Her dad stood off to the side with the woman who had moved in with him in June. Jeff Heat had known Linda from his days as a student at GW, and they had reconnected through a social medium: AA. It warmed Nikki to see that her father had found love again. Ironically, someone new had made him the man he once was.
Heat heard laughter and leaned forward to see Raley and Ochoa cracking each other up in their front-row seats. Her road to taking command had not been smooth and, in hindsight, she should have listened to Rook on her first day when he highlighted the perils of being a leader who couldn’t pull the trigger. Naming Sean and Miguel interim squad leaders not only made her seem indecisive, the uncertain nature of the promotion had pitted her two best detectives—not to mention bulletproof partners—against each other in unhealthy competition. She had admitted her error; they had admitted theirs, and their raucous Roach laughter and—was that them sharing hits from a flask?—proved just how bulletproof they were.
Rook texted that he was “ninety seconds from bliss,” and she could hear the rumble of Feller’s V8 nearing the driveway of the inn. She laughed, imagining the indignity of a certain investigative journalist trying to change into a tuxedo in the backseat of an undercover police car as it negotiated all those turns from the highway down to Mecox Bay. Then the flutter of the largest butterfly she had ever felt took her by surprise, and she had to steady herself on the windowsill. She paused until it passed.
Then hoped to hell it would return to stay.
It did return mere minutes later, giving wings to Nikki’s heart when she saw her husband-to-be in his bespoke tux, standing up taller at the sight of her as he waited, all smiles, surrounded by flowers in the gazebo. Her father escorted her up the aisle to an aria from one of Bach’s wedding cantatas played by a chamber ensemble from Juilliard and sung angelically by none other than Rook’s mom, Broadway’s Grande Dame.
All eyes were upon Nikki as she proceeded slowly up the white linen runner that had been unfurled on the lush grass, but their joyful faces all simply blurred out of focus. Heat could only see Rook. And the smile she wanted to see for all time.
She arrived beside Judge Horace Simpson, their longtime poker buddy, and waited as the cantata came to an end. Rook whispered, “You look absolutely lovely.”
“And you, ruggedly handsome.”
He turned to the judge. “I knew I was marrying the right person.” And Nikki nodded with a grin as lustrous as the sea behind them.
They had written their own vows and, in a leap of faith, had not shared them with each other. After Judge Simpson had performed his opening remarks and the guests were all settled, Rook took Nikki’s hands and spoke his promise.
“I fell in love with you the day we met. I believe your first words to me were something like, ‘Stay in the car, or I swear I’ll shoot you.’”
While the guests all laughed, Nikki turned to them and said, “It’s true.”
“I have to cop to being a writer instead of a cop. But instead of thoroughly dismissing me as the pest I probably was—and/or shooting me—you performed a miracle in my life, Nikki, by doing the best thing anyone has ever done for me. You trusted me. Simply, completely, and unconditionally. Except for my occasional conspiracy theories, many of which, may I say, have been borne out.