Most people arrive at the Vineyard by ferry, watching the shoreline creep closer while they sip lukewarm coffee. Not my wife.
Aspen is staring out the curved glass of the cockpit, her reflection ghosting over the deep blue of the Atlantic. Below us, the island looks like a scrap of green velvet dropped into the ocean. It’s beautiful, expensive, and for her, a fortress of old expectations. I can see the way her fingers are knotted in her lap, a silent tell that she’s bracing for the “who’s who” and the “what are you doing with your life” interrogation that usually awaits her at the family estate.
But the woman sitting next to me isn't the same one who used to shrink under her mother’s watchful gaze. And I’m damn sure not letting her walk into that house feeling like she’s still playing a part.
I reach over, covering her hands with mine. My thumb brushes the gold band on her finger—a solid, unshakeable anchor.
“You're shaking, love,” I murmur over the headset, the rhythmic thrum of the rotors vibrating through the floorboards.
She looks at me, a small, grateful smile flickering across her face. “It’s just alotdown there,” is all she can say about it all. “But being flowninby my husband is helping calm me. I still can’t believe you have your helicopter pilot's license!”
I grin. “There’s a lot you have to learn about your husband.”
She once told me the only time she ever felt “less than” was when her family made her feel like her choices didn't meet their impossible expectations. Some families have a way of making you audition for their congratulations, as if a job well done is only the baseline. I won't have my wife feeling that way about herself or her incredible accomplishments ever again.
Not on my watch. Even if she did burp on national television.
I’d called in a massive favor from Xavier Darcy for this. When I told Xavier about Aspen’s family, he didn't need much convincing. Apparently, he’d navigated similar minefields with his own in-laws.
Since I have my helicopter pilot license, Xavier insisted we do this right. He wanted to make certain we weren't just showing up; he wanted us to make the kind of entrance her family would have no choice but to respect and no way to ignore.
As the landing pad on the sprawling estate comes into view, I can see the rest of the family already gathered on the lawn, their heads tilted toward the sky. We’re fashionably late, exactly as planned.
Aspen sucks her teeth. “Look, Clarissa can’t wait to see who’s making a bougie crash-landing for Thanksgiving.”
“Don’t worry, love. I’ve got you.” I say, still feeling the need to prove to Aspen that I won’t let her down again. She will always be my priority.
The estate is a sprawling, gray-shingled house that looks like it’s been anchored to the New England coast for a century. Itisn't flashy, but the steep gables and white-trimmed balconies give off that quiet, “old money” comfort that you read about here in America. From the air, it looks like a peaceful escape. From the ground, it just feels solid. It’s the kind of home built to handle salty Atlantic storms and decades of family secrets.
As the rotors finally slow and I help Aspen onto the grass, her cousin Clarissa is the first to approach. She’s dressed to the nines, her pregnant belly leading the way, though her eyes are busy scanning the helicopter behind us before they even settle on Aspen.
“Aspen, darling. Beautiful arrival,” Clarissa says, though she’s already looking at the security detail I had stationed at the perimeter. “Will there be cameras accompanying you two? A crew for the BSN profile, perhaps?”
The hope for a little reflected limelight is written all over her face. I step forward, sliding a protective arm around Aspen’s waist.
Aspen politely introduces us. “Clarissa, this is my husband, Luca. Luca? My cousin, Clarissa.”
I take her hand, kissing it. “Pleasure, Clarissa.”
She swoons.
“And, unfortunately, Clarissa,” I offer, my voice smooth but final. “I’ve instructed my security team to keep all press and cameras strictly away from the property. Given my... celebrity... I thought it best we keep this a private family affair. Don’t you agree?”
I see her face nearly disfigured, and I can tell it pains her to nod her agreement. I feel Aspen swell with a sudden, petty pride beside me. She stands a little taller, her chin lifting as she looks at her cousin.
“Come on,” she whispers to me, “let me introduce you to the chaos.”
The afternoon is a constant round of handshakes and polite nods until we run into a young man too excited to ignore.
“Yo, yo! Back up, give me some room!” a voice booms. A guy with a wide, infectious grin struts up to us. “The legend is here. Don't worry, Luca, I won't outshine you too much today.”
Aspen laughs, pulling him into a hug. “Luca, this is my cousin, Demarcus Jr.”
“Please,” he interrupts, holding up a finger. “Call me First Down. We’re family now, baby!”
“First Down?” I ask, shaking his hand.
“That’s right! Status might be down, but my game is all the way up!”
