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also, and most romantically, to transport the bride and groom to the
floatplane dock, where they’d been whisked away to their honeymoon at Mohonk
Mountain House. A Just Married sign was tied to the stern.
    “Hang on to me,” Zach whispered. “I don’t want you falling
in.”
    “I won’t fall—whoa.” She clung to him as the boat listed
beneath her weight. The open cabin smelled of the lake, and the flowers that had
been used to decorate it, and the fresh scent made her dizzy. The second wave of
champagne was kicking in.
    “Take my jacket,” he said, wrapping it around her shoulders.
“Chilly tonight.”
    She took a seat in the cockpit, feeling the peculiar intimacy
of his body heat lingering in the folds of the jacket. She reveled in the
slickness of the satin lining, which smelled faintly of men’s cologne and sweat.
Oh boy, she thought.
    There was an open bottle of champagne in the cubby by her
knees, so she grabbed it and took a long, thirsty swig. Why not? she thought.
Her official duties for the wedding were done, and it was time to relax.
    Zach untied the boat and shoved off. He turned on the running
lights and motor, handling the Chris-Craft with expert smoothness. He’d always
been good with his hands, whether handling a vintage motorboat or a complicated
video camera. As they motored across the placid water toward the rustic wooden
boathouse, Sonnet admitted to herself that although she loved living in New York
City, there were things she missed about the remote Catskills area where she’d
grown up—the moon on the water, the fresh feeling of the wind in her face, the
quiet and the darkness of the wilderness, the familiarity of a friend who knew
her so well they didn’t really have to talk.
    She had another drink of champagne, feeling a keen exuberance
as she watched loose flower petals fluttering through the night air, into the
wake of the boat.
    She offered the bottle to Zach.
    “No thanks,” he said. “Not until I moor the boat.”
    She sat back and enjoyed the short crossing to the boathouse,
which was bathed in the soft golden glow of lights along the dock.
    Over the buzz of the engine, he pointed out the constellations.
“See that group up there? It’s called Coma Berenices—Berenice’s hair. It was
named for an Egyptian queen who cut off all her hair in exchange for some
goddess to keep her husband safe in battle. The goddess liked the hair so much,
she took it to the heavens and turned it into a cluster of stars.”
    “Talk about a good hair day.” She was beyond pleasantly tipsy
now. “I’d never cut off my hair. Took me years to get it this long.”
    “Not even to keep your husband safe in battle?”
    “I don’t have a husband. So I’ll be keeping my fabled locks,
thank you very much. Berenice’s hair. I swear, your mind is a lint trap for
stuff like this. Where do you learn it?”
    “The internet. Yeah, I like geeking out over trivia on the
internet, so sue me.”
    “I’m not going to sue you. Whatever floats your boat, ha
ha.”
    “You can find out anything online. Ever watch that video of the
Naga fireballs?”
    “I haven’t had the pleasure.”
    “Too busy overachieving?”
    “Since when is that a crime?”
    “Never said it was.” Zach guided the boat inside, cutting the
engine to let it nudge its way into the moorage, gently bumping against the
rubber fenders.
    “There,” he said, taking the champagne from her, “I’ve done my
good deed for the day. Here’s looking at you, kid.”
    “Too dark in here to see,” she pointed out. “Oh, right. That’s
a movie reference. I forgot, you’re a walking movie encyclopedia.”
    “And you’re movie illiterate.”
    “No wonder we bicker all the time. We have nothing in
common.”
    He handed back the bottle and rummaged around the console of
the cockpit. Then a match flared and he lit a couple of votive candles left over
from the photo shoot. Taking the bottle again, he said, “ Now here’s looking at