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Getting the license, going to the chapel, finding the place with an Elvis impersonator was easy. Kitschy and fun as we rushed to beat the clock.
And then the true spiritual moment happened. I don’t remember what we said to each other, but until the day I die, I’ll remember how Lindsay looked at me. A cord, a line, a tightrope stretched between us, reaching back to the past and extending forward to the future, connecting our two lives into one.
I didn’t think I could love her more.
I was wrong.
While I could have done without Elvis crooning “Love Me Tender” in the background as Lindsay and I said our vows, when all was said and done, it was a fine wedding.
Lindsay is now Mrs. Andrew Foster.
I’m her husband.
And we’re about to not have sex on our wedding night.
“Where are we staying?” she asks as we drive to the Strip. I pull into a private garage, tires squealing on the painted concrete floor. I slow down.
“I booked us a room under an assumed name.” I point to the hotel’s sign.
She laughs. “Mom thinks this place is gaudy and tacky. Perfect!” I’m not sure how Monica got “gaudy” from the most expensive hotel on the Las Vegas Strip. Then again, Lindsay’s mother lives in a world of her own making.
Thank God her daughter is in Realityland, where I can be with her 24/7.
I chose this place with some hesitation. It’s big and glitzy, with people watchers everywhere. On the other hand, the resort is accustomed to hiding celebrities. Security in this hotel has a protocol. We’re Will and Helen Jones from Tulsa, Oklahoma.
It doesn’t hurt that one of the assistant directors of security was in my unit in Afghanistan on my first tour.
The private elevator takes us straight to our suite. I reserved the best I could get on short notice. A woman like Lindsay won’t notice. When you’re raised with money and power, you only notice what’s not there. I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t care if I took her to a campground or a no-tell motel. She’s been through so much. She’s still shaky on the inside. Sticking to what she knows – and giving her the luxury I want to give her – is the safer choice.
Making Lindsay safe is my lifelong job. Her physical safety is assured.
Time to work on the emotional side.
“I ordered room service. I figured we’d be starving by now.”
“We wouldn’t be hungry if you’d agreed with my idea,” she teases as she gently sits on the edge of the bed, wincing and rubbing her bad elbow.
“Even I have limits, Lindsay, and having Elvis drive us to McDonald’s for a wedding meal in the drive-thru wasn’t going to cut it. Besides, you know we have to avoid surveillance cameras.”
“Right.”
Tap tap tap.
She looks at the door, then at me. I shrug.
“You are a well-oiled machine,” she marvels.
The image of a well-oiled Lindsay triggers something in me. I walk quickly to the door, hyperaware that she’s on a bed, we’re in a location where we have all the privacy in the world, and she’s my wife. As I tip the staff person and roll the table-cart into the room, I give myself permission to feel the never-ending passion I’ve felt for her all along, but kept in check.
Out of respect.
Out of a sense of knowing she needs time.
But damn it, if she keeps looking at me with those sweet bedroom eyes, I’m not sure I can hold off much longer. I don’t want to scare her, or make her feel like she needs to have sex before she’s ready. I don’t. But she’s given me more and more reasons to want her as she peels back all the walls, one by one, on this trip.
She’s a feast of love.
And I’m a starving man.
