Chapter 15

The four days that followed were packed between the various activities that were part of Abigail's vacation package and those that came part and parcel with matrimonial preparations. With Laura's assistance, Mildred had found a dress that tickled her fancy as it mimicked in design the tuxes the men would be wearing yet would complement the attire of Laura's attendants. The bridal party's gifts were picked up, her gown tried on again then – finally – taken back to the hotel, dyed shoes were in her sister's hands, bouquets and boutonnieres were selected and scheduled for delivery and minister and chapel were confirmed.

The only real surprise came on the eve of their wedding, and it was a doozy.

In lieu of the traditional rehearsal dinner, Abigail had insisted on a family dinner out. Recommended by the concierge, she'd made reservations at Gargiulo's. Established in 1907, Gargiulo's was both a Coney Island staple and a rarity in that the restaurant served exquisite Italian fare upon white table cloths and had a strict dress code policy or jacket and tie for men and proper dinner attire for women – unheard of in the casual community of Coney Island.

As advertised, the food had been beyond criticism. Appetizers of pan-seared mozzarella with Portobello mushrooms and sundried tomatoes had preceded Arugala salads, which were then followed by Veal Marsala for Remington and Roasted Lamb Chops on Mesclun salad for Laura – all of it accompanied by a rich bodied, well-rounded Chianti. The veal had been tender, the lamb chops succulent and the pasta cooked to the perfect consistency. Small sips to accompany toasts coupled with a nifty bit of sleight of hand by Remington made it appear Laura was enjoying her wine with the rest of the party, when it fact, the chilled goblet of water was her drink du jour.

The notion of announcing their news had quickly been quashed after Remington had suggested as much. There was the practical reason for doing so, of course: All they had confirming the pregnancy at this point was a late cycle – or two – and a little plastic wand. Better to wait, Laura had rationalized, until she'd seen a doctor. Then there was her mother. Abigail would, of course, immediately assume their forthcoming wedding was because of the pregnancy and the inevitable comments that followed would put a damper over both wedding and the news they were having a child.

But there was one reason that trumped all others, as she shared with Remington the night following that pregnancy test…

"I want this to be just ours for now," she told him, standing to pace their bedroom. "Once we make the announcement we're going to be inundated with well-meaning advice, suggestions and, undoubtedly, constant questions. Have you chosen names yet? Are you going to find out the sex before it's born?" She flung out her arms. "Hell, are you going to breast or bottle feed!?" She deflated before his eyes. "I don't want that. I don't want to be… influenced by the opinions of others. These are our choices, our decisions, for our child."

If she had worried he'd be disappointed by her reticence to make an announcement, the exercise would have been fruitless, for if the way he'd come to gather her in his arms, resting his cheek against her head while rendered uncharacteristically speechless was an indication, he was inordinately pleased by what she'd said.

And in the days since, he'd found any number of reasons to brush a hand against hers, to tuck back a strand of stray hair, as if reminding her they had a secret that he considered splendid between them.

That very same man reached out now and squeezed her hand, indicating, with a pointed slant of his eyes across the table, her mother.

"I'm sorry, Mother, what did you say?" Abigail's mouth pinched with disapproval.

"I asked," she emphasized the words, "If you have already packed a bag for tonight." Laura's brows knitted together, wondering how long she'd been lost in thought. A glance at Remington, who lifted his brows in question told her he was a puzzled as she.

"A bag?" she asked. Abigail huffed in exasperation.

"You're going to need nightclothes and whatever you plan to wear tomorrow, not to mention your cosmetics, brush—"

"For what?" Laura interrupted to ask.

"Well, you'll be staying with Frances tonight, of course, and Donald will stay in the suite with Remington." Laura blinked a pair of times, then shook her head firmly.

"No." A single syllable declaration was said with what Remington recognized as absolute finality. Abigail and Frances were not as perceptive, and the more they persisted, the more Laura had dug in her heels.

"Oh, for Heaven's sake," Abigail finally huffed. "Do I really need to remind you it's bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding?" Inexplicably, the comment had brought to mind that wedding upon the trawler. So seeing her before the wedding was bad luck, huh? You have to wonder what those wives' tales would say about watching your groom trying to marry someone else only hours before you wed him. She couldn't help her short, soft laugh. If that hadn't caused bad luck to befall them...

"That certainly hasn't proven to be the case so far."

"Lau-ra," Remington leaned in next to her ear and muttered in a warning tone, while squeezing her hand firmly. Her head snapped up and she took in Mildred's rounded mouth and widened eyes, then Abigail's narrowed ones. Oh God, did I say that aloud?

"What does that mean, Laura?" Abigail's question confirmed that she had.

"Frances saw Donald before the wedding and they're still happily married after fifteen years." Never had she been so thankful that being a detective forced one to think quickly on their feet. She gave Frances an apologetic look. She'd thrown her sister under the bus – maybe not so unintentionally given Frances had been doggedly determined to have their surprise sleepover.

"Is that true, Frances?" Abigail immediately pounced on the revelation.

"The funny thing about superstitions," Remington stepped in to soothe ruffled feathers, "Is that they don't translate across all cultures. For example, the Irish believe that the sun coming to rest upon the bride means good fortune, whereas the Hindu believe it is rain that brings good tidings."

"Is that so?" Abigail asked, positively fascinated.

"Mmm. And the British believe should a bride find a spider in her dress, it bears well upon the marriage."

"A spider?" Frances shuddered. Remington grinned in answer.

"Yes, and I can't imagine a single bride who'd wish to find a spider hiding amongst all those layers of satin and lace, can you?" Frances shook her head with vigor. "So I'm sure you can understand why Laura and I don't put stock into superstition." He reached for Laura's hand, and lifted it to brush his lips across her knuckles. "We prefer to make our own luck, don't we?"

"Why didn't you just say so, dear?" Abigail wondered, earning a tight smile from Laura.

In the end, it hadn't mattered how they'd managed it, but that they'd ended up in their suite, blessedly alone.

Time alone that they much needed, Remington acknowledged.

Much as Laura had discovered during their years together that Remington required touch to center him during times of turmoil, he'd uncovered the nuances of Laura Holt. A Laura who was put out with him required space to pace, to gesticulate wildly with those graceful arms of hers, whereas a stressed or worried Laura would melt into an offered embrace and carried all her woes in the form of knots in shoulders, neck and back. Deny it though she might, nearness was the key to a positive outcome whenever Laura was troubled.

And troubled, right now, she was, as she tried to sort out how the puzzle pieces that accompanied recent changes would fit into her previously, neatly ordered vision of her future. On a number of occasions over the last trio of days, he'd found Laura lost in thought, her brow often furrowed, sometimes fingering her throat, while at other times absently stroking her stomach. He could hardly blame her as, if he were honest, he, too, was working on assimilating all the events of days past: A marriage that was never mean to be legal but was; an engagement; a child on the way; and, tomorrow, a second wedding so much different than the first. Exciting times, to be sure, but each of those things running fully contrary to his lifelong vow to never find himself bound to a single person or place.

The long and short of it was, he needed time alone with her as much as she needed that time with him, he suspected.

To that end, he'd drawn them a hot bath when they'd returned to the suite, infusing the water with Laura's favorite cream bubble bath. It had taken thirty minutes to ferret out each of her knotted muscles as he kept up a running dialogue of small talk, and then she'd at last fully inclined against him with a relieved sigh and a gentle stroke of her fingertips along his jaw in silent gratitude. It wasn't until they'd tumbled into bed and she settled herself against him – head nestled against his shoulder, leg slung over his and her fingers dancing through the thick matting of hair on his chest – that he wet suddenly parched lips and dared voice his darkest fear…

"Tell me, Laura, am I to be the George Kittredge to your Tracy Lord tomorrow?" The question brought a soft smile to her lips: He knew her all too well. Shifting, she laid bent arm over his chest and rested her chin upon it, looking up at him.

"How could you be, when you're Dexter Haven to my Tracy Lord?" she proposed quietly, then dropping her eyes for a moment looked back at him again. "Although the thought of hopping the next plane to anywhere has crossed my mind on more than one occasion," she admitted. Closing his eyes, he nodded his head while humming his agreement.

"Mine as well," he confessed. Her brows lifted and eyes widened, surprised by the forthright admission.

"It has?" she asked, her shock reflected in her voice.

"Mmmm. I'm bloody well terrified, to tell you the truth." Rather than alarming her, she found comfort in his honesty.

"So why haven't you?" He laughed ruefully while tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Because I discovered in the summer of '85 that no matter the person I once was, the person I am now doesn't function well or happily without you." Pressing up on her arm against his chest, she cupped his cheek in her free hand.

"I understand."

And the wonder of it all was that she did.

Michael O'Leary, Douglas Quintaine, Paul Fabrini, Richard Blaine, Johnny Todd, or Harry – she'd peeled back the layers of all the personas he'd taken on across the years, until she'd found the man he truly was beneath them all… And, miraculously, loved that man, imperfections and all.

With a hand held against the back of her head, he pressed two hard kisses to her lips, then wrapped an arm around her slim frame when she settled back against him. Closing his eyes, he focused on the feeling of her breath against his chest.

But, maybe it wasn't such a miracle, after all. There had been a time that he'd given providence its due for arranging their paths to cross as it had, but the fact was: He'd done the work. He wasn't the only one that had buried the essence of himself after years of abandonment and betrayal had taught him to trust no one: Laura had as well. He'd spent years of his life breaking through the walls she'd built to protect herself – walls of anger, fear and insecurity – until she'd at last let him in.

Maybe that was wherein the miracle lay: That in each other they'd recognized something so valuable, so rare, that they'd gone all in, despite a lifetime of lessons telling them the odds were firmly stacked against them.

As the doors to the atrium of a small chapel in Times Square opened neither the why nor how they'd gotten here mattered - All that mattered was the young woman who appeared in the opening. Near on five-and-a-half years since first they'd met , and he was still unable to peel his eyes away from her whenever she was in the same room as he. She simultaneously stole his breath and made his heart skip a beat…

Not because she looked so very Hepburnesque in the stunning gown she'd chosen – not Katherine Hepburn whose Tracy Lord had left George Kittredge at the altar in Philadelphia Story but Audrey of Charade whose Regina Lampert had thoroughly bewitched Cary Grant's Peter Joshua, for Audrey and Laura shared the same petite stature, somewhat elfin features, natural grace and effortless poise that so few possessed.

He'd never seen her as just flesh. Flesh he admired, desired… burned for, yes. But never as just flesh.

No, it wasn't the flesh that made his heart skip a beat or stole his breath away. It was in how her gaze faced the floor as she stepped with Donald through the door. It was in the pinch of her brow as she even now worried what this would mean for her, for them. It was in the way her lashes fluttered upwards, and her eyes sought him. It was in the way, when her eyes found him there - waiting for her as he had for so many years – that she pulled herself up to her full height, squared her shoulders and tipped up her chin, bestowing on him a smile full of daring.

That was his Laura, with her periodic hesitations and occasionally paralyzing fears, when faced with the inevitable, she didn't raise the white flag and surrender… she conquered.

And conquered him, she had, this woman to whom he'd once so vainly boasted

"I'm a man who enjoys impossible challenges."

He'd been the impossible challenge, this blue-eyed Irishman of hers, Laura acknowledged as she took slow, metered steps down the aisle towards him. But as she'd once predicted…

"But can a man who has that many surprises up his sleeve be worth all the effort?"

"I think so."

…he'd been worth the effort.

He'd arrived in her life a consummate conman, charming cheat, and licentious lothario, who'd swiped her most precious creation from her: The role of the enigmatic, non-existent, Remington Steele. Yet, despite the complicated manner in which their association had begun, she'd sensed something in him, something…

More.

And she'd been right, but even the remarkable mind that had conjured up the great detective Remington Steele from whole cloth, couldn't have conceived what she'd find as he'd begun to shed the roles he'd wielded like armor. The simple fact was he had the kindest, most genuine heart she'd ever known; a heart that all the loss, abandonment and abuse he'd seen the first decade and a half of his life had been unable to tarnish. He called few 'friend' but those he did he was unfailing in his loyalty to – to the point of risking his own life and the life he'd been building for himself in order to protect them or mete out justice.

And, as it had turned out, he was far more Cary Grant than he was Humphrey Bogart, the man he'd once emulated with all those passports. Too handsome for his own good, intelligent, creative, with a quick wit and courtly mannerisms that had been shockingly very much of a part who he was rather than an act. She'd been attracted to him from the start and had never denied it. But none of it would have mattered had he truly been the cad he'd once seemed to be.

Instead, as he'd slowly revealed himself to her, she'd found herself getting in too deep, deep enough to put up some armor of her own before she found herself alone and heartbroken. Much as he'd shared the evening before, the Summer of '85 had been a turning point for her as well. She'd felt the loss of him keenly and was quick to realize her work – unlike after Wilson had walked out on her – was not enough to fill the void. Her life had no longer made sense without him, anymore than his without her.

Which is why, in spite of all that had come in the hours before, one day in May nearly two years before, she'd married him on that fishing trawler. Wounded and furious, she still hadn't been able to let him go.

Her eyes still holding Remington's she came to a stop beside him, barely registering the minister's first words or Donald's response.

Her eyes left Remington's only when Donald joined their hands together, and Remington promptly drew her hand upwards, then with an insouciant lift of a single brow, brushed his lips over her knuckles - a poignant reminder of how far they'd come since the first time he'd done thus.

Then, before she knew it, he took both her hands in his, and they stood facing one another.

"I, Remington Steele…"

"You, a renowned private investigator. It's mind boggling."

"Actually, I find it rather novel, helping people."

"…Take you, Laura Holt…"

"But it would be unworthy of Remington Steele if he didn't single out his most able and most valued associate. Truly, the woman behind the man, Miss Laura Holt."

"…To be my wife. I promise to be true to you in good times…

"Case closed. You in my arms. What more could I ask for?"

"…And in bad…"

"Shh. Shh-shh-shh, Laura. It's okay."

"…In sickness…"

"Time for my medication. And please, Laura, don't, under any circumstances come to my apartment. One of us has to stay healthy."

"…And in health."

"In fact, at the moment, there's a long legged field darter that's downright riveting."

"I will love and honor you…" Remington raised his brows and looked at her with honest sincerity shining in his blue eyes, "…all… the days of my life."

"Laura, if you'll repeat after me," the minister directed.

"I, Laura Holt…"

"Quite a busy office with so many secretaries."

"I'm a licensed private investigator, Mr.—"

"…Take you, Remington Steele—"

"What did you want me to say? I'm sorry Mr. Quarry, you're wrong. Remington Steele can't help you because there is no Remington Steele?"

"…To be my husband. I promise to be true to you in good times…"

"Rustic setting, not a single word about work. The food, the wine, tons of fresh air. And lots and lots of running."

"…and in bad…"

"Don't worry. I won't let anyone harm Remington Steele. Yours, mine or ours."

"…In sickness…"

"Dust, pollen… hay fever."

"…And in health…"

"I'm competing in a triathlon tomorrow."

"…I will love you and honor you all the days of my life."

A bit reflective over the vows they'd just exchanged and lost in thoughts of the road that had brought them here, the start of the blessing and giving of rings would remain always hazy to them. But the ending? It would forever be seared into their memories.

"Remington, repeat after me," the minister directed. "Laura, receive this ring as a sign of my love and fidelity." Remington wet his lips, and holding Laura's left hand in his, he held her ring in the fingers of his right hand.

"Laura, receive this ring as a sign of my love and fidelity," he repeated, then slipped the ring over her slender finger.

"Laura, do you have a ring for Remington?"

"I do," she confirmed quietly, as she turned towards Frances and held out her hand. When she turned to face Remington again, she took in his goofy grin, the delight in his eyes and the way he shifted slightly from foot-to-foot, all attesting to how pleased he was that she intended to bestow on him physical proof of their joining.

"Repeat after me…"

"Remington, receive this ring as a sign of my love and fidelity," she told him, somberly, as she slid the ring over his fingers.

And it is here that their memories would once again turn hazy. They were oblivious as the minister offered a prayer of blessing for their union, instead communicating silently as they'd long been accustomed to doing.

His chuffed grin and the mischievous sparkle in his eyes. Well, I guess we've gone and done it now.

She widened her eyes and a smile twitched at the corners of her mouth. Yes, I guess we have.

His smile changed to one of smug satisfaction. Eyes full of admonition narrowed and she pursed her lips. Your head's swelling. You haven't won anything.

His eyes moved from her left hand to his, then he lifted a single, impertinent brow. Haven't I?

Her shoulder sagged ever so slightly, her lips parted on a quiet sigh and her eyes flickered away from his. Now what?

His hand squeezed hers, drawing her eyes back to him. He purposefully skimmed his eyes down her petite frame, then waggled a pair of brows at her. Don't you know.

She rolled her eyes. Stop that. You know what I mean.

"Family and friends," the minister's voice broke into their 'conversation', "It is my honor to present to you, Mr. and Mrs. Remington Steele." As a smattering of applause broke out, the minister held up his hand. "I nearly forgot," he announced when the applause quieted, "Remington, you may kiss the bride."

"Mmm, my pleasure," Remington replied, drawing Laura into his arms and gathering her close. Unbeknownst to her, he consulted his watch behind her back, much as he once had on the fishing trawler of their first wedding, albeit for very different reasons. For years, Laura had been more than happy to point out how his schemes had a tendency to fall apart, but it seemed, at last, one of his gambits would play out flawlessly. If… He turned his head to look at the minister. "Do we have to do this here to make things... official?" he asked, drawing a look of confusion from the minister, and a look of suspicion from Laura.

"What are you doing?!" she demanded to know in an exasperated whisper. He glanced at his watch again, growing antsy.

"Do we?" he repeated.

"Well, no, although—"

"Come with me," Remington insisted. Capturing Laura's hand in his, he tugged her towards the chapel's doors. With no other choice at hand, she matched him step-for-step down the aisle.

"Ladies and gentleman, Mr. and Mrs. Remington Steele," the minister announced again, holding out a hand in the direction of the departing couple.

"Have you completely taken leave of your senses?" Laura hissed at Remington's side, while keeping a smile plastered on her face, lest anyone see.

"A momentous occasion such as this demands a… worthy setting… don't you agree?" His words harkened back to the first days after their first wedding, as they'd stood in a Mexican jungle.

"With all due respect to the Hotel Del Amor, we've waited far too long not to capture the moment in a more- worthy setting."

She remembered all too well how that had worked out: Them, separated in a jungle; the arrival of Anthony Roselli into their lives; the 'murder' of Norman Keyes; Remington in jail, charged with that murder; and, all the while, anger and hurt swirling around them, threatening to destroy the few fragile strands of their relationship that had been left through it all. Her steps slowed to nearly a standstill.

"A bit of trust, Laura, that's all I ask." She looked from him, to the doors, then back at him. It was a testament to how far they'd come, when she squared her shoulders and offered a single nod of her head.

"Alright."

They half-sprinted, hand-in-hand to the doors, then pushed through them, stepping out of the chapel and into the reveler filled streets of Times Squares, oblivious to their wedding party spilling out the doors behind them. There, he gathered her in his arms again, and as the crowd began the countdown to midnight…

"Ten… nine… eight..."

...together, they watched as the infamous Times Square ball slowly completed its descent, heralding the arrival of a new year. Wrapping her arms around Remington's neck, Laura's fingers toyed with the hair brushing the back of his collar.

"… seven… six…"

"Trying for a bit of romance?" she suggested in a pleased murmur. Cupping the back of her head in his hand, he lifted a pair of bows.

"…five… four…"

"With you?" he asked. "Always," he whispered, leaning in until his lips hovered just over hers.

"…three… two…"

His lips covered hers, and he kissed her with the tender ardor that never failed to leave her heart beating a little faster, toes curling and her eyes a bit dazed. A soft smile lit her face when their lips parted.

"Happy New Years, Mr. Steele," she offered quietly, palming his cheek in her left hand. He tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and smiled down at her.

"Happy New Years… Mrs. Steele."

With a quick buss to her forehead, they turned as one to accept the glad tidings of their family.

Just think of the possibilities.