Silver.
I just had to look for a silver car and a man with a big white dress.
How hard could it be, right?
Wrong.
I located the car, but it was parked on the other side of the street. After three close calls, I realized zebra crossings in Greece were nothing more than a bunch of pretty stripes designed to lure you to your final resting place. I was completely invisible to the drivers and motorcyclists. To make matters worse, I’d rushed out without my shoes and my feet were hopping like popcorn on the hot asphalt. On the plus side, my hippity-hoppity dance got me noticed by a driver who slowed down and stared long enough for me to cross.
Getting back to the other side of the street with a voluminous wedding dress was even more difficult. I waited for one of the locals to cross and then used him as a human shield. As I made my way back to the yacht, I caught sight of Nikos standing on one of the outside decks. The afternoon sun glinted off his hair as he leaned against the rail. He looked carefree and relaxed, like hanging out on exclusive boats was something he did every day. Wait. He did. At least according to his social media.
I pushed aside a twinge of insecurity. Maybe I was setting my sights too high? Maybe I really should take some lessons from Isabelle. Three months and a shitload of self-help books don’t fix self-esteem issues.
There were puddles everywhere, from people power-washing their boats and dinghies. I skirted a big, muddy one around the marina, carefully holding Isabelle’s dress up. My shoulders were starting to ache from the weight, when a guy on a motorbike zoomed past me. I barely had time to register the blur of his yellow helmet before my mouth opened in a silent scream.
Noooooo.
Stop. Now slow it down and play it at 50 percent, in that deep, low pitch.
It’s the kind of sound that pairs well with a slow-motion fall in a movie, like when the hero sees someone about to be shot and takes the perpetrator down. In this case, I saw myself about to be shot. By Isabelle. Because this guy, this idiot, thismoronon a motorbike, left a tsunami of dirty water in his wake.
I gasped the split second before it hit me. I should sayus,because at this point, Isabelle’s dress was a living, breathing thing I had to protect. With my life. I huddled over, rolling it up and shielding it with my torso.
Take me. Take me instead.
The water hit me like a tail slap from a humpback whale, drenching my clothes, my hair, my face.
Pit, pat, pit, pat. It fell off as I straightened. It took a few seconds before I could bring myself to look at the wedding dress.
Oh, Sweet Mother of All That is Holy and Sweet.
It was still spotless and white beneath the clear plastic bag. The good tailor had the foresight to knot the bag, so it was sealed at both the top and bottom.
I hugged the dress. The tailor. God. Everyone that needed to be hugged, and set off for the boat again.
I’m coming, Abigail Rose II.
Hannah and a couple of the crew members jumped when they saw me—barefoot, drenched, and looking like a zombie rat.
“Are you okay?” Hannah cried. “What happened?”
The other two crew members got busy cleaning up the mess I was dripping all over the floor.
“Can you please dry this off and get it to Isabelle?” I handed Hannah the wet bag with the wedding dress inside it. I would’ve done it myself, but I couldn’t chance Nikos seeing me like this.
I took the elevator down and peered into the hallway when the doors opened.
Yes! All clear.
Tiptoeing to the theme song of The Pink Panther, I was about to step into my suite when I noticed Dolly standing outside one of the other staterooms, her ear pressed to the door.
“What are you doing?”
“Shhh. They’re having a big fight.”
“Who?”
“Joseph and Rachel and Isabelle. What happened to you? Why are you…” She trailed off as the voices on the other side of the door escalated.
