Angelo and I landed on the island of St. Croix in the Virgin Islands at about 10 o'clock that night. Thanks to the plush accommodations provided by Emma's executive jet, we were able to relax on the way to our tropical get-away. Relax, but not sleep. We were too wired, and it felt too much as if once we closed our eyes and opened them again, we would awaken to find that it was all a blissful dream.
If this were just a dream, there would be no waking us now.
One of Emma's people in St. Croix picked us up at the airport. He was quite talkative. He mentioned a mutant cousin who worked for Emma back in New England. At first, we thought he referred to Bumpkin, but it turned out that it was that pink-skinned fellow Bumpkin was always hanging out with on coffee breaks. The name escaped me at the moment, but that could be the cloud of emotions swirling in my head and Angelo's. As we both agreed Jubilee would say, we were absolutely stoked to be in St. Croix on our honeymoon.
We finally made it to the simply-named "Hotel del Sol" after a short twenty-minute drive from the airport. As we stepped from the limousine, I let out a gasp. Standing tall before us both was perhaps the most expensive and ritzy hotel I had seen in my life. The driver informed us that Emma's vacation home was the entire penthouse floor.
"Oh my... Emma didn't have to do this."
The bellhop took our luggage, and showed us to the room Emma had arranged for us. He was an elderly, but spritely man who seemed to enjoy his work. He unlocked the room for us.
"Well, hubby?" I said with some measure of anticipation evident in my voice, to which Angelo smiled as he literally swept me off of my feet.
("Are you sure you only weigh a buck-ten?")
("Smart ass,") I retorted, making my mirth apparent.
The penthouse room was huge. There was a spacious sitting room just off of the door. To the right of that was a small kitchen area which looked like it had never been used. The door to the rather large bathroom sat in a short corridor which led to the bedroom.
Without further hesitation, Angelo carried me across the threshold, and gently set me down on the couch, where I sat as he said, "Mrs. Espinosa, I cordially invite you to our room." Then he gave me a warm kiss upon the lips.
("Uh, the bellhop isn't done bringing in our bags yet.") I blushed a little as I suppressed a giggle.
("Make yourself comfortable, Mrs. Espinosa--") Angelo seemed to like the particular ring of those two words-- ("while I go tip the man.")
("I'll be in the bathroom. And please don't tell him not to bet on a slow horse.")
Angelo snickered before leaving the bedroom to thank the man appropriately. I smiled back as I kicked off my shoes and headed for the washroom, and shut the door.
("God, am I nervous!") was the private exclamation that sounded in my head like a prayer. ("This is it. This is our night. And I'm shaking. It seems silly, no?")
("Not at all, son.")
Huh? What was this voice in my head that I heard so clearly? How did it know what I'm thinking? And why'd it just call me, "son"? I looked behind the shower curtain: nothing. I sat a top the closed toilet seat, a nervous wreck.
("I'm happy, sad, and nervous all at once. We love each other, and are together at last. But then there's that distance I've put between myself and my mother. And I'm wondering whether I truly have anything to offer my wife, other than love.")
"My wife"? It finally made sense. These thoughts weren't my own-- not exclusively, anyway. I was inadvertently snooping on Angelo. The other voice was-- the bellhop.
("You aren't the first nervous bridegroom. I got hauled off to Korea, practically right after the ceremony. I was frightened more than once that I wouldn't be around to provide for my wife.")
("Abuelo, my personal hell came before the wedding.") Angelo continued, ("I grew up in a rotten neighborhood in the slums of L.A. Constantly wondered if I'd live to see my next birthday. For reasons I won't get into, I had to cut off all contact with my family. It was safer that way, but there wasn't a day that went by I didn't regret leaving.
("Now, I'm married, and my mama can't even meet my bride, and probably will never know her grandchildren. But I did it to protect them.") Angelo's machismo wouldn't allow him to cry in the witness of a stranger, but the effect was the same.
("Son, if what you say is true, and you severed you're ties to home for the safety of your family, you needn't question whether you love enough.") The old man smiled. ("Love helps to make everything else fall into place. My wife and I were married for a long time. Before she passed away a couple of years ago, she and I had lost count of the silly arguments we had. But we loved each other deeply. We'd been through the fire, both alone and together, and that's what we had to offer each other... our strength. It's the same strength that led you to make an emotionally costly decision for the good of those you love. It's all you need, really.")
Angelo pondered the wise words, letting them sink into his brain. He looked up at the bellhop, and said softly, ("Gracias.")
("De nada. Have a nice night.")
Angelo came to his senses. ("What about your tip?") Angelo reached into his pocket for his wallet.
The old man shook his head. ("Ms. Frost took care of it. Besides, you needed a tip more than I did.")
I had to smile. When I had first met Ange, he didn't seem emotional. That, I had just been reminded, was merely a trick of how he was forced to grow up. So I looked in the mirror, neatly arranged a few stubborn strands of hair, and emerged from the bathroom.
Not even one second after I set foot outside the bathroom, Angelo sneaked up and began tickling me. I take back the comment about him growing up.
I was giggling insanely. He nearly fell over laughing himself.
"All those tickle fights back in school paid off," he said with a smirk.
Before I could answer, there was a knock at the door.
"Whatever it is, we ain't buying it!" he yelled, his voice full of merriment.
"Ange!" I giggled, playfully slapping his shoulder. He grudgingly got up to answer the door, all the while mentally berating himself for not putting out the DO NOT DISTURB sign.
"Who is it?"
"The manager," replied the voice on the other side of the door.
Ange walked over to the door and opened it. The hotel manager brought in a wheeled cart with some food and a bucket of ice used to chill the bottle of champagne suspended in it.
"Champagne and some late snacks, complements of the house. Congratulations!"
"Thank you," we said in near unison.
The manager handed us each a glass, and poured the contents of the bottle into them, remarking as he left, "Good luck to you both on your new life together."
"Gracias," Angelo said, following the manager to the door, and placing the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the outside knob, before locking it shut. He came back, full glass in hand.
"Well, to us," he toasted. "May the wings of love never lose a feather." A smile played across his lips as he reveled in the shear corniness of the sentiment.
I giggled. His expression was always intense. There was something about it that cut me to the bone; in this case, the funny bone. There was only one way to respond to his toast.
"Amen," I agreed as we clinked glasses, linked arms, and sipped some champagne.
We started kissing. Angelo put down his glass, and broke the embrace. He took my hand as if to lead me by it and said, "I'm going to bed, Mrs. Espinosa. Come with?"
"Sí," I replied enthusiastically.