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“It’s not the fourteenth century,” I reply. “She’s more than able to handle herself, believe me.”
“I’m just saying. This doesn’t give you the Droit du seigneur.”
I know that’s the right of the lord to have sex with any female subject, especially on their wedding night.
“’The wife’s body does not belong to her alone but also to her husband,’” Tyson says helpfully. “I think that’s from Corinthians.”
“If you’re going to claim prima nocta,” Alex adds—meaning first night, the other name for the medieval lord’s right—“maybe get her to sign a waiver.”
“For fuck’s sake.” I know they’re teasing me, and sure enough they all chuckle. “Anyway,” I say to Henry, wanting to divert the attention away from my upcoming wedding, “enough about me. What’s going on with Juliette?”
He grunts and eats the rest of his sandwich.
“You wanna talk about it?” Tyson asks.
“No,” he says.
There’s not much we can say to that. Alex clears his throat and starts talking about whether we want Damon’s input on the part of the conference speech about how the machinery is paired with gaming software, and the conversation moves on.
The girls arrive back around four p.m., tired but happy, carrying all manner of boxes and bags. Gaby claims that smoke is emitting from her credit card. Juliette’s wearing a new sunhat she bought. Missie shyly shows Alex a set of artist’s paints she’s treated herself to, earning an indulgent smile.
“What about you?” I ask Aroha. She’s carrying several bags in one hand and Leia in her carry seat in the other. “Did you treat yourself?”
“I did, as it happens.”
“Can I see?”
“It’s for the wedding,” Gaby announces. “You can’t see it before the big day.”
“Fake wedding,” Aroha and I say at the same time, and both laugh.
“Sorry,” Aroha apologizes, “I’m under strict instructions not to show you. But don’t worry,” she adds hastily, “it’s not a wedding dress.”
“We tried to make her buy one,” Juliette says, “with a veil and a train and everything, but she wouldn’t have it.”
“I got the confetti though,” Missie says.
“She’s joking,” Aroha replies. “Don’t panic.”
“You’re all having far too much fun with this,” I tell them, bending to unbuckle Leia and lift her out of her seat. “Hello, beautiful! Have you had a good day shopping? What did you buy?” I kiss her nose before holding her against my shoulder.
“They all spoiled her,” Aroha announces, gesturing to the other bags.
“You can’t blame us. Look how cute this is.” Missie pulls out a tiny dress with lace around the edge. “Isn’t it gorgeous?”
“She already has, like, a hundred dresses,” I point out, pretending indignation.
Missie sticks her tongue out at me. “Well, she’s got a hundred and one now.”
“Aroha refuses to spend your money,” Juliette points out, “so we intend to train Leia to drain you dry.”
“By the time she’s fifteen we’ll have to turn the whole west wing into a wardrobe, won’t we?” I ask Aroha.
She smiles, but she turns away, and it occurs to me that I shouldn’t say things like that. I have no idea how things are going to go over the next six months, let alone fifteen years, but we both know that Leia won’t always need a nanny.
In business, I draw up six-month, two-year, and five-year plans. I’m not an impulsive person, and I like to know where I’m going and what the road ahead looks like. So I feel uneasy about the near future. I don’t know whether this scheme to get Leia will work. And even if it does, I don’t know what would happen with Aroha afterward. Deep down, I’m starting to think I’ve been a fool for rushing into this and throwing both our lives into disarray. But what else was I supposed to do?
We decide to order in some pizzas and we eat them out on the deck as the sun sinks toward the horizon. Aroha disappears to put Leia to bed around seven, then rejoins us for a while before the others finally say they’re heading off. I think they were all aware that the day after the funeral was going to be a difficult one, and I appreciate them spending some time with me.
