LOVE AT FIRST DATE

Chapter 22: Their Delay

"At words poetic… I'm so pathetic…" he sang to her in a soft whisper as she giggled and nodded in wholehearted agreement with the lyrics, realizing for the thousandth time just exactly how deeply in love she was.

He leaned in to kiss her creamy skin, the weight of his torso pressing her deeper into the mattress of his boyhood bed.

"I hate parading my serenading… as I'll probably miss a bar…"

"You just missed two lines," she lightly chuckled, robotically swatting his fingers away from the buttons at the top of her dress again, her mind focused on the enchanting softness of his voice, and how sweet a gesture it was for him to sing a song to her.

"...and I can feel after every line... a thrill divine... down my spine," he drawled onward, his fingertips undaunted by the minor setback of having to begin their ascent all over again.

"I'm not getting caught twice in the same day, so you can just forget it, mister," she firmly whispered, noting his fingers about to attempt another end-run around hers. "I have a rule about that," she added, as if she had ever needed one.

"Ah, c'mon, baby. Nobody's gonna come in," he assured her in a low, soft whine, listening to himself revert to the same pleadings he used to employ as a teenager in sexual hell, the thought prompting a self-deprecating chuckle within: Thirty-seven years of age, and still there was something thrillingly taboo about having a girl in his bed with his parents just south of the floorboards, clueless as to what was going on inside his den of iniquity. It set a tone of danger, romance, intrigue, and — if he could just get his hand inside her blouse — action/adventure.

"Think of it as completely out of the question," Michelle reassured him with subdued laughter, laboring to resist the dreamy eyes he was now utilizing as part of his campaign to break her down. "Shhhh!" she added with a hushed squeal as the springs creaked noisily beneath them in response to his body shifting from a half-on-half-off to a full three-quarters-on-her position. "Honey, watch out for the…!"

One ceiling below, Jim Almeida's eyes darted up from his Wall Street Journal in sync with the sound of crystal shattering, then shifted left, to the other side of the room, where his wife's eyes were already upon him, playfully flickering with romance in a way that never failed to send his heart soaring.

Responding to her overt flirtatiousness, Jim's eyes assumed their trusty, sensual half-mast position, telepathically inquiring if perhaps she might care to meet him on their bedroom terrace later that evening for some hot hors d' oeuvres, cold champagne, and a steamy moonlight dance.

Her eyes replied with a brief mental check of her date book, not quite sure if she was even free on such arrogant and presumptuous short notice.

His eyes tossed her date book to the ground and took her firmly in his arms, informing her that he would be there at eight; that if she were a dame with a lick of sense, she'd show; that if the proverbial plane left the ground and she wasn't on it, she'd regret it — maybe not this evening; maybe not tomorrow, but soon, and for the rest of her life.

His eyes kissed her hard and left her breathless, then hinted at how much he liked that red dress of hers before turning back to the Wall Street Journal's editorial page.

Her eyes hung on him for a few breathless moments before tearing themselves away, wondering what she had done right to deserve the attentions of so dashing and charming a he-man as he.

North of the kitchen ceiling, Tony knelt beside Michelle on bended knee, gingerly transferring the last chunk of broken glass into the John Wayne trashcan between the bed and nightstand.

"Well, if I can't look in the drawers, can I at least go through your bookcases?" she whispered.

"Noooo," he gently sing-sang his answer, having no intention of placing himself in the position of having her unearth his old Superman comics, only to torment him for the rest of his life.

"You said you were gonna show me your Bobbsey Twins collection," Michelle gently reminded him, miserably failing to cloak her devilish amusement.

"I never said that," he mock-firmly corrected her, feigning indignant defensiveness for the sole enjoyment of luxuriating in the laughter it produced. "I said 'The Hardy Boys'..."

"Oh, yes, right. Now I —"

"There's a huge difference, Michelle," he curtly clarified.

"Uh-huh," she vexingly grinned, watching as he carefully rechecked the floor for any remaining shards of glass.

The bed creaked even louder this time as he settled into it again, leaning his lips against hers to muffle out any further words of resistance she might have been thinking of offering.

"Ah, c'mon, baby," he whispered, his fingertips shamelessly resuming their pre-doomed climb up her dress. But he did it solely to hear her laugh. In actuality, he didn't really want to make love. There'd be plenty of time for that once he had gotten her home to his bed: his grownup bed; their bed. For now, he wanted to sing some more of his Cole Porter song and watch her eyes beam back at him; to smooch with her and feel their fully clothed bodies creating heat spots at key strategic points of contact; to thrill in the hard-to-get game she was playing with him — or for him — to prudish perfection.

"Do ya have any idea how many times I used to lie in this bed, right where you are now, thinking about —"

"Cheerleaders?" she cut in with the wildest of guesses. "Cheerleaders who'd somehow completely forgotten to wear the bottom half of their uniform onto the field?"

The woman was psychic. It was frightening at times.

He gazed down at her proud smirk, now, wishing he had the power to make time stand still. He felt enchanted with the moment, with the enrapturing picture before his eyes. He spent the next few seconds staring in wonderment of how remarkably perfect her face was; the soft, doll-like features, trimmed in loose curls, and gleaming white teeth that he swore he could see his reflection within.

His thumb pressed lightly against her eyebrow and followed its line. Another finger dragged down the straightness of her nose. His Dad had hit it so squarely on the head: she looked like a China doll, with smooth white skin and a touch of Asia in her dark eyes; lips that looked like they were on loan from a 15th century renaissance painting; a small, contended smile that seemed to light up the room on its own, without aid of the sun streaming in through the window sheers and warming the shirt on his back.

It suddenly occurred to him how his Dad always seemed to hit it the head, just as he'd done a short while ago when he'd given him that thing he had mentioned earlier. It hadn't been a file folder this time.

"You… Come with me," the Almeida patriarch had motioned with his glass of scotch, pressing against a door just off the kitchen, designed to blend seamlessly into the paneled wall. It was one of the many historic features built into the house in Prohibition days by the original owner, a Hollywood studio mogul, legendary not only for his high-glam parties, but the extraordinary lengths he'd been known go to insulate silver screen guests from the cumbersome police raids of the era.

Tony had dutifully fallen into single file behind the P.I., remembering the long, narrow hallway as being so much bigger when he use to race up and down on his Hot Wheels bike while his Dad cut deals over the phone.

He'd quietly sat and sipped on his scotch, watching his Dad ceremoniously scribble a check for Mr. Kobayashi, reiterating his apologies for the earlier mishap before transferring him into the custody of Rosa. His father had then silently proceeded to dig through the small safe neatly camouflaged into the paneling — yet another feature that had ultimately compelled him to purchase the estate before he had even completed the tour.

"Whatcha got there, Dad?" Tony had frowned in curiosity, watching him rummaging through the safe.

"A little something your grandfather had asked me to give you…"

"Uhh… aren't ya about twenty years late on that?" Tony had dryly joked as his Dad handed over a small, bunched-up cloth, like the type Rosa polished the silver with. Fumbling through the folds, his eyes had widened in disbelief at the object he'd pulled from the chamois's core.

"It's the ring your grandmother Nalda wore. Pop told me to hold onto it for you, until I thought the time was right," his Dad had gone on to explain, watching him hold it up to the sunlight filtering in through the window slats, turning it side to side to study the circular diamond's detailed bevels and brilliance. "I was told to use my good judgment," he'd added, pausing for a moment of fond reflection. "So, uh… how's my judgment?"

"Good, Dad," he'd smiled. "How's mine?" he'd asked in return and in all dead-seriousness.

"Couldn't be better, from what I can see," his Dad had responded in wholehearted approval of the China Doll. "So, uh… if my judgment's so good, what's up with the forlorn look, there, chief?" he'd proceeded to diplomatically delve, perching himself of the edge of his desk and lighting up one of his prized Davidoff's.

"No, I, umm… That's not what I meant. I wanna marry her, for sure, Dad. There's no question about that... But, umm..."

"But?" his Dad had nudged him onward, though already seeming to know the question that weighed on his mind at the moment.

"Well, we've known each other for awhile. Almost a year, now… y'know, working together, and all. But, umm…"

Another quiet moment injected itself, his Dad occupying the time by splashing fresh scotch into their glasses.

"But...?" he'd gently nudged him again, after a slow sip and a deep inhale of the fragrant cigar.

"It's just that… I mean, do ya think I'm, y'know… moving a little fast, maybe?" he'd sheepishly asked, painfully aware of how crazy he sounded, with he and Michelle still in the throes of their very first date.

His Dad had grinned, taking a reflective moment to sip and roll another mouthful of his favorite spirits.

"Are ya sure you're asking the right person, chief?" he'd asked in his signature smooth, steady tone. "I mean, you're talking to the guy who was fully prepared to propose to your mother about an hour into meeting her. I only waited two weeks 'cause that's how long it took me to hock everything I owned for a ring.

"You're kidding," he'd replied in surprise, studying his Dad's eyes to see if he might be joshing, or possibly embellishing or exaggerating the facts.

He wasn't.

"What's got me concerned, I guess, is the thought of, y'know... maybe scaring her off," he'd ventured on. "Like, maybe it's too soon to be asking her something like that…"

"People in love don't scare so easily," his Dad had sagely guaranteed, leaning in to lay a comforting pat against the side of his cheek. "Listen to your heart, chief. The Almeida heart has yet to steer one of us wrong," he'd added with a nod toward Nalda's ring, reminding him of another Almeida who'd been blessed with lifelong love. It was then that Tony could've sworn he had heard Pop's voice chiming in from over his shoulder, as he'd often felt at critical junctures throughout his life. It was as though the man had somehow managed to celestially insinuate himself into the conversation, hollering "Whaddaya crazy, Balonie? Ya got nothing to fear. She's your Nalda!"

Tony grinned, feeling a lot more relaxed and confident now. Those were the words he had needed to hear, from those two men, at just that moment.

"What are you thinking?" Michelle's soft voice interrupted his thoughts. But in lieu of a verbal response, their eyes locked and communicated for a few serious seconds, quietly sealing an unspoken pact to always be there for each other to peer into whenever solace or safe haven was needed.

"Do you know how much I love you?" he asked, not feeling the need to check so much as just wanting her to hear him say those words, in that particular way.

"Uh-huh," she assured him with a light flutter to her stomach, his out-of-the-blue question mildly startling her, but it was the good kind of startle; the one that delivered a wild wave of exhilaration, calling her every hair follicle to attention. "And you know, too... right?"

"Know what," he innocently inquired, wanting to taunt her into saying all three words for him again.

"How much I love you, too," she sweetly smiled.

"How much," he quizzed her, one corner of his mouth subtly arching into a small, sensual grin.

"A lot," she coyly replied, sensing another one of his on-the-spot quizzes coming on, which she found herself beginning to enjoy immensely, particularly given how much of himself he'd always unintentionally reveal, just from the nature of the questions he'd asked.

"Enough to, say... look after me if I got, like... deathly ill, let's say?" he tested her with that sickness-and-health-till-death-do-you thing in mind.

"Uh-huh," she responded, without a shred of hesitation or reservation.

"Even if I were to contract, let's say... the bubonic plague?" he threw one in from left field, seeing how quickly or easily she could be knocked off her guard.

"Yes," she smiled up at him as he subtly shifted his half-on-her, half-off-her position a little more toward the mostly-on-her side.

"With or without a surgical mask?" he slyly upped the ante, curious to see how well she fared in the face of the big guns.

"On whom," she easily countered.

"Either of us," he patiently clarified.

"Did you know there were two deaths from the bubonic plague in New Mexico last year?" she intellectually digressed.

"Just… just answer the question," he growled.

"No masks," she agreed with an impish grin, but not before taking a moment to think about it.

He nonetheless placed a soft kiss on her lips as her reward for yet another pop quiz well done.

"I'm gonna call Chappelle," he decided. "Have him assign replacements for us tomorrow. I was thinking we could maybe take a drive up to..."

"No, honey," Michelle interrupted, gently reminding him of the meeting he had scheduled weeks ago with Division, to review CTU's proposal for security upgrades at LAX. With Mason now gone, and Tony only a scant few weeks into his directorship, it was imperative that he attend the meeting if for no other reason than to demonstrate the recovery CTU was seeing, and the smooth working order he had restored. "Tomorrow..." she added with trepidation after giving the scene a moment's thought. "Geez, that's gonna be... interesting," she groaned.

"Everything's gonna be fine," he gently assured her, reading her mind and quelling her fears with his soothing voice.

"I feel like this is just one big dream. Like tomorrow it's just gonna —"

"It's not, baby."

"...it's just gonna blow apart and be gone."

"But it's not. You're just feeling, y'know... anxious, is all. Like one of us is gonna wake up in the morning not feeling the same way."

"I'm not gonna be the one," she assured him, though with worry lines still deeply creasing her brow.

"Me, neither," he quietly promised, sealing his words with a subtle kiss against her ring finger, as if prepping it, and her, for something soon to come.

"We should have a game plan for tomorrow, you know… for when you slip up and call me 'honey,' or something, and give us both away," Work-Michelle emerged and pragmatically suggested.

"I'm not the one we have to worry about," he confidently asserted, apparently having entirely forgotten about his slip-up with Olivia at the Thai restaurant. "If anyone's gonna give us away, it's gonna be you, gazing at me, all love struck, and everything… People putting two and two together and —"

"No, seriously, honey," she replied, concerned about his lighthearted attitude, unaware that he wasn't taking the subject the least bit lightly at all. He knew only too well, from past interoffice-romance experiences, the discomforting sensation of all eyes upon you; of catching colleagues you've worked with for years, suddenly staring from across the floor, mentally envisioning you butt-naked in bed and going at it. He had found that out the hard way with Nina and didn't want Michelle to have to endure it. She was too good, and sweet, and undeserving of that. She had baby cheeks, for cryssake.

"We'll talk about it later… at home, okay?" he said to appease her. "We should be home," he heard himself add aloud, feeling his internal seethe-meter on the rise from the thought of how easily his Mom had managed to snag him into agreeing to stay for lunch.

"Rosa, darling, don't let Mr. Almeida talk you into one of those hideous steaks of his. Remember what the doctor said," the witchy woman had sung out to the family's housekeeper in precise synchronization with his, Michelle's, and the fur ball's arrival through the kitchen door.

"Si, Miss Amanda," the woman had replied, her words drowned out by Jim's grumblings that Max didn't know what the hell he was talking about; that there wasn't a thing wrong with him; that humans were carnivores, in physical need of red meat; and that those "hideous steaks of his" were the finest and healthiest grade-A beef the world had to offer, as opposed to the American variety, upon which Max had obviously based his warning.

"That's right, Ma. I read a whole article about the health benefits of Kobe beef in one of those men's magazines," Tony had promptly backed his Dad, taking the bait like an unsuspecting amphibian on a crash course with the witchy woman's hook, line and sinker. "It's supposed to be great for ya. Not at all like the steaks ya get over here."

"This true!" the all-but-forgotten Mr. Kobayashi had verified from the kitchen corner he'd parked himself in, bowing gratefully as Jim Almeida had handed him a glass of scotch. "My family... All from Hyogo. Ojisan... grandfather. He work on wagyu ranch. Raise Tajima-ushi. No better beef in world," the man had proudly bragged in defense of his homeland's cherished commodity, prohibitively priced at over $100 a pound on the international market; not counting the additional cost to restaurateurs and aficionados, like Jim, who sent their private planes to Japan for regularly scheduled pick-ups. "Ojisan eat it every day. He ninety-six!" Mr. Kobayashi had sealed the deal, raising his glass in support of Jim Almeida, and his affinity for the finer things in life.

"There, then, sweetheart. You have it on good authority," his Dad had rested his case.

"Straight from the mouth of an authentic Hyogo native, Ma. What more could you want," Tony had brilliantly chimed in as his Mom handed Michelle a champagne flute from Rosa's tray of girlie-looking pink drinks.

"Well... I suppose one more steak won't kill the man," Amanda replied with feigned reluctance, giving her housekeeper the okay-nod and absolutely insisting that Mr. Kobayashi join them for lunch. "Oh, and Rosa, don't forget Peter and Sarina." As if a genteel, 50-something, churchgoing woman like Rosa could possibly forget the "How the fuck are ya?" acquaintance she'd made with Sarina when the couple had roused her in the dead in night, looking for the keys to the guest house.

"Oh, and, umm… darlings?" Amanda had turned and coyly addressed the couple, proudly luxuriating in the frozen state of her son's face, who'd rather die than pass up a Kobe steak, and the unspoken kudos her future daughter-in-law was silently projecting through her small, whimsical smile.

But the Kobe steaks, as his luck would have it, had only constituted Phase-1 of his mother's nefarious scheme. He cursed himself, now, for not even seeing the rest of it coming from a mile away. Empowered by her success at having wangled him into staying for lunch, Amanda Almeida — fully determined to see Peter and Sarina blissfully wed before her grandtwins entry into the world — had gone on to stealthily contact the Reverend of their church, explaining the situation and begging him to perform the honors sometime around 3:00-ish, therein allotting herself more than ample time to pull a spectacular biker-themed wedding together.

From there, the evil one had casually suggested that he show Michelle the guest house while Rosa prepared lunch; that perhaps he could even help Peter assemble the two cribs, which had just arrived from that delightful new trendy Ba Ba Bébé baby store, despite its being closed on Sundays.

Once safely outside the earshot of her volatile son, Amanda had then gone on to hastily place two key, critical calls: one to Peter, informing him of his 3:00 marriage, with the suggestion that he call whatever bar his friends had laid siege to upon entering town and extend invitations to one and all, along with Amanda's personal apologies for such short notice; the second call to her ever-reliable event planner, François, officially putting him and his elite team on a Code Red footing.

"A biker theme, darling… No, motorcycle bikes… No, not the Italian moped variety, although they are quite charming, aren't they?" she cooed, moving on to explain her vision.

With François frantically en route and finally a moment to herself, Amanda had then checked her dainty new day-to-eveningwear watch — Tiffany was eternally practical-minded, which is why she utterly adored them — and sat back with her champagne flute, luxuriating in the warmth of the sun against her face while awaiting her son's invariable, forthcoming, impending explosion.

"Ma!" his thunderous voice had bellowed, right on schedule and in visual synch with the cottage door nearly yanking off its hinges.

"Yes, darling?" Amanda had innocently sung out, rising from her down-filled garden lounger, superbly crafted of Scandinavian maple and covered in a perfectly charming chintz.

"What's this business about a wedding!" he hollered across the length of the estate, en route to the terrace at record speed, with Michelle dragging in hand behind him.

"Bedding? Why, it should be included with the cribs, darling. Did you check the —"

"You heard me, Ma!" her son fumed, sprinting up the steps of the terrace, like Rocky Balboa on steroids and speed.

The final phase of her operation had been successfully implemented, or so it appeared: As Peter's dearest lifelong friend, his Best Man services had apparently been formally requested, judging from the man's level of rage.

In compliance with Michelle's gentle suggestion that he try to calm himself down a bit, Tony had dutifully taken a moment, and few deep breaths, before returning his attention to his mother, asking if his Dad was aware that a wedding had been scheduled for that very afternoon.

"Yes, of course your father knows, darling," Amanda hesitantly assured him. "I'm… I'm almost certain I mentioned it…"

"Almost?" Tony had loudly inquired, his clenched jaw flexing with borderline rage. "This couldn't have waited until tomorrow, Ma?"

"Well, darling, I mean... the question is whether the babies will wait until then… Hmm? We don't know that, now, do we, which is the whole point, you see."

"Wh... Well, why couldn't ya have just gotten a Justice over here, Ma? The whole thing would've taken five minutes!"

"Why, that's precisely what I did do, darling. The Reverend said three o'clock was the earliest he'd be able make it, and the rest, well… the rest just sort of... came together... by itself, somehow," she said with a soft sniffle.

Watching his head cock hard to the side, Michelle braced herself for yet another Almeida screamfest, greatly relieved that at least she wasn't the focus of the controversy this time.

But instead of his launching into a tirade, Michelle had been shocked to see his eyes suddenly taking on a kind and tender quality.

"Okay, Mom, c'mere... C'mere," he said, further stunning Michelle by reaching out and drawing his mother in for a soothing embrace.

"But it's for Peter," Amanda sniffled, with real tears misting up in her eyes.

"I'm sorry. You're right. I wasn't thinking, Mom. I'm sorry," he consoled her, glancing toward Michelle with a light roll of his eyes. He would later explain the gargantuan-sized soft spot his Mom had always held in her heart for Petey, whose own mother had abandoned the family for a life of glitz on the Vegas strip, only to end up dealing cards in a polyester uniform for the past thirty years. But a boy growing up without a mother was simply unacceptable to Amanda Almeida, who'd immediately maternally adopted Pete and always treated him like one of her own. And despite his having gone on to choose a less orthodox lifestyle than her flesh-and-blood son had pursued, Amanda was nevertheless just as proud of Pete — a thousand times more so today, in fact, for his instant willingness to break with gangland tradition and marry the mother of her soon-to-be grandtwins.

At the sound of the woman's first sniffle, Jim Almeida had arrived on the scene, eyeing his son as though he had just confessed to wrecking the family car.

"She's okay, Dad," Tony assured him, feeling like a heel as he handed his mother over to her protectorate.

"Peter's own mother won't even be here," Amanda tearfully exclaimed into her husband's sturdy shoulder.

"Be here for what, sweetheart?" Jim Almeida had gently asked, with arms encasing his wife and eyes glued solidly to his son, telepathically demanding to know "What the hell is your mother talking about?"

"Don't tell me you forgot Pete's wedding was this afternoon, Dad," Tony had cooperatively mentioned, stealthily flashing three fingers to signal the festivities' official kick-off time.

"She wouldn't even take my call," Amanda continued emoting in pain.

"She doesn't deserve to attend," Jim had firmly declared, adding how out of place the woman would've been, anyway, at one of Amanda's elegant events. "Did you remember to order a boutonnière for my tux?" he'd then inquired, slowly turning his wife in the direction of the house.

"You're wearing your tuxedo?" Amanda had halted, staring up at him in surprise.

"Of course I am," Jim had gently replied, only having resigned himself a second earlier to going full tilt for his wife's sake. "We all are," he'd added, shooting an arched eyebrow over his shoulder, in his son's direction. "What did you expect. This is Pete's big day."

Amanda's tears had dried on the spot, her spirits visibly lifting at the thought of the new challenge before her: transforming her concept from semi-formal Hell's Angelswear for the bridal party to full-blown black-tie in little under two hours, which meant promptly getting François started on a tuxedo for Peter and something white and big enough to pass as a gown for Sarina.

"Completely, completely undoable!" a semi-hysterical François could now be heard screeching upon his arrival at the guest cottage. "Even if I were to break into a Fat Man's shop and attempt to sew two off-the-racks together, darling, there still wouldn't be enough time to fit a man of his girth by three."

"Oh, but you're a genius, darling," a wholly reinvigorated Amanda reminded her absolute favorite, world-renowned planner, to whom she'd been paying decadent fees for decades to whip together, at the drop of a hat, the most celebrated, talked-about soirees in town. "You'll think of something, darling. I'm certain of it. You always come through."

Her words had scarcely left her lips before François was halfway out the door, already hysterically screeching into his bluetooth headset at Geoffrey, the right-arm of his life, who was just then pulling up through the gates of the estate in François's renovated tractor trailer — a veritable design house and sewing shop on 18 wheels, stocked to the gills with enough fabrics, trims, boas, baubles, and illegal immigrant seamstresses to rival any costume department in Hollywood.

"Who's that dude calling a 'fat man'?" Peter frowned, just now coming to realize that François had insulted him.

"No physical altercations today, darling. Really. It's your wedding day, for pity's sake," Amanda gently implored.

"You're gettin' married?" Sarina squealed out from her armchair across the room, where Michelle had taken it upon herself to explore a bridal hairdo she'd seen a few Vogues ago. "T'who?" she immediately demanded to know.

"T'you," Petey bellowed back at his beloved. "I forgot to tell ya…"

"When?" Sarina inquired, in the state of shock.

"When? How the hell do I know? Whenever I forgot is when I forgot, okay? Geeziz!" Petey roared, staring down and shaking his head at his Best Man, who'd since stepped in to take over the maddening crib assembly job. "How come your old lady don't ask stupid questions like that?" he begged to know.

"I think she meant 'when' is the ceremony taking place, Pete," Tony clarified the obvious, doing his best to hold back a sigh of disbelief.

"The pastor was kind enough to agree to come by at three," Amanda chirped in Sarina's direction. "You don't want those little ones being born out of wedlock, now, do you, darling?"

" I… I ain't really thought about it," Sarina replied in all honesty, not quite sure what "wedlock" meant, but assuming it had something to do with a wedding.

"Hey, if the Duchess says we're gettin' married, we're gettin' married, ca-peach?" Pete declared in full voice, practicing for his upcoming role as head of the household, versus his former role as head of the Hell's Angels East L.A. chapter. "No need to think about nothin'," he added for good measure.

"That's right, darling. François will take care of all the particulars," Amanda assured the bride-and-mother-to-be. "All you need do is walk down the aisle looking just as radiant as you do now."

Sarina wasn't sure what "radiant" meant either, but it was probably something good considering it was coming from Mrs. Almeida, who seemed like a cool enough broad. This house they were shacking up in, with a wide-screen TV, was kick-ass; plus, everything was free, including the chow. And there were worse things in the world than getting hitched to the Animal, Sarina supposed. She could've wound up with the MonkeyMan, who couldn't knock over a liquor store without getting busted to save his life.

As Amanda Almeida flittered out the door to handpick flowers from the garden, with which she planned to create a perfectly marvelous bridal bouquet, Michelle glanced across the room at the Best Man, now absorbed in the silent reconstruction of the mangled cribs Petey had begun.

Deciding it was probably best to let him simmer undisturbed for a while, Michelle helped Sarina over to the daybed against the window for a quick power-snooze before the festivities began, then quietly slipped out the door to see if she could assist with the preparations in any way.

Combing the grounds in search of her future mother-in-law, Michelle eventually found her standing upright in the garden, squinting into the distance at the tiny figure of her hysterical designer approaching at high speed.

"I've got it!" he cried out in his loudest voice, the distance hopelessly drowning his words.

"What, darling?" Amanda called back to him, turning to Michelle with a quizzical frown.

"Wardrobe crisis averted, Amanda!" he hollered back in a hoarse voice, waving something red-looking over his head, either frantically or gleefully; he was simply too far away to tell.

"What have you got there, darling?" Amanda cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted, even though knowing it was useless at such a great distance. But it was too early for a martini, and it gave her something to do with her hands.

"Rome, darling! We'll spray the ivy gold!" François's voice hung in the air about a mile out, or at least so it sounded.

"'We'll say that Ivan's old?'" Amanda turned and repeated the words to Michelle in utter confusion. "What on earth…? I don't even know an 'Ivan.'"

"Bride in white… Groom in red… No need to create a tuxedo, darling!" François screeched as he made his final approach, heaving for oxygen and panting like "Survivor" at the finish line of the Preakness Stakes. "Geoffrrrreeeeeeey!" he turned and bellowed hysterically into the wind, his voice suddenly taking on the quality of a wounded mule.

Stooping over at a 90º angle while laboring hard to catch his breath, he continued wildly waving the clumped red fabric in his hand. "Rome, Amanda," he begged the woman to come up to speed with the concept, which would therein free him up to commit his full and undivided attention to the business of breathing. "Ivy… from the garden, darling… Sprayed gold… Think Caesar, darling!"

"Oh! ... Oh!" Amanda excitedly gasped, snatching the fabric from François's clammy fist. "Why, of course!"

"Rehh… rehh… red satin for the groom," he heaved, giving Michelle pause to wonder if the man was going to make it.

"Why, how perfectly ingenious, darling! A regal Roman Empire soiree! Elegant and wordly, yet clearly something Peter and his friends are bound to enjoy! Gang members absolutely adore toga-related events!"

"Pihh… pihh… pins, too, darling. No sewing," François huffed and weazed. "Geoffrrreeeeeey!"

One hour and forty-two minutes later, Michelle stood on François's hastily constructed, though remarkably stunning flower- and golden-ivy adorned makeshift altar, shaded from the sun by endless yards of soft white draping that extended the length of the seating area. It was all she could to keep her eyes within their sockets. She had quite literally never seen anything like it before. Hell's Angels meets Rodeo Drive: glamour to the hilt, yet executed in a way that complimented and honored the bikers' chosen way of life, as well as their sacred dress code, with appointments that capitalized on their signature leather-and-chrome and dark-side icons rather than ignoring, or seeking to conceal, them.

But equally as amazing to Michelle was her future mother-in-law's insightfulness, in general. There didn't seem to be a group, or culture of people — from Washington's foremost elite to East L.A.'s most wanted — that she didn't seem to have an intuitive understanding of. She knew, for instance, that she was never going to get the biker Mamas into anything even remotely resembling a dress, so she'd come up with the concept of enticing them into gussying themselves up for the event with calf-length trains of sheer, phoofie black netting, with a black metal-mesh ribbon at the top with which to tie the train to the back loop of their filthy jeans; accented by things like coordinating black lace fingerless gloves, and red satin bands, trimmed with silver chains and miniature skull-and-crossbones charms, for wearing around one's upper arm, or head — just to "bring a little something" to the standard skin-tight t-shirt-jeans-and-boots ensemble, which Amanda Almeida really didn't feel was proper attire for a matrimonial ceremony.

Geoffrey had stood in the center of the guest house, rigid and frightened, though thoroughly prepared to foist the festive garb upon each Mama as they bounded through the door, but Amanda had instructed him, instead, to simply lay them out in plain sight, somehow knowing that The Mamas would find them just outrageous and campy enough to wear them, which each had indeed gone on to do — with the singular exception of WitchBitch, a direct descendent of the Hell's Angels' original founding father and, therefore, a purist who felt that accessorizing, in any form, was a fundamental violation of the dress code.

What's more, just as it appeared that a knife fight might soon break out over whom deserved to be the Mama of Honor, Amanda Almeida had stepped in and sagely suggested that Michelle assume the role, since Tony, after all, would be serving as Peter's Best Man. Sarina had needed no persuading, feeling that Michelle, in fact, had more than earned the position, not only for her earlier shows of kindness back at the apartment, but for the great job she'd just done on her hair, creating all those big, gaping, beer-can-sized curls at the top of her head, with pieces of ivy tucked among them, here and there, which Geoffrey had stood at her side spray-painting and blowing dry, like a crazy person playing Beat the Clock.

Michelle was also genuinely impressed by Amanda's ability to anticipate every conceivable pitfall and cover all bases, going so far as to charter a full-sized luxury Provost bus, packed with splits of champagne, cold bottled beer, and a six-foot hero, to transport Petey's rowdy comrades safely to and fro. It not only allowed the bikers to safely engage in their favorite pastime — getting drunk — but would invariably spare Bel Air's finest of inevitably having to engage in hair-raising high-speed chases and DUI arrests at the end of the day; not to mention sparing herself the trouble and expense of repairing such things as Harley Davidson tire tracks deeply gouged into the lawns of horrified neighbors.

Now pretending to smooth out a fold in her exquisitely gold-trimmed Romanesque dress — circa "Cleopatra," starring Elizabeth Taylor, only with a lot less chest — Michelle stole a covert, peripheral glance at the Best Man to her immediate left. She'd seen him stew with impatience before, but this had to be some kind of a record.

"Not one word," the Best Man growled, in no mood for conversation with his heavily starched tuxedo collar itching to the point of pain, and the pin from his hastily self-affixed boutonnière perched to stab him in the chest for the umpteenth time.

His conscience was stabbing away at him, too, only all too acutely aware of his federal obligation to arrest about half the audience members for outstanding bench warrants against them, but violating his oath for the sake of his blood brother, who stood on his opposite side, appearing to be enjoying the hell out of his regal red-satin Emperor's cloak, draping resplendently over his signature sleeveless Hell's Angels tee, torn-up jeans, and spit-shined biker boots, a gift from his Best Man, the former Marine.

But the feature The Groom was clearly enjoying more than anything was the stately, spray-painted ivy head wreath that François had crowned him with, the Best Man knew. It was reminiscent of the one his Mom had bestowed upon Petey one Halloween when they were eight or nine. He remembered Pete saying that it made him feel special, going on to wear the thing for months thereafter, until it had basically disintegrated on his head. Leave it to his Mom to remember a little detail like that from what now seemed like a lifetime ago.

"I…"

"That was a word, Michelle," the Best Man quietly stated, staring straight ahead at the waddling bride making her way up the aisle on the arm of his Dad, her free hand occasionally pumping a victory fist with her bridal bouquet at various hooting-and-howling members of the audience. As much as hated to admit it, he had to hand it to that François guy: Sarina actually looked pretty, all things considered, in the white satin Roman-style frock that draped over her enormous form. It definitely looked like someone had toiled for months making the thing, between the gold trim and sparkly stuff scattered all around the fabric. From where he was standing, it looked like the woman might even have shaved her legs for the occasion, although he couldn't swear to it; nor was he willing to think about it a second longer.

"We'll be in the car in just a few more minutes, dear," Michelle bravely whispered beneath the soft, silky strings of the quartet's Pachelbel Canon in D major.

Fourteen minutes, to be precise, the Best Man corrected her in his mind; fourteen minutes and counting. That's how long the ceremony, paperwork, and obligatory Best Man's toast would take, as close as Adam had been earlier ordered to calculate. Fourteen minutes, after which time Tony intended to take his woman, along with her gay fur ball already packed in the carrier on the floor beside him, directly to the car and directly home, with the best of luck to anybody nuts enough to get in his way.

Not that anyone should get him wrong; It wasn't like he didn't want to stand up for Pete, or that he'd ever intentionally miss the guy's wedding. He loved Pete. If he had the choice between Albert Einstein and Petey for a brother, he'd pick Pete any day of the week.

And it's not that he even blamed his Mom for wanting the babies to be born with their father's surname, or for her determination in making Petey's wedding day special and memorable for him; nor did her clandestine wedding arrangements really bother him, either, in retrospect. Event planning was in her blood. It was her art: her oxygen. The woman could no sooner hold a lackluster, five-minute, over-and-done-with ceremony than cut up her credit card collection.

No, none of that stuff really bothered him. It was just that the day was supposed to have been all about him and Michelle. It was the last day of their Friday night date, and time was torturously ticking away.

As he watched his Dad's eyes covertly survey the surroundings, flickering with amusement at his wife's innovative handiwork, he felt his own eyes suddenly sealing shut in precise synchronization with the sound of a deep sniffle emanating from his immediate right. Trying not to sigh too audibly, he tugged Michelle into his side and dug through his pocket for the handful of aloe-treated tissues he'd earlier stopped off at the car to grab, knowing in his gut that she was a wedding-crier, just as he had accurately pinned her out as a movie-talker.

As Michelle mouthed the words "Thank you, dear" before breaking down in a barrage of tears, he instantaneously felt his steely, austere exterior beginning to crack, which bothered him enormously, since steely-and-austere was the recommended look for federal agents when staring down a roomful of outlaw bikers.

Seated in the front row, alongside Olivia and Gerald, Amanda Almeida immediately began harmoniously sniffling into one of her signature ruffled lace handkerchiefs: her first layer of tears attributable to the joyous vision of her surrogate son, Peter, beaming like Roman royalty before a sea of beer-imbibing subjects; the secondary flood of tears fast accumulating and directly owed to the sight of her dashingly handsome firstborn, immaculately clad to the nines in black tie, doling out tissues and tenderly comforting his own bride-to-be-soon-enough-if-Amanda-Almeida-was-any-judge-of-soulmates-in-love.