beauty like the night'..."
I turned and put my arms around his neck. "Don't get too friendly with any of the guests or I won't be responsible for my behavior."
"Hmmm..." he teased, "I'm captivated by the Maid of Honor. I hear she puts out."
I raised my hand to slap his face but he caught it and slowly kissed each finger. We exchanged glances. There was no one else in the room or on the planet. It was always that way with us. Who knows where it would have ended if Chen hadn't popped up like an evil genie. Chen is Patrick's houseman, revered teacher, and fervent protector. He barely tolerates me although his facade of studied insolence passes for good manners.
"They're waiting, Patrick," he said. "Here are the rings."
Patrick squeezed my hand. "Ready, Grace? Let's get to that Church."
I nodded. Every time I looked at him, a tingling began in my toes. It traveled swiftly to a place the nuns would definitely disapprove of-mortal sin territory. I kept waiting for the magic to end but it never did. A pleasant blend of love and lust totally consumed me.
We walked hand in hand to the waiting limo joining Therese Harding and Devon Hall. Therese is one of my oldest friends, a spunky C.P.A. who never minces words. She looked surprisingly demure in a gown of ecru silk with lace cuffs. Her vivid blue eyes were serene for once. I wondered what drug she'd taken.
Devon never shows much emotion. He grabbed Patrick's hand, shook it, and let a smile edge up the corners of his mouth. The tux emphasized his muscular frame and trim waist. If only Devon would grow his thick brown hair and get over that damn buzz cut! He was the picture of calm if you discounted the constant tapping of his right foot and the restless roll of his eyes. Oh well, weddings made everyone neurotic even an ex-cop.
"Are you okay?" I asked Therese. This was no time for her to lose control.
She shook her head. "I feel a bit queasy-too many cosmopolitans last night."
"I told you! Bachelor parties shouldn't be co-ed. They encourage your worst instincts."
She waved her hand. "Yeah, yeah, yeah. Tell me something I don't know."
Patrick snorted. "She wasn't the one on the table singing 'Don't It Make My Brown Eyes Blue.' As I recall, Ms. Quinn, you had to be hauled off the furniture."
Devon piled on. "Then there was that round of strip poker you girls insisted on. Therese played to win."
"Damn straight!" she said. "You guys were such wimps."
Patrick stretched his arms and shrugged. "Wimps with cameras," he said. "Those pictures should buy us a lot of leverage."
He ignored our howls of protest and gazed calmly out the window. Traffic was building as we headed down M street toward the Cathedral. St. Matt's was the perfect place for an I.R.S. wedding. After all, St. Matthew, the patron saint of civil servants had actually been a tax collector himself. Even Patrick was a civil servant though he hated to admit it. He was annoyingly vague about his job with one of those other alphabet agencies-C.I.A., N.S.A., D.I.A. Quien sabe?
Therese, Devon, and I were all members of that select society of Revenuers. They had graduated to private sector posts. I keep slogging away as an I.R.S. Executive. Our paths had diverged but our shared values inextricably bound us: True Believers 'til the end!
