Chapter Two: Second Honeymoon II

Tuesday, March 17, 1987

Angela's feet hit the cool tile floor of their suite. The first rays of sun had come through the blinds, illuminating long fractions of textile and ceramic. She took a moment to tilt her head from side to side, then twisted her upper body gently in each direction. As she stood, she stretched her arms overhead and rolled her hips to limber up, continuing to swing them in an exaggerated sashay toward the bathroom.

"Hey, baby! You want some fries with that shake?" Tony called from bed. She smiled back at him and said nothing. "Hurry back," he said just before the bathroom door closed. "It's a beautiful morning," he sang to himself as he lounged against the headboard. The weather was amazing, the food delicious, and the drinks almost as tempting as his gorgeous and amorous wife. What more could he ask for?

They'd barely made it into the room the night before. Clothing was shucked in all directions and then she was straddling him on the small sofa. Despite her swollen belly, he never worried that she was going to fall. They joined tightly and she kept pulling even closer, grinding against him, relishing the fullness and encouraging him to dig even deeper, impossible as that was. Afterward they'd showered together, giddy from their lovemaking. Finally, the warm water and late hour worked to calm them enough to tuck in for the night. Relaxed as they should have been, excitement bubbled up in each of them and they failed to succumb to slumber right away.

"Tony?" Angela whispered in the dark after five minutes of silence. "Are you awake?"

"What tipped you off?" he asked.

"You're not snoring," she said.

"I'm too happy to sleep," he admitted. "We have a baby with a name, Angela."

"I know. It feels so real. I mean, it does and it doesn't. I don't know what I'm saying. It's…" she trailed off. "I think my heart might burst from how much I love our family," she said, her voice cracking with emotion.

"I know what you mean," Tony responded. "It's incredible that there's gonna be a little person that's part you and part me." Painful as it could be, he was grateful to see pieces of Marie in Sam each and every day. He had begun to tally the similarities between Jonathan and Angela from the moment they met, and he couldn't be sure which of them he loved more for it. He didn't know how he'd handle witnessing her nurture their creation. It was too much to fathom.

"It's a miracle," she agreed. Another minute of silence passed before she felt him shift toward her, brush her hair back, and nudge his nose against hers. Her breath caught in anticipation, but he didn't kiss her, just hovered close enough that they could feel the warmth of each other's mouths. "Tony," she exhaled, "please."

"Fuck, I can't get enough of you," he whispered before sinking into a languorous kiss.

Tony closed his eyes and replayed the unhurried encore from the night before. He felt himself teetering on the edge of consciousness and let out a soft moan as he started to slip into an erotic dream. Then there was a sudden jolt of pain.

"Ow! What the hell?" he asked, rubbing his arm at the site of Angela's brutal pinch.

"Happy St. Patrick's Day! You're not wearing green," she said gleefully.

"Neither are you!" he argued. She was still naked as a jay bird. He considered retaliation.

"Uh-uh!" she warned, pointing to her green hair ribbon. How she could manage to be so cute while she tormented him was a mystery.

"Come here," he demanded, flinging back the covers to reveal his tumescent state.

"You have to pee, don't you?" she asked with a smirk.

He cringed and nodded. By the time he got back into bed, she was drifting off. He sighed heavily and allowed himself to fall back asleep in the comfort of her presence.


The arts and crafts instructor strolled around the room giving feedback and pointers to the resort's guests. It was a full house for once. A dozen amateur artists carefully painted small paperboard boxes with green shamrocks, gold coins, and rainbows. She caught an interesting variation from the more attractive of the two men in the class. "What's that?" she asked him.

"It's a snake in a patch of clover," he said. "Our son loves reptiles, so he ain't no fan of St. Patrick."

The man's blonde wife gave him a sweet smile. She was painting a more traditional rainbow-and-pot-of-gold design. "Our daughter's probably too grown-up for this," she said with a shrug.

"She'll love it because you made it," the instructor reassured her before moving on to other guests. Her daughters were once teenagers, too, but now that they had reached their late twenties, their bad attitudes had melted into affection.

Tony got in line for a Guinness on the way back from the workshop. "When in Dublin," he said, referencing the small crowd at the bar. Most were clad in tropical prints or beachwear. He wore his green Gastineau jersey to guard against pinching.

Angela used the time to choose postcards from the gift shop. On the day they arrived, Tony had stopped in the airport to buy one with a sea turtle. Then, she found a peacock postcard among the complimentary stationery in their room. She spun the round wire rack slowly, scanning for something different than the many views of beaches and palm trees. A yellow bird caught her eye, and she bent to pick up the card. The small print on the back identified it as a saffron finch. On the rack below the bird was a saltwater crocodile. "Jonathan will love this!" she said to herself, standing upright.

"Good find!" Tony said, sidling up with his stout. The paper bag containing their art projects hung from his wrist. He nodded toward the image of a muscular man in a tiny Speedo. "I know who would appreciate that one," he said.

"Samantha?" Angela guessed, raising her eyebrows.

"What? No! I meant Mona," he said with a sour expression. Angela picked it up, and he immediately took it out of her hand and replaced it on the rack. "It's inappropriate," he huffed.

"You want to be the only hunk your daughter ever sees?" she asked with a lopsided grin.

"For now," he grumbled, taking a sip of beer.

"Relax. I'll send it to Mother in Georgia," she promised, putting Mr. Speedo back in her stack to be purchased. "How about this one?" she asked, pointing out a sunset on the water.

"Much better," he judged, crouching to inspect the lowest tier. "Here," he said, popping up with a Dunn's River Falls postcard. "We should bring the family back when Callista is old enough to make the climb."

"Oh, pretty," Angela said, staring at the lush vegetation and the water cascading over large flat rocks. She found herself distracted by the question of whether their older children might still be willing to go on family vacations in ten years.

"Ready?" he asked. "We're meeting for that plantation tour in half an hour," he reminded her.

"Yeah, sorry," she said, turning toward the cashier.


Tony stepped out of the tour van first, extending a hand to assist Angela. "It makes me nervous, driving on the left side of the road," he whispered while the rest of their small group assembled.

"I'll keep that in mind, in case we ever visit Nana," she replied.

"It is really somethin'," an American tourist drawled. "Mind you we got plantations in Carolina pretty as a peach, but this here is beautimous."

"Limestone from Europe was used to build this house. It was exchanged for sugar and rum produced on the six-thousand-acre plantation," their guide informed her.

"Wow," another gawked. "How long did it take to build this thing?"

"It took over two thousand slaves from 1750 to 1780 to complete the house."

Once inside the great hall, the story of Annie Palmer was revealed. Legend had it that she was a gold digger who married an heir to the estate, then brutally murdered all three of her husbands over eleven years. "She was a cruel mistress, and the slaves called her the 'White Witch'," the guide recited from memory.

The group shuffled through the halls in a clump, listening to lore as they went. "This was meant to be a child's room, but thankfully, the witch never had any of her own." Furtive glances searched for a reaction from the expectant mother, but Angela's brow didn't furrow until she heard the next fact. "Slave children from the age of five were made to carry buckets of water one-and-one-half miles each way. If they spilled, they would receive ten lashes. Annie liked to watch punishment from her balcony."

"What a freak," Tony muttered.

The guide nodded and explained, "Annie forced numerous slaves to serve as her lover. Finally, one love slave named Takoo strangled her in her bed. The night she died, slaves burned all of her personal belongings. That is why there are no portraits of her."

"Bless," the Carolina resident said cryptically.

The Micellis ambled along as their guide shared the tale of a maid being pushed from Annie's balcony by her ghost. "I can't," Angela said, when they got to the dungeon steps. "It's too spooky."

"This is the last part of the tour," the guide announced. "We will be sampling the famous witches brew, with or without rum," he added helpfully.

"Come on," Tony prodded. "I'll hold your hand, just like that time we watched Rosemary's Baby."

"Alright," she said, steeling her nerves. After all of the gruesome stories they'd already heard, the dungeon wasn't any worse than the rest of the tour had been.

"To courage and bravery," Tony said, toasting his wife privately. He took a sip of rum punch and felt a distinct kick. "Woohoo!" he reacted, shaking his head in disbelief.

"I'm not sure whether I'm grateful or sorry that I can't have any," Angela laughed. She gazed at her husband's lips until he got the hint and gave her a soft, lazy kiss with just enough tongue to pass along the essence of the dark rum flavor.

Even after pulling away, she kept her eyes closed. He watched the corners of her mouth turn up as she savored the rare treat. "God, I love you," he said quietly as she blinked open.