Monarch Beach Read Online Free Page A

nerves. Like most girls who stay a virgin into their twenties, I became obsessed with sex. I clung to some romantic notion that we should wait till our honeymoon to really “do it.” Maybe I still thought I wouldn’t live up to Andre’s expectations and he would call off the wedding.
    Thanksgiving morning was foggy and drizzly. I wore a simple Jackie O–style wedding dress: white and short with a full skirt. Andre wore a gray suit and a red rose in his lapel. His partner, Eric, was his best man and my best friend from high school, Kate, was my maid of honor. My mother gave me away. She was completely charmed by Andre and pleased that I was starting my own life.
    “You and Andre haven’t known each other very long, Amanda, but he seems to make you happy,” she said in my bedroom on the morning of the wedding.
    “I’m deliriously happy,” I replied, trying to tame my hair into a bun and slipping small diamond earrings into my ears.
    “Deliriously happy doesn’t last,” she said, stubbing out her cigarette. She still smoked a pack a day, but she tried to stop when she was around me.
    “You and Dad acted like life was one big party.”
    “Your father lived large, but he had a solid backbone.”
    “Andre is going to be very successful. The restaurant is doing really well. Dad started small.” I slipped my feet into ballet flats. Andre was tall, but I wanted to be looking up at him when we said our vows.
    “You’re right. I’m just playing devil’s advocate. Marriage is a long haul.” She looked in the mirror and smoothed her pink Chanel skirt. She was over sixty but her face was smooth. Only her neck was wrinkled, hidden under a bright Hermès scarf.
    “We’ll be great, Mother. I had the best role models.” I hugged her.
    She snapped open her bag to find another cigarette. “I’ll go downstairs and see if the caterers are here.”
    The ceremony was short, performed by one of my father’s old friends, Judge Hansen. Afterward we popped a bottle of champagne and nibbled salmon and rice balls. The wedding-Thanksgiving lunch was served in the long dining room under crystal chandeliers.
    Andre sat at the head of the table, my mother at the other end. I was on Andre’s left, Kate on his right. Andre kept his hand on mine the entire lunch, so I had to eat one-handed. While we waited for the pumpkin pie that was going to be our wedding cake, Andre stood up to make a toast.
    “This is my first Thanksgiving. I am so lucky to be welcomed into this family. And Grace”—he nodded to my mother—“I will treat Amanda like this champagne flute: delicate, perfect, and priceless. Thank you for allowing her to be my wife.” He lifted his glass and we all drank.
    Later, when I was changing into my going-away outfit, Kate knocked on my door.
    “What do you think?” I asked. Kate and I had known each other since grade school.
    “A little corny,” she said, pulling off her heels and lying down on my bed.
    “What do you mean?” I frowned.
    “I like Andre,” she said carefully, releasing her short blond hair from its ponytail holder. “He’s just a little clichéd.”
    “Well, thanks.” I sat down on the bed next to Kate.
    “He’s just sooo romantic. So French.”
    “What’s wrong with that?”
    “Nothing. I hope it lasts.”
    “You’re jealous.” I laughed. “You want someone to shower you with rose petals.”
    “I’m fine being single. Sorry, I wasn’t trying to be nasty.”
    “I forgive you. It is my wedding day,” I said. I closed the overnight bag that held my La Perla negligee. “And tonight is my wedding night.”
    “Maybe you should have had the wedding night first,” Kate giggled.
    I threw a silk pillow at her. “Maybe I should have made you catch the bouquet.”
    *   *   *
    We checked in to the Mark Hopkins on top of Nob Hill. I felt electric shocks run up my spine when the concierge welcomed us as Mr. and Mrs. Blick. I wore a taupe Eileen Fisher skirt, a Donna Karan silk