Page 70 of Broken SEAL'S Secret Baby
“How soon can we get married?” Charles asks. “I want to make absolutely certain there is no question about the security of you or your little bean. You are mine, and I want to make it official as quickly as I possibly can.”
“Maybe there’s a chaplain here somewhere?” I suggest.
“Sure to be,” Charles says. “We can get married tonight.”
Of course, it didn’t happen quite that fast. First, we had to wait for the chaplain to be on duty in the morning. Then we had to get a license. Even with James running back and forth with papers to sign, closed offices and bureaucracy delayed everything until after Charles was released from the hospital. Then, someone – and I suspect the matronly nurse who ruled her ward with an iron hand – put a medical hold on our wedding! I had no idea that was even a thing, but she somehow managed to do it.
On Valentine’s day, when Charles is finally cleared for moderate exercise and mostly normal activity, we are wed in the living room of our new bio-ark. The chaplain is overjoyed to officiate at a wedding, and he does not allow officialroadblocks to keep him from the pleasure of officiating. He got a special dispensation and helicopter transportation. He is accompanied by the stern head nurse, properly masked, and gloved, but her eyes shining with happiness for us. Grace and Gregory are witnesses. James and Cece represent our families. But cameras are ranged around the walls and a huge monitor screen is hung on one wall. Big as it is, the screen is crowded with tiny squares of the many people who are attending via Internet – Mom, Dad, Manuela, and her family, all the Weber clan, as well as employees, partners, and business associates from around the world. All the living members of the unit that had served under Charles are also there—perhaps explaining the odd hold on the wedding, because it had taken a while to track them all down.
Cece and Grace are my only attendants. But of all the people in the world, except perhaps my mother, they are the very ones I wanted.
Grace carefully adjusts the faux fur on the neckline of my white, wool gown. The scoop neckline is my concession to fashion. It is far too cold to wear silk or cotton. Even my veil is a soft, woolen scarf that I am tempted to wrap around my neck. The sun is shining outside, but the weather is crisply cold. The ark is reasonably warm, but it is new and the earthworks had not fully absorbed heat from the big fireplace.
When Grace is satisfied with the way my dress drapes, Cece walks out of the bedroom where we are putting final touches on my appearance and scatters rose petals on the living room earth-friendly carpet. I know that Charles has been seated while waiting for me, but by the time we step out, he is standing, leaning on a cane, by the podium that serves as an improvised altar. My face is wet with tears, even though I am smiling so wide that both my cheeks hurt.
Our ceremony is simple. The chaplain keeps his addressto us brief, ending with, “I know that both of you will always do your best, and that your best is very fine indeed.” Then we say those beautiful words, “. . . to love, and to honor, till death do you part.” With his “I do”, Charles slips the wedding band onto my finger, where the beautiful engagement ring with all our birthstones and a decorated space for the newborn baby already is in place. “Love you forever,” he says and doesn’t wait for the chaplain’s permission to engulf my mouth in a passionate kiss.
“Ladies, and Gentlemen, and all others,” he intones, “let me introduce Mr. and Mrs. Charles Emory. May they live long and happily, and never know the end of true love.”
Thunderous applause bursts from the speakers around the room. We toast each other, and around the world, family, friends, co-workers, employees, partners and business associates raise glasses of a special wine vintage that had been shipped out from Emory Wineries the week Charles left the hospital. The cake is wheeled out. We cut it and dutifully fed each other bites, while the video guests unpack cupcakes and join us in celebration. We serve slices to the few people who are physically present and accept best wishes from the many other attendees.
After about twenty minutes of this, Charles whispers in my ear, “I’m beginning to tremble. I don’t hurt, but I do need to sit down.”
I knew that the fever had taken a lot out of him. I signal the nurse who gladly triggers the sound cue for the recessional, and we pace the short distance across the room into our bedroom. Charles locks the door behind us. Cece is remanded to Grace’s care for the night, and neither of us want to take a chance on my brother deciding to burst in.
The bed is magnificent. It isn’t a waterbed – that would have presented both heating and logistical problems with Charles’ hip. But it is a gorgeous four-poster, complete withcanopy and drapes. There are two steps up to make getting onto the best inner spring mattress money could buy, topped with the best memory foam comfort, easier. The sheets are soft cotton flannel – perfect for the season, and the comforter is snowy wool from a local farm and stuffed with the best goose down – also from a local supplier. The pillows are a combination of foam, fiberfill and goose down. “We are surrounded by the love and craftsmanship of our people,” Charles says reverently. “It almost seems profane to climb into such a work of art.”
“That’s what they made it for,” I say, steering him toward this magnificent work of art. “We would be showing an extreme lack of appreciation not to use it.” I help him up the steps and steady him as he carefully lays down.
“Oh, this is heaven,” he says. “All I need now is my special angel to make it complete.”
“You might be a little overdressed,” I say, beginning to unlace his shoes. First one shoe, then the other. I pause to admire his long, athletic feet. Someone had done an expert pedicure, cutting the nails correctly and attending the callouses. I begin to gently massage them, and he groans.
“Kate, are you trying to torture me?”
“No,” I say softly, “I’m trying to make it last. Wedding sex is special. We have a license for it.”
He begins to laugh. “That reminds me of a dream I had not long after I first met you. In the dream, you said to me, ‘I don’t know how to sign this. We can’t do this if the paperwork isn’t signed,’ or something like that.”
“How rude of me,” I say, taking the hint and beginning to work on his belt and trouser fastenings. He is ready for me, but I want to see all of him. He so often makes much of me, I want this to be about him. I take my time unbuttoning his shirt and easing him out of it and his jacket.
“Kate,” he protests as I make a show of hanging them up, “You’re killing me. If you keep this up, I’m either going to wilt or explode.”
“I want to see you,” I say. “All, every bit of you.”
“I’m pretty much like any other guy,” he protests. “And I’m getting cold.”
But he isn’t like any other guy. He is Charles. He is long, lean, and yet muscular. There is still some scarring from the surgery, but that doesn’t detract from his gorgeous masculinity. If anything, it’s enhanced, like scars on the warrior he was. His hands and feet are long and slender, like Michelangelo’s David. But there is one marked difference. The statue is, um, a little short. Whereas Charles’ equipment is long and slim, like his fingers. Yep, that’s right…a definite correlation there. And there is another difference. David looks dreamy and distant. Charles is looking at me hungrily, and his equipment is eagerly erect as I slowly unbutton my wedding gown and slip out of it to reveal the sexiest underwear I was able to find.
“Oh, Kate,” Charles says huskily. “You are absolutely gorgeous!”
“Are you sure?” I ask, suddenly a little shy. My pregnancy is just starting to show.
“Yes!” he insists. “Come here! I could look at you all day, but you are wearing three scraps of fabric. You and the baby are going to freeze to death!”
I giggle at that. “It is a little chilly in here,” I say.
“Let me warm you up.” Charles holds out his arms to me.
