Chapter 6: Chapter 6

He has a point, Christian. You'revery wealthy, and I'm bringing nothing to our marriage but mystudent loans." Baby, I'll have you any way I can get you. You know this!

"Anastasia, if you leave me, you might as well take everything. You left me once before. I know how that feels."

"That was different," she mumbles. And she frowns once more. "But, you might want to leave me."

Now she's being ridiculous.

"Christian, you know I might dosomething exceptionally stupid-and you..." She stops.

Ana, I think that's highly unlikely. "Stop. Stop now. This subject isclosed. We're not discussing itanymore. No prenup. Not now-not ever."

I scramble through my thoughts, trying to find safer ground, and inspiration hits me. Turning toGrace, who's wringing her hands and looking anxiously at me, I ask, "Mom, can we have the wedding here?"

Her expression shifts from alarm to joy and gratitude. "Darling. That would be wonderful." And she adds as an afterthought, "You don't want a church wedding?"

I give her a sideways look and she capitulates immediately.

"We'd love to host your wedding. Wouldn't we, Cary?"

"Yes. Yes, of course." My father smiles benignly at both Ana and me, but I can't look at him.

"Have you a date in mind?" Grace asks.

"Four weeks."

"Christian. That's not enough time!"

"It's plenty of time."

"I need at least eight!"

"Mom. Please."

"Six?" she pleads.

"That would be wonderful. Thank you, Mrs. Grey," Ana pipes up, and shoots a warning glance at me, daring me to contradict her.

"Six it is," I state. "Thanks, Mom."

Ana is quiet on the drive back toSeattle. She's probably thinking about my outburst at Carrick this morning. Our argument from last night still rankles-his disapproval aburr chafing at my skin. Deep down, I'm worried that he's right; maybe I'm not husband material.

Damn, I'm going to prove him wrong.

I'm not the adolescent he thinks Iam.

I stare at the road ahead, deflated. My girl is beside me, wehave a date for our wedding, and Ishould feel on top of the world, but I'm picking over the remains of myfather's angry tirade about Elena and the prenup. On the plus side, Ithink he knows he fucked up. Hetried to make it up to me when weparted earlier but his fumbling, inadequate attempt to make amends still smarts.

Christian, I've always done everything in my power to protect you. And I failed. I should have been there for you.

But I didn't want to hear him. Heshould have said this last night. Hedid not.

I shake my head. I want out ofthis funk.

"Hey, I have an idea." I reach over and squeeze Ana's knee.

Perhaps my luck is turning-there's a parking space outside St. James Cathedral. Ana peers through the trees at the majestic building that dominates a whole block onNinth Avenue, then turns to me, aquestion in her eyes.

"Church," I offer, by way ofexplanation.

"This is big for a church, Christian."

"True."

She smiles. "It's perfect."

Hand in hand, we head through one of the front doors into the antechamber, then proceed onward into the nave. Out of instinct I reach toward the stoup for Holy Water tobless myself, but I stop just in time, knowing that if a bolt of lightning isgoing to strike, it will be now. I catch Ana's openmouthed surprise, but look away to admire the impressive ceiling as I wait for God's judgment.

No. No thunderbolt today.

"Old habits," I mutter, feeling alittle embarrassed, but relieved that I've not been rendered into a pile ofashes on the grand threshold. Ana turns her attention to the magnificent interior: the lofty ornate ceilings, the rust-colored marble columns, the intricate stained glass. Sunlight streams in a steady beam through the oculus in the transept'sdome, as if God were smiling down on the place. There's a whispered hush that fills the nave, enveloping us in a spiritual calm that'sdisturbed only by the occasional echoing cough from one of the few visitors. It's quiet, a refuge from the hustle and bustle of Seattle. I'dforgotten just how tranquil and beautiful it is in here, but then I'venot been inside for years. I'd always loved the pomp and ceremony of aCatholic Mass. The ritual. The responses. The smell of burning incense. Grace made sure her three children were well versed in all things Catholic, and there was atime when I would have done anything to please my new mother.

But puberty arrived and all that went to shit. My relationship with God never recovered, and it changed the relationship with my family, especially my father. We were always at odds with each other from the time I hit thirteen. I brush off the memory. It's painful.

Now standing in the hushed splendor of the nave, I'moverwhelmed by a familiar sense ofpeace. "Come. I want to show you something." We walk down the side aisle, the sound of Ana's heels ringing over the flagstones, until wereach a small chapel. Its golden walls and dark floor are the perfect setting for the exquisite statue ofOur Lady, surrounded by flickering candles.

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