“Y’all stop,” Pat scolded. “You both need Jesus.”
“I need some breakfast, that’s what I need,” Frieda said, watching herself pose in the mirror. “And I need a man that can put me in a place with a view like this. Now, this is livin’. Hurry up and go on your honeymoon so I can come over here and get my groove on—I mean, so I can housesit.”
Three pairs of eyes gave her “the look.”
“Just kidding,” Frieda said sheepishly before flouncing out of the room. A trio of laughter followed her out.
The day flowed seamlessly. After a hearty breakfast, Cy, Simeon, and the fellas had enjoyed a game of basketball. Hope and the women spent their morning being treated to a full body massage, manicure/pedicure, and an in-home hair stylist. The limo picked them up promptly at three. Hope, exquisite and serene, now sat in the boat’s largest bedroom, waiting for the moment she became Cy’s wife.
Cy and his cousin, Simeon, relaxed quietly at a table, enjoying the view of sparkling water and sailboats. Wisps of conversation floated around them from the thirty or so guests who mingled on the luxury yacht Cy had chartered. It would be their last moments with Cy as a single man.
“Well, cuz, the water isn’t too deep here; still time to make the great escape.”
Cy raised up a bit as if gauging his chances for a successful jump; then he smiled. “Even with a gun to my head, there’s no way I’d leave. I’ve never been surer about any move I’ve ever made than I am now.”
“You’re a lucky man.”
“I’m blessed, Simeon. Nobody but God put Hope and me together.”
“Humph. You’re talking about her behind her back and she ain’t even yours yet.” Hope’s dad, Earl, punched Cy’s arm playfully as he sat down. The three men could have graced the cover of Elegant Man, if there were such a magazine. Cy’s tux fit flawlessly and Simeon’s blue Kenneth Cole suit was equally stunning. Mr. Jones was dignity personified in a charcoal gray double-breasted suit, with a silk blue shirt and complementing necktie. In fact, everyone on the boat looked quite refined.
Mr. Pheneas Taylor, Cy’s father, joined them at the table. An older, distinguishably handsome version of Cy, Mr. Taylor still turned the heads of women half his age. “Well, now that the important people are ready and on the scene,” he said, pointing to himself, “the festivities can begin.”
Earl’s eyebrows rose at that comment. “Careful now, you’re gonna be like that slave who showed up in the field with a tuxedo on, after a visit to the doctor’s office.”
“How you figure?” Pheneas asked with mock indignation.
“Well, when the other slaves asked him why he was in the field wearing a tuxedo, he told ’em,” Earl continued in an exaggerated southern accent, “‘since the doctor say’s I’se impotent, I’se might as well look impotent.’”
The men tried not to, but laughed anyway. Earl Jones was a character, one anybody would be hard-pressed not to like.
It was time. The guests lined the stern of the boat, leaving the middle empty. Three of the Musical Messengers, a guitarist, saxophonist, and keyboard player with drum machine, kept a low profile on the side. Soft sounds of smooth jazz emanated from their corner. Pastors Brook and Montgomery stood waiting with appropriate seriousness. King had chosen to wear a white pastor’s robe, complete with scarf bearing a solid black cross and fringe at each end. Derrick had on a stellar black tux.
Mr. Jones waited in the back, talking quietly with Hope, whom her mother had finally summoned.
After the parents and guests had been seated, an imperceptible nod from Mrs. Jones signaled all was ready.
Pastor Derrick began. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are here to celebrate another love affair that God has designed. Let our hearts be filled with love as we surround this couple, here and now, at the beginning of the rest of their lives.” With this, he and Pastor King moved to the side as Cy’s classmate stepped up to sing “The Lord’s Prayer” in a rich baritone.
Hope stood just outside the door, near the rear of the ship. She couldn’t see anyone, but heard the wondrous melody float like waves across the boat, now anchored in the middle of the ocean, halfway between the marina and Catalina Island. She closed her eyes and leaned against her father, whose eyes were misty. He was losing his only daughter, albeit to a fine young man.
After the solo, Frieda and Simeon took their places. Cy came next. The keyboardist began playing the instrumental wedding march, Luther Vandross’s “Wait for Love.” When the saxophone joined in with the melody, Hope, led by her father, came around the side of the boat. She was radiant. Every eye was on her. Her eyes were on Cy. A solitary tear slid down her face as he stood beaming.
After Mr. Jones had escorted his daughter to the front, he joined his ex-wife. Having a child together created a lifetime bond, and both had put differences aside, even if temporarily, to be united in this moment. Cy reached for Hope’s hand and held it gently as her poem, “The One,” was read by a childhood friend. They turned and looked into each other’s eyes as Eric Benet’s duet with Tamia, “Spend My Life,” was performed with enchanting loveliness:
“Can I just see you every morning when I open my eyes?
Can I just feel your heart beating beside me every night?
Can we just feel this way together till the end of all time?”
In these moments, Cy’s only thoughts were for the ceremony to be over, the guests to be gone, and Hope to be in his arms. Hope was thinking the exact same thing. The rest of the ceremony went by in a longing-induced fog, repeating the vows, the ring, the kiss, purposely chaste so as not to fan the already searing flames of desire.
And then it was official. Cy and Hope were pronounced man and wife. Bubbles were blown as the couple walked around the boat lined with guests, hugging and thanking each one for their presence. While this was happening, the caterers set up a sumptuous feast of tenderloin steak, baked chicken and fish, a roasted vegetable medley, and rice pilaf. Simeon toasted the couple, who in turn toasted the guests with their choice of either Krug’s Clos du Mesnil champagne or sparkling juice. Once the bubbly started flowing, the evening began in earnest. By the time the almond-vanilla frosted carrot cake had been eaten, toasts made, dances danced, and the boat finished sailing around the marina and docked outside the Ritz-Carlton, folks were speculating on who could get married next so they could have an excuse to enjoy such fun all over again.
Cy and Hope faced each other in the middle of the king-sized bed. Maria, Cy’s housekeeper, had cleaned up the day’s mess and, with Frieda’s help, had set a romantic stage in the bedroom, with candles, orchid petals, and burning, scented oil. The newlyweds each held a glass of sparkling champagne with bobbing strawberries. Both were naked, having enjoyed a relaxing, sensual bath in the penthouse Jacuzzi. They’d explored and pleasured each other’s bodies. Their senses heightened by months of agonizing celibacy, the first orgasms came quickly. It was just the beginning, though. Cy planned for Hope to be thoroughly satisfied from head to toe before the night was over. Hope had likewise secretly vowed to make her husband’s pleasure her singular focus, believing that if she took care of his needs, she too would be satisfied.
“A toast to you, Mrs. Hope Taylor,” Cy began, “the woman of my dreams.” He reached out and gently pinched her nipple, which took notice immediately. Hope’s quick intake of breath made him smile. He leaned over, nipped it, licked it, and continued. “It will be my life’s mission to make you happy, woman, to satisfy you in every possible way. I’m so happy you’re in my life, baby, and I will spend a lifetime trying to repay you for how happy you’ve made me.”
Hope drank in his words of love. She tried not to cry—there had been enough tears for the day. But she was so happy, beyond her wildest imaginings. She took a breath and returned a toast of her own. “When I prayed to God for a husband, it was you I