Angela and I end up eating in our cabin. We're not feeling too social, and we might as well have some of the pasta before it goes bad. There's no microwave, so we just eat it cold, with our fingers, like little kids.

I know, not exactly what you picture when you think of a honeymoon, but Angela and I tend to do things differently from everyone else anyway. And I'm alone with her, really alone with her, after so long, and that's romantic enough.

The pasta gets a little messy, but that's OK. Well, I feel a little guilty for the poor chambermaid or whatever you call it on a boat. Actually, I feel guilty for a lot of reasons.

First and foremost is of course Sam. OK, I always thought she got married too young, and this proves it. Yeah, I got to like Hank. He wasn't a bad guy, I thought. And, yeah, who am I to judge, when I sort of cheated on Angela, with a woman I didn't even really like? Not that it would've made me a saint if I had fallen in love with Kathleen, but the whole thing would've made more sense. Not that it's any comfort to Sam of course that Hank loves this woman enough to leave his wife.

I was always so protective of Sam. From her first dance (with the luckily harmless Bobby) on out. She's my only daughter and, well, I am Italian. And I was less strict with her than Nick was with Marie, I can tell you. Angela and Mona saw to that.

And, OK, I wasn't exactly a virgin on my wedding night. Sam probably was on hers, if only because she got with Hank so quickly, and Matt was usually 2000 miles away from her. As for Jesse, he was a good kid, I liked him (until he cheated on Sam). I don't think he tried anything with her.

But, see, that's the thing. I had the old-fashioned idea that if I did my job right, Sam would be a virgin when she got married and they'd live happily, and faithfully, ever after. So who do I blame now? Joe and Fran for not raising Hank right?

I would never, ever cheat on Angela again. Not only because of the hell I created for everybody last time, but because now I really am committed to her. It's not just that we're married. Even when she left me in Iowa, I couldn't date again, and I did have opportunities. As long as she holds my heart, I can't think of another woman. (OK, I still check out cute girls, but I'm a guy, that's normal. I don't want to do anything with them.)

Anyway, I know Hank is to blame, but I can also understand him more than I'd like to. And yet, he hurt my little girl. She's still suffering, although she's doing the Micelli (and Milano) thing of doing her best to hide it. So what are you gonna do?

And meanwhile there's Angela. Sweet, loving, giving Angela. I remember Marie once gave me an ashtray she made in her high school Pottery class. I laughed at it because it was so twisted and un-ashtray-like. Plus, I didn't and don't smoke. (You think I want a voice like Philly Fingers?) I still kick myself about that laughter. No wonder she never told me later when she was taking art lessons!

Anyway, you don't laugh at a gift of love. I was too young and stupid to know that then. Not that there's anything laughable about this cruise (except how tiny this cabin is and, hell, my grandparents came over in steerage, so I can deal with it), but you don't say no to a gift of love either.

Even if it's too extravagant. I know that even cabins as tiny as this one are costly. And Angela rented us a castle! Who does that? The woman who spent $200 on a peasant blouse, that's who.

There's nothing I can do to match that, not monetarily anyway. It's been a very hard lesson for me, especially after being raised to be the provider, and having done my best to be that for Marie, to just let Angela be generous. She can afford this and I have to let her spoil me. It's not like she's not spoiling herself, too, and let's face it, Angela can also run to the extreme of denying herself, and not just monetarily.

I love to watch her eat. It's best if it's something I made for her of course, but I remember when Jonathan set us up on a blind date (and we thought it was Michael's doing) and we gorged ourselves. Yeah, she was gorgeous gorging. I mean, not that I want her to be a pig all the time, but it is fun to see her indulge herself. And not just with food of course.

We take turns washing our faces and hands at the little sink in the corner. Then we undress each other, with the excuse that the pasta got on our clothes. Not that we need excuses of course.

My mind isn't totally at ease, and she knows that. Hers probably isn't either. She's been helping me raise Sam almost since the day we met. Well, as soon as Sam got over her "She ain't my mother, you are" attitude. Angela worries about Sam, understands why I worry.

But here's the thing. Sam isn't going to be any happier if Angela and I don't enjoy our long awaited honeymoon. In fact, she'd probably feel worse if she thought we spent the whole time worrying about her. I mean, not that she needs to know details. But I'd like to think she still wants us to be happy, even if her own marriage didn't work out.

The bed is narrow, but that's OK. It makes me think of that motel Angela and I ended up in the night after we found out we were each other's first kiss. And it makes me think of sharing a narrow bed on the train to Washington. Those were frustrating nights, believe me. I could handle sleeping down the hall from her, because when the sexual tension got too strong, I could almost convince myself that she was miles away. Kind of hard to do when she's lying right next to me.

This is nice though, because I don't have to be "a mature adult," I don't have to be "a monk." I can be a loving husband.

I kiss and caress her as I've done hundreds of times by now, but this never gets old. She always responds as if she's never been kissed and caressed like this. I don't mean like a virgin, but like a woman who is still getting used to being fully loved.

I don't think she was before. I mean, yeah, she'd been with guys (not that many), but none of them really gave her what I give her. I'm not boasting. I'm not saying I'm the best she's ever had (although she says I definitely am). I'm saying that Michael cared too much about himself, and the rest didn't begin to understand her. And I don't just mean her body.

I've been with a lot of women who've satisfied me. Maybe that's boasting. I think I'm lucky. Or maybe I'm easily satisfied. But only one woman before Angela loved me thoroughly, the same woman who was the only one I thoroughly loved, although I did my best to please a lot of women, before and after Marie.

But with Angela? I used to feel guilty about it, how much I loved Angela, that it was as much as, maybe even more than Marie. Not that Marie wouldn't have wanted me to find someone again, she wasn't selfish. She wanted me and Sam to be happy after she left us. Not right away of course, but when the pain died down.

But I thought it would be like with Gina. You know, some nice old-fashioned Italian girl to fuss over me. Somebody I liked that I might grow to love. And, OK, somebody who wasn't a threat to Marie's memory. I would've respected Gina (or whoever) enough not to make comparisons. But I'd know that there would be no love that could match my first love.

And then I met Angela. I can't say it was love at first sight. But what grew to be love was there from the start. Angela wasn't my type, I thought, so I didn't even suspect it could happen. Yeah, I thought she was beautiful, but so's the Mona Lisa, and I never wanted to take it to bed. And even when I acknowledged my attraction to her, well, I thought that was just inevitable with two, how did Joanne Parker put it? "Two healthy, attractive, young people cohabitating outside of marriage."

And even when I started to admit I loved Angela, I kept putting qualifiers on it. Till finally I had to face it. I loved her. I was in love with her. And she was in love with me, which was even more incredible.

And I love her more than I loved Marie. And that's OK. Marie's not glaring down at us from Heaven. If she knows, she's happy for me. Why be selfish in Heaven? There's a line like that in Enchanted April, this movie that Angela made me watch. (It was actually pretty good, though don't tell Philly and Tiny I said that.) That's the movie that gave her this crazy, wonderful idea of renting a castle.

And that's why I'm now lying very close to Angela in a narrow bed, kissing her ear and massaging her between the legs, as the ship gently rocks us. (Obviously, this is not one of the times that Marie is looking down on us. She's very discreet.) I murmur I-love-yous and You're-beautifuls again and again. I don't have to be witty right now. This is enough. After all, Angela can barely form words, let alone simple declarative sentences, after awhile

Yeah, I've dated women who could barely do that anyway. I'm not proud of it, but I didn't know how fun smart girls could be. Not that those girls were all morons (Marie definitely wasn't), but I think Frankie was the first really intelligent woman I took to bed. It can be intimidating of course (and God knows I was a bit scared of Kathleen, although mostly for other reasons), but there's something about a woman who is confident enough in her intelligence to truly let go and be incoherent when necessary. And Angela approaching and reaching and coming back from an orgasm are definitely among those necessary times.

Sometimes Angela likes to snuggle close when I make her come like this, not that the bed is giving us much choice at the moment. I love the feel of her shivering with joy in my arms, as her head rests on my shoulder. Other times, she'll move her head back enough to look into my eyes. We've always communicated (and miscommunicated) a lot through our eyes. Even when her eyes are shut in pleasure, they're definitely still telling me something. And there is nothing like Angela looking me straight in the eye and telling me that she wants me inside her as soon as possible.

I can't think of a time I've ever said no to that. I mean, she wouldn't ask if I were miserable or asleep or in the middle of grading exams. But she knows when to ask of course. And now is a very good time to ask. So she pulls her head off my shoulder, looks me in the eye, and, well, if I weren't hard already, that would do it for me.

She's on the Pill, so we never have to stop and deal with protection, which is great. Yeah, OK, I should just be using the Rhythm Method. I'm not a very good Catholic I'll admit. But if I'd trusted to that all these years, well, Sam would have a lot of little brothers and sisters. And maybe a couple older ones by Tanya or the Benedetti twins.

Yeah, Angela and I have talked about having kids. Ever since we babysat little Clint. God, I can't believe that kid is eight now! Mona's promised to take pictures for us. I can't believe Norman actually has a lead role in a movie, but that's a whole other story.

Anyway, back then, taking care of Clint, that was the first time Angela and I thought about what it'd be like to have a baby together. But we weren't even dating. And we got older and, well, not to be sexist, but it's just how Nature is. Angela's time is running out. Pregnancy gets riskier for her every year. And I don't want to lose her!

"Tony," she says as she lays back and spreads her legs, "do you want to make a baby in Italy?"

"An-gel-a! Your timing!"

"I'm sorry. I ruined the moment, didn't I?"

"No, it's OK, but—Are you still on the Pill?"

"Yes, but I want to know if I should go off it."

"Not yet. And let's discuss this later, all right?"

"All right. Do you want to do now what might make a baby if I went off the Pill?"

"Well, yeah, but I'm having trouble getting my focus."

So then she looks me straight in the eye again and uses her warm toes to stroke my back. And before I know it I'm deep inside her and murmuring incoherently.