Beach Wedding(4)

Was it an SUV? A limo? A bit of both? Whatever it was, when it stopped, a uniformed chauffeur quickly got out and opened its back door.

“Exactly what movie are we in right now?” I said to my brother with a laugh. “Is it Trading Places, or no, it’s Wall Street, right? Greed is good?”

“Very funny, bro. Listen up now,” Tom said, putting a hand on my shoulder. “I hate to bug you, but you know everybody is coming this afternoon. Mom and all the rest of them. So, could you meet and greet and get everybody to their rooms for me? If I’m running late, make sure Robin, the house manager, and the rest of the staff take care of all of you for dinner.”

“Oh, I see,” I said. “I’m supposed to explain all this Palace of Versailles stuff to Mom and somehow keep her from hyperventilating? Are you really sure you have to go to work?”

“Shut up, dummy, and listen,” he said. “I already spoke to the chef, Freddy. This dude’s ridiculous. From Per Se or French Laundry or one of those places. He’s going to hook us up big-time. So, make sure you get everybody in their Sunday best, okay? Robin is also a sommelier and knows the massive wine cellar, so you have at it. Mom especially might need a glass or two. I’ll try to get back before the first course.”

“Tom,” I said, suddenly unable to stifle my laughter as I gestured at the elaborate mansion and chauffeur, “I knew you were rich, bro, but really? You’re like this rich? Scrooge McDuck rich?”

Tom smiled at me as we stood along the edge of the crushed seashell driveway. He shot his cuffs and looked like he was about to pinch my cheek but then stopped himself.

“Let’s see,” he said, taking out his phone and glancing at it. “Am I this rich? Well, it’s not like it’s nothing, but I wanted it to be a special occasion, Terry. I mean, how many times am I going to get married? Wait. Forget I said that. Don’t answer.”

I pretended to zip my mouth shut.

“Ha ha. Besides, how many times am I going to get to stick it to old you-know-who a few houses up the road here?” Tom said, jerking a thumb to the north up the beach with a sudden crazy twinkle in his eye.

I slowly looked over at him, stunned. Then took a step back.

“What? Don’t tell me you’re surprised,” Tom said.

I stood there mute, the seashells under my feet suddenly sharp, like little bits of broken glass.

His own smile vanished as he stared me right in the eye.

“Terry, honestly,” he said. “You out of everyone I thought would figure it out. Did you think I picked Meadow Lane out of a hat?”



4

I stood there in the July heat looking at my brother.

In some unfortunate Irish families, there are sons who are referred to as holy terrors. Overflowing with impulsive energy and a fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants mischievousness that borders on performance art, like most natural-born pirates, they often end up dead, in jail, or rich. Tom was the Rourke family’s holy terror, but we’d thought that Wall Street could contain his bottomless energy.

Maybe we were wrong, I thought as all my dread of coming home instantly landed like an uppercut to the jaw.

Because I knew it then. What this was really about. Why we were here. Why this house. Why his wedding was on Southampton’s most expensive beach road.

The Rourke family actually had a history with Meadow Lane.

And it wasn’t a happy one.

Quite the opposite.

“Are we really going there, Tom?” I finally said. “After all this time?”

“Oh, we’re going there, Terry,” he whispered as he reached over and grabbed the back of my head, pulling me closer to him.

As our foreheads met, I caught a whiff of his expensive cologne, a masculine perfume of mint and lemons and spiced wood and fresh money. Up close, I could see the twinkle was even brighter now. It looked like it was about to shoot out of his left eye like a spark from a spitting road flare.

“For twenty years, I’ve slaved forty hours a day for this, Terry,” he said, “and we’re going there big-time for the rest of the month with barrel bombs of white phosphorus and flaming napalm.”

“Now, Tom, listen. Be reasonable, man,” I said calmly. “What do you have planned?”

“Oh, you know,” he said with a shrug as he slipped his phone back into the pink silk that lined his glove-fit Savile Row suit jacket. “The usual. A fireworks barge. Helicopters. A couple of marching bands. Then there’s the horses, of course.”

“What!” I cried.

He winked again.

Was he serious?

I shook my head as I scanned his tanned poker face. There was no way to tell.

“Terry, I’m going to do anything and everything I can think of to block up traffic and to piss off every one of these rotten bastards up and down this little sandbar. I’m going to let them know, especially old you-know-who, that we lowly Rourkes can get knocked down, but my oh my, can we get back up again.”

“But, Tom,” I said, peering at him. “What about the consequences? You know, the authorities? Cops, lawyers, injunctions from the town, getting sued? All that kind of stuff?”

“Hey, that’s where you come in, little brother. We’ve got a boy in blue right here in the family. Keep that badge handy.”

I squinted at him.