“The day after tomorrow,” Patrick said.
“Hmm,” Mrs. Moczydlowska said. “That is okay. But if you two are gone any longer, I will worry.”
“Don’t worry,” Patrick said.
“It is my job to worry,” Mrs. Moczydlowska said. “I am good at it.”
“Yes, you are,” Patrick said. “I will see you in two days.”
Mrs. Moczydlowska smiled at Lauren. “I will be waiting to see
both
of you in two days.”
On the way back to their apartment, Patrick smiled and stared a long time at Lauren.
“What?” Lauren said.
“Nothing,” Patrick said.
“There’s something,” Lauren said.
“Just that I think she’s beginning to like you already,” Patrick said. “She said ‘both.’ You’re becoming her daughter or something.”
“Which reminds me,” Lauren said. “We can’t go on our honeymoon if the accommodations aren’t ready.” She took out her phone and called her mother. “Mama, we’re coming to visit you tonight.”
“Why?” Pamela asked.
“We just got married,” Lauren said.
“And you’re coming
here
for your honeymoon?” Pamela asked.
“Our honeymoon will never end,” Lauren said. “We’re just starting it with you.”
“Not in
my
house,” Pamela said. “When will you get here?”
Lauren looked at Patrick. “When will we arrive?”
“Sometime after midnight, I guess,” Patrick said.
“Sometime after midnight,” Lauren said.
Pamela sighed. “You’ll have to knock loudly.”
“We will,” Lauren said. “See you soon.”
“Bye,” Pamela said.
Lauren closed her phone. “She didn’t sound too happy.”
“This is kind of a shock to her, isn’t it?” Patrick asked.
“I guess,” Lauren said. “But she knows me. She knows I can’t wait. She’ll get over it.”
I hope.
She squeezed his hand. “Can we maybe do something shocking when we get home?”
“You read my mind,” Patrick whispered.
“You’re so easy to read,” Lauren said.
“It must be what love is, huh?” Patrick asked. “We can read each other easily.”
“You think you can read me, Mr. Esposito?” Lauren asked.
“Yes, Mrs. Esposito,” Patrick said. “You’re an open book.”
“Okay,” Lauren said, “what am I thinking right now?” Patrick laughed. “I can’t say it out loud.”
“Sure you can,” Lauren said.
“Okay,” Patrick said. He put his lips to her ear. “You want to christen the apartment.”
How did he know that?
“Well . . .”
“I’m right, aren’t I?” Patrick asked.
“Technically, yes,” Lauren said.
“Only technically?” Patrick asked.
Lauren shook her head. “You nailed it. I’m already getting excited. Let’s hurry!”
After Patrick carried Lauren across the threshold, Lauren checked the Amtrak schedule, and Patrick called in “sick” to work for the next two days, Patrick and Lauren christened every room in the apartment.
It didn’t take long in the small apartment.
They tried the kitchen counter and found it a little too high for Patrick to stay inside her. The bathroom counter was a little too low, and Lauren’s booty kept sliding into one of the sinks. The couch made a terrible racket, and the hardwood floor under the faux wood linoleum moaned.
“We need to oil this thing,” Lauren said as she panted. “We need to oil the entire apartment.”
“There’s an interesting thought,” Patrick said, carrying her to the front door.
Lauren kept trying to open the door while Patrick attempted to thrust her up to the ceiling, and the shade in the bedroom became a yo-yo with Lauren yanking it open and Patrick pulling it closed.
“It’s broad daylight, Mrs. Esposito,” Patrick said.
“I
know,
Mr. Esposito,” Lauren said. “My booty needs some sun. Yours, too.”
Exhausted, they showered together, dressed, and emptied Patrick’s tool bag before packing two days’ worth of clothing inside it.
“
Now
we can go see my mama,” Lauren said.
“We didn’t try the coffee table,” Patrick said.
“When we get back,” Lauren said. She looked at the coffee table. “Will that little table hold us?”
“It’s solid oak,” Patrick said.
She smiled. “I love good wood.”
58
W
earing jeans, sweaters, heavy coats, and boots, Patrick and Lauren took the subway to Penn Station to catch the Amtrak train. Few people took notice of them on the subway or while they stood in line to pay for their train tickets.
Maybe we’re finally becoming ordinary and anonymous,
Patrick thought.
It’s nice not to have people staring and taking pictures of us for a change.
“I’m paying,” Lauren said.
“I got this,” Patrick said.
I think I do,
he thought.
It’s only one seventy for both of us round-trip.
He dug into his pocket and came up with one hundred ten dollars. “It seems I’m a bit short.”
Lauren smiled. “Well, she’s
my
mama, after all.” She dug out her MasterCard.
“And you’re
my
bride,” Patrick said. “I am supposed to pay for the honeymoon. Let me find an ATM.”
“Come on,” said the man behind them. “You’re holding up the line.”
Patrick glared at the man. “Do you mind? We’re having our first married argument.”
Lauren nodded. “We are, aren’t we?”
“Come on, come on,” the man said. “I can’t miss this train.”
Lauren looked at the man. “Neither can we, all right? We’re on our honeymoon, so do you mind?”
The man turned away.
Lauren looked up at Patrick and sighed. “So, what’s it going to be, Mr. Esposito? Are you going to get out of line to find an ATM and make us miss this train, or are you going to let me pay?”
“You can pay this time,” Patrick said.
“I
have
to pay this time,” Lauren said. “Someone wasn’t prepared to pay.”
“Because you . . .” He stepped closer and whispered,
“Because you banged my brains out.”
Lauren smiled. “I did, didn’t I?”
“I will pay you back,” Patrick said.
Lauren paid. “I’ll expect some extra special favors as payment.”
Oh, how I love this woman.
“I can do that.”
Once on the train, they wandered to the Café Car and ordered Tuscan Italian panini sandwiches, a cheese and cracker tray, four slices of Sara Lee pound cake, and two Starbucks Frappuccinos, spreading them out on a free table and sitting side-by-side.
“This is our wedding reception,” Lauren whispered.
“We are saving a mint on our wedding, aren’t we?”
“I guess,” Patrick said.
“We may be one of the few couples to spend less than five hundred bucks on our wedding and honeymoon,” Lauren said.
“I wish I could do more for you,” Patrick said.
“I am content,” Lauren said. “And this day has been a
lot
of fun. I’ll be talking about this day for the rest of my life.”
As they started to feast, Lauren took out her phone and surfed to ET.com. “We’re on! Look!”
Patrick looked at the tiny screen and saw a picture of himself holding Lauren high in the air at Boerum Park.
Wow,
he thought.
Lauren
is
short. No, maybe it’s the camera angle.
The
Entertainment Tonight
host smiled and said, “Actress Lauren Short and her handyman, Patrick, exchanged their vows during a nasty snowball fight in a vacant lot in Brooklyn today. . . .”
“It was a
park,
not a vacant lot,” Lauren said. “And if the photographers hadn’t tried to get closer, there wouldn’t have been a nasty snowball fight. And we’re technically not married until Father Giovanni signs the form. And I’m not an actress anymore, and you’re
much
more than a handyman.
ET
didn’t get
any
part of this story right.”
“You look so cute,” Patrick said. “I’ll bet young ladies all around the country will be wearing coveralls in no time.”
“They sure are comfortable,” Lauren said. “Oh, here comes the kiss.”
“That was a great kiss,” Patrick said.
“The best kiss I have ever had,” Lauren said. “Look how high in the air I am.”
“When asked for a comment on this shocking new development,” the host continued, “Lauren’s former fiancé, mega star Chazz Jackson, said that any marriage that began in a vacant lot could never last.”
“They’ll be divorced before Christmas,” Chazz said.
“They may even be filing for divorce as we speak. Lauren is too used to the finer things in life because of me to settle for a man who has the worst beard I’ve ever seen. Lauren is only doing this to get back at me. She’ll be asking me for a New Year’s Eve date. I guarantee it. You’ll see.”
“Ha!” Lauren shouted. “You’ll be out with
all
the Chippendales on New Year’s Eve, you jerk!” She grimaced and looked around. “I didn’t mean to be so loud,” she whispered.
“It’s okay,” Patrick said. “You were talking in all caps. It’s a perfectly understandable response to jerks on TV.”
“The frostbitten couple,” the
ET
host smirked, “is currently on their way to their honeymoon in . . . Washington, D.C.? Really? They’re going to our nation’s capital for their honeymoon? Are we sure about this? Who goes to D.C. in December? Even Congress runs away from D.C. in December. And they’re riding the train? This is a joke, right? This isn’t a joke. Lauren Short is now Lauren Esposito, and she is
not
riding in a carriage with a prince. . . .”
Lauren shook her head. “Such foolishness. But she
is
right. I’m
not
riding with a prince. I’m riding with a king.”
“And that makes you my queen,” Patrick said. He kissed her and tasted pound cake. “Your lips are sweet and intoxicating.”
“You’re going to be drunk for the rest of your life,” Lauren said.
After finishing their meal, they sat quietly watching New Jersey fly by until a heavily bundled black woman approached and sat opposite them.
“I hope you don’t mind,” she said, setting her purse on the table. “I hate to eat alone.”
Well, sit yourself down, why don’t you?
Lauren thought.
“It’s okay. Hi. I’m—”
“I know who you are,” the woman interrupted. “I’m Delia Jones.”
“Nice to meet you, Delia,” Lauren said.
Delia pulled a Baggie from her purse, took out a quarter of a sandwich, and began munching away. “Are you two really on your honeymoon?”
“Yes,” Lauren said, sniffing the air. “Is that chicken salad?”
“It is,” Delia said. “Made it myself.”
“I can’t remember the last time I had homemade chicken salad,” Lauren said. “It smells so good.”
Delia handed her half of her sandwich. “Tell me what you think.”
Lauren finished the half in three bites. “Delicious.”
“I watched your wedding,” Delia said, “what I could see of it with all those snowballs flying around. A snowball hit the camera right in the lens. Those kids had good aim.”
“Yes, they did,” Lauren said. “So . . . what did you think of the wedding?”
“It was different,” Delia said. “You had to be cold.”
“Patrick kept me warm,” Lauren said.
“You’re going to D.C. to see your mama, right?” Delia asked.
“Yes,” Lauren said. “I’m going to introduce my new husband to her.”
“Your mama hasn’t met him yet?” Delia asked.
“No,” Lauren said. “She has only spoken to him on the phone so far.”
“Why didn’t she come up for the wedding?” Delia asked.
“Mama had to work today,” Lauren said. “She drives a D.C. Metrobus.”
“You’re her only child, right?” Delia asked.
Delia is well informed.
“Yes.”
“And yet your own mama missed your wedding,” Delia said. “You two have a falling-out?”
Lauren nodded. “I haven’t seen her in fourteen years.”
“Fourteen years?” Delia said. “That’s a seriously long time not to see your mama. Why so long?”
“Well,” Lauren said, “I did this movie a while back. . . .”
Not long after Lauren finished her story, Delia disembarked in Trenton. Before long Philadelphia, Wilmington, and Baltimore were behind them, and then the train arrived at Union Station in Washington, D.C.
Photographers greeted them and impeded their movement as they tried to step off the train.
“Lauren, where are you headed?”
“Is this what you really wanted for your honeymoon?”
“What do you think of the situations in North Korea and the Middle East?”
“Are those boots waterproof?”
“Did you
pay
those kids to throw snowballs at those reporters?”
“When’s the last time you were in D.C.?”
“Do you think coveralls will one day replace the traditional wedding gown?”
“Is it true you’re suffering from frostbite and hypothermia?”
Are any of them serious?
Lauren held Patrick’s hand. “We are going to my mama’s house in Congress Heights.”
The photographers murmured to each other.
“Are you all going to follow us?” Lauren asked. “It’s only a couple miles away. There might not be much room on the street to park, but you’re welcome to tag along.”
“Congress Heights?” a reporter said. “At this time of night?”
“Yes,” Lauren said. “That’s where I grew up, and that’s where my mama lives.”
All but one female photographer backed away.
“Your loss,” Lauren said. She smiled at the lone photographer. “You’re going to have an exclusive, aren’t you?”
“Oh, I’m not going,” the photographer said. “I was just waiting for an answer to my question.”
“Which was?” Lauren asked.
“Where did you get those boots?” she asked.
Lauren laughed. “Are you kidding? That’s the only question you want answered?”
The photographer nodded. “I like them.”
“Oh, my goodness,” Lauren said. “I got them at New York Speed on Melrose in LA.”
“Expensive, huh?” the photographer asked, snapping several pictures of Lauren’s boots.
“I didn’t pay more than fifty bucks for them,” Lauren said.
“Really?” The photographer smiled. “Do they sell them online?”
I don’t know!
“I’m sure they do.”
“Thanks,” the photographer said, and she hurried away.
Maybe to order some shoes?
Lauren thought.
What utter, complete foolishness!
She and Patrick finally stepped off the train and headed through the famous main hall in Union Station to the taxi stand out front. As he held open a door for Lauren, Patrick turned to look behind him and saw no photographers.
“We’re alone,” Patrick said.
“I thought we might be,” Lauren said.
“We have to go to D.C. to be alone,” Patrick said. “Crazy.”
When they got into a taxi, Lauren said, “Five thirty-two Lebaum Street, Congress Heights, please.”
The driver looked back at her. “Really?”
“Really,” Lauren said. “It’s less than six miles from here, right?”
“Yeah,” the driver said. “But Congress Heights at one thirty in the morning? Are you sure?”
“I’m sure,” Lauren said. “You’re taking me home for the first time in fourteen years, and my mama is waiting up for us.”
The driver squinted at his GPS screen. “All right.” He pulled the taxi away from the curb. “You’re that actress, right?”
Lauren nodded and then shook her head. “I
was
an actress. Not anymore.”
“At least you had the good sense to escape Congress Heights,” the driver said.
“I heard it was getting better there,” Lauren said.
“Yeah, well,” the driver said, “anything would be an improvement. Unemployment is still around twenty-five percent, and there still isn’t a decent place to sit down and eat, unless you like IHOP.”
“There’s nothing wrong with IHOP,” Lauren said. “How’s crime these days?”
“It’s quieter,” the driver said. “Still higher than anywhere else in the city.”
“I hear that Homeland Security is relocating to St. Elizabeths,” Lauren said. “That’s really close to my mama.”
“Homeland Security wouldn’t have anything to do with what happens on the streets,” the driver said. “There was a shooting on Alabama Avenue just last night.”
“We’ll avoid Alabama Avenue,” Lauren whispered.
After passing the Library of Congress and crossing the 11th Street Bridge, they took Martin Luther King, Jr. Avenue to Lebaum.
When the taxi stopped in front of a small colonial, Lauren gripped Patrick’s hand tightly. “We’re here. It still looks the same.”
Patrick paid the driver with two twenties. “Thanks,” he said.
“The fare is only twenty,” the driver said, “and I already included the tip.”
Patrick shrugged. “She wouldn’t let me pay for the train tickets, so I have some extra cash. Take your wife to IHOP.”
“Right,” the driver said. “But I’ll take her to the one in
Columbia
Heights. Take it easy.”
As soon as they were out of the taxi, Lauren opened a chain-link gate and started up a concrete walkway that split a flat yard, the grass yellow but thick.
“The house originally had three bedrooms and one bath,” Lauren said, “but Daddy added a full bath, a half bath, and another bedroom.” She dragged Patrick up concrete stairs to the porch. “How do I look?”
“Perfect, as usual,” Patrick said.
“I’m nervous,” Lauren said.
“Why?” Patrick asked.
“My mama was my first audience,” Lauren said, “and she’s still my toughest critic.” She knocked loudly. “I hope she’s in a good mood.”
“And if she isn’t?” Patrick asked.
Lauren sighed. “Then, well, she isn’t, and there’s nothing anyone can do about it.”
Pamela Jimmerson opened the door a minute later and looked past them. “Where are the reporters?”
“Back at Union Station,” Lauren said.