A Toast to Starry Nights Read online

  A Toast to Starry Nights

  A Novel

  by Mandi Rei Serra

  Once upon a time, there was a man I loved very much.

  I craved the sound of his voice, the feel of his touch.

  Fate had in store a kismet not aligned

  He and I wandered alone through

  our separate lifetimes.

  When Destiny knocks, and Kismet abounds,

  Truth and Reason can be found.

  Open doors to opportunities wide

  Now it is time to let your Life inside.

  Chapter One-

  How does one deal with such a disastrous scenario? Here I was, dressed to the nines, and here he was on bended knee, ring in hand and covered in my regurgitated dinner. Dignity wasn't an option-- all tables around us were either staring, whispering, or choking back the puke themselves. Was it the smell, sight or sound that set them off? Just one glance around and I saw all eyes were on us, and characteristically, I ruined a beautiful moment by doing the wrong thing. I always got queasy when anxious, and right now, being center stage, made me extremely nervous.

  Snow-white linen and crystal chandeliers faded into the background as I looked upon my boyfriend of four years before me as I sat at the center-most table in the restaurant. I was more than aware of every pair of eyes focused on the tableau he and I provided as an aperitif.

  Dmitri was frozen on his knee, mouth agape. A lock of dark brown hair fell from its gelled haven onto his forehead. His best suit jacket was covered in prime rib, creamed spinach, wine and bile. I couldn't help but to think that I needed to pay for the dry cleaning, give him a back massage, and my undying gratitude for not throwing up on me in return-- I saw him hold back a heave with a shudder. By some miracle, my bomb missed his trouser leg altogether.

  “I'm sorry. Please get me out of here,” I whispered. I hated being the center of attention and curiosity, upset that I made a scene and completely destroyed such lovely intentions. The tears were welling up and I had no desire to make a horrendous scene worse.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, concern heavy in his accented voice. I watched as a piece of red meat slid down his dark gray jacket and the urge to pass out flashed through my mind as it plopped onto the floor.

  “I just threw up on you...” Perhaps he couldn't see my Captain Obvious cape fluttering in the imaginary breeze. My eyes closed and I gripped the edge of the table as the new bout of nausea wound its way up from the twisting innards that couldn't be mentally tamed. My words must have assured him I wouldn't expire on the spot.

  Dmitri smiled wryly and replied, “Yeah, I noticed.” He stood up and peeled off the offensive garment. With great care he folded it inside out to make a neat bundle out of the purple silk-lined jacket. “I'm going to pay the bill, why don't you head out to the car? I'll meet you there in a few.” Dmitri winked at me, trying to elicit a smile. It didn't work. I lacked the gumption. If only I could fade from view and slip out unnoticed. I needed to master that particular trick and channel my inner ninja.

  As an afterthought, I looked down to my periwinkle blue dress and saw I missed decorating myself in regurgitation. Although it seemed repugnant, at that moment I wish I had covered myself in upchuck instead of the man who wanted me as his wife. I could easily bear self-humiliation if it meant giving Dmitri all his dignity back. That he could be so cool and collected after getting coated in dinner earned him more admiration from me.

  A waiter in a penguin suit stood off to one side, signaling the bus boy to clean up. I guess he was wondering if I'd heave chunks on him too. My wine glass was still half-full of a rather decent Syrah, which I chugged in a most unladylike manner. Already have everyone's attention, might as well seal the deal for lowbrow dining at a quality establishment by guzzling my grape juice like an over-enthusiastic sorority pledge. Didn't care anymore, I already ruined the night.

  Wine helped to rid my mouth of the astringent taste of bile. Standing up, I gathered my belongings and apologized to the waiter. I dug briefly into my purse and pulled out two twenty dollar bills. Were I in his shoes, an apology and good tip would be a very nice thing indeed.

  Through the crowded dining room and out the exit, past burning stares and loud whispers, I made my escape. Caught sight of myself in a mirror behind the maitre'd station. My hazel eyes looked like twin pissholes in the snow. Out the etched plate-glass door and into the parking lot I went. The summer night had a gentle rose-scented breeze, which helped to clear my head, and the lingering nausea abate. Upon reaching the car, I realized that Dmitri locked it and still possessed the keys. As I waited, I rested my head atop my arms crossed on the Jetta and pondered why I would do such a thing at an important moment in my life.

  I had expected Dmitri's proposal ever since my mother dropped broad hints a few months ago. The reality of the moment was so much better than anything I could imagine, with the exception of my oral eruption. My own version of Pompeii, except Dmitri was the only one smothered by the lava flow. Sigh. The giddiness of the moment may have played into it. The crowd of people staring didn't really help. But there was a stabbing moment of sheer panic and abject fright that I couldn't place as he offered the ring to me with such pride and love shining in his wonderful bright blue eyes. I loved the idea of getting married to Dmitri yet the thought of the wedding itself didn't sit well with me. It was the first time I ever felt true fear in the presence of Dmitri, yet it wasn't he I feared, but the nuptial ceremony. The thought niggled my mind in a way that let me feeling bewildered and apprehensive.

  Footsteps sounded his approach. I raised my head, not caring that my elaborate hairstyle came undone and dark red curls hung in clumps to my shoulders. Every time I closed my eyes to blink, that one moment replayed itself in my mind. How could I look at him now?

  There was no need for me to fret. Dmitri gathered me into his arms and rested his chin upon the crown of my head. Surely stray hairpins were sticking into him, but he seemed not to care.

  “Honestly now, Kaylis, are you okay?”

  “I...I don't know. I mean, yes, I want to marry you, but I don't know why I threw up. I'm so sorry, Dmitri. I didn't mean to ruin your proposal.” In front of all of Chico, I silently amended.

  “Kay, the only way you'd ruin it is if you said no.” Somewhere in my rib cage, my heart began to thaw from its frozen state of fear. He took a step away from me, and I felt bereft of his presence. He reached into his pant pocket and drew out the box he had already offered me once. Now with my stomach devoid of any content, I suppose he felt safe in offering it to me again.

  With slow grace, he unhinged the tiny rosewood cube, carved with ivy and flowers by his own hands. “Kaylis Woods, would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?” Even in the dark, the blue of his eyes shone bright. With a smile, Dmitri proffered the ring nestled inside the wooden sculpture to me.

  “Yes.” I didn't know what else to say, although wrapping my arms around him and squeezing with all my might did cross my mind as a more dignified version of an intense girly-moment-squeal-of-delight.

  He slid the ring onto my finger and I studied it for a brief moment. A large cobalt-blue square-cut sapphire had a marquise diamond set on each side, at the mid point. Filling in the spaces between the diamonds were tiny round iolites in a watery lavender-blue color. The band was filigreed platinum, pierced so that light could shine through to the stones and make them sparkle with an inner fire.

  Dmitri now held my fingertips prisoner in his gentle grasp. As I marveled at the magnitude of his gift, his voice caressed my ear. “The jeweler thought that the diamonds should have been mounted at each point of the sapphire. But I wanted them right where they are, at the compass points. I lived a life without you be
fore, Kaylis. I felt lost. When I am with you, I know exactly where I am, and where I want to be. You are my compass and so I am lost no more. You are very special to me.”

  My heart puddled at his poetry, and as fast as an Oklahoma twister, I whipped around and wrapped my arms about his neck and kissed the side of his mouth-- he wasn't going to get a full-on kiss until I had brushed my teeth. “You are mine, as I am yours,” I whispered.

  At my passionate decree, I felt the terror re-emerge in the pit of my stomach, and I closed my eyes as it unfurled. I hugged Dmitri again, using the strength and warmth of his embrace as my shield against the unexplained and unreasonable icy-cold terror. His breath tickled my neck to sweep the fear away. No more than a moment had passed, and Dmitri was unaware of my silent mini panic attack.

  I basked in the love of this man and whispered, “You are ten kinds of awesome.”

  Dmitri returned my hug and swung me around underneath the glowing halo of parking lot lights. We laughed and my personal Pompeii lay forgotten in our shared happiness.

  Chapter Two-

  “Really, Kaylis, be more like your namesake. Do you think the Klingon God of War would have heaved upon his intended?”

  My mother, Willow, named me after a Star Trek character.

  Not an actor, but a fictional character in that particular universe. Was I supposed to be war-like? Complete with ridged forehead and knife strapped to my side? The perpetual chip on my shoulder, a preference for Romulan Ale and penchant for squiggling live food that would make both a Korean and bushman blanch in disgust? I suppose I should be grateful that I won the gender lottery lest my name would be James T. Kirk, Scotty, Spock or even the revered Cochrane. I never understood her fascination with sci-fi, which was only dimmed by her fascination with all things hippie and new age.

  “Willow, please. Do you honestly think that I would intentionally puke on Dmitri? It was an accident. Hell, it could have been something I ate that didn't agree with my stomach.” I told her of the proposal, but not of my initial reaction faux pas from last night. Dmitri told her of the vomit volcano with a measure of humor. And now I get to deal with the fall out of this awkward conversation. This was not how I wanted to spend my Saturday morning.

  Dmitri and I were at Willow's house. Cottage, really. The house, straight out of the English countryside, seemed dwarfed by the size of the back yard. She and I sat at the glass and wrought iron table out on the deck, sharing a pot of green tea while Dmitri worked on tilling a patch of ground for her medicinal herb garden. Patches of veggies grew among herbs. Purple foxglove mingled with lavender and calendula as an improvised fence around the railroad-tie lined garden beds. There were trees laden with immature fruit that would end up either as wine, preserves or baskets of fresh-picked goodies for the neighbors. Hops strung from the eaves of the house's backside acted as a curtain shading the deck.

  A profusion of blooms scented the air and helped to attract all manner of insects that seemed to find me irresistible. I don't care if ladybugs do eat aphids, I just don't want the damn things crawling on me. Beneficial bugs are still bugs, and her back yard jungle was teeming with six-legged critters.

  Her turquoise caftan sleeve caught the breeze like a kite and she raised her voice above the rototiller's din. “You know, it must stem from some incident in one of your past lives. Dr. Neilsinhaur can help you get to the bottom of it, I just know he can... Some past life regression is just what you need!” Willow's enthusiasm for past life regression was legendary. Give her enough time on the subject and she'd mention her “favorite” past life.

  And then as if on cue, she continued on her train wreck of thought. “I mean that's why I can't be in a relationship. My past life as Lady Jane Grey has caused me to distrust any man who has an interest in me because I was used so horridly. Can you imagine what it was like for a sixteen-year-old girl to be placed on the throne by greedy, manipulative men? Married to a repulsive toady? Beheaded!” She paused and heaved a deep sigh. You'd think that after making such a discovery, she'd be able to process it and move on. Not so. And I bet her reading all those historical romance novels set in the Tudor Era doesn't help one iota.

  “You know my stance on that quackery, Willow. I don't need anyone to plant ideas in my mind to justify actions in this life. If I were to see a doctor, it'd be a therapist to help me cope with my mother.” There. Gauntlet thrown.

  She made finger-quotes and mouthed the word “quackery” with a sarcastic shake of her head. “It's not bullshit. You simply don't understand the nuances of regression. And Dr. Neilsinhaur is a therapist, too. Certified, licensed, accredited... all the good things one should seek in a mental health professional.” She stopped for a moment and looked like she was in deep contemplation. “I propose a deal. You see Dr. Neilsinhaur, and I'll stay out of your way with wedding planning. I'll help only when asked.”

  Dammit! She had me by the throat. Give her an inch and she'd plan the whole thing, probably even include Jumping the Broom-- something she did at her own four weddings. “Very tempting, I will grant you, but...” I really didn't want to encourage her in the madness she chose to pursue. And she knew that I couldn't cut her completely off from helping with the wedding, so it's not too even a trade... but if it kept her from decorating the alter to look like a holodeck with a Ferengi as the officiant, it was worth investigating. And I sure as hell didn't want her handling the guest-list and inviting my father... if he ever made it out of the Mexican prison... I never asked and if he did, she never mentioned it.

  “You see him once. Only once. And I'll keep my nose out of your wedding. Promise. I'll even pinky swear to it.” Her faded blond braids swung to and fro as she tried to contain her excitement at getting me to do her bidding. She held up a pinky and wiggled it, as if a pinky swear were as legally binding as a contract. “C'mon... you know you want to.” She reminded me of a happy puppy, bouncing with glee. “Come on, Kaylis....”

  My mother is quirky. I was encouraged to call her by her first name when I made the momentous growing up moment of going to the bathroom by myself for the first time. “We are now equals, so you can call me by my real name. You can call me Willow instead of Mama.” or something like that. I suppose being able to use the toilet levels life's playing field. Willow doesn't know how to take No for an answer. She'll wheedle her way to a Yes, even going to the lengths of doing it on principle. This pinky swearing thing is one of the obnoxious yet adorable moments my quirky mother uses because she knows it works on me. It's my life's goal to not be the head-perpetually-stuck-in-the-clouds-go-with-the-flow-kind-of-person. This is the bane of my mother's existence, hence her use of emotional bribery.

  “I don't like the idea of someone planting ideas in my head. I'm not cool with that in the least.” A glance towards Dmitri revealed him raking the newly churned earth even. Wheelbarrow of compost stood at the ready to be forked into the patch.

  Willow sighed. “The first visit is more like an interview. You get to know him, he gets to know you. No head tripping. At least not with me. If you are lucky, he'll use the Forest Room. It's beautiful.” A look of rapture made her glow. “And I'm only asking one visit out of you for our little deal...” her voice trailed off and her pinky waved ferociously anew as a smile spilled across her unwrinkled face.

  Dammit.

  My mother is good.

  Chapter Three-

  “So let me get this right. You spewed on Dmitri Branimir when he got on bended knee? Puked on him at such a crucial moment in his life-- you know, the moment where he opens himself up to the woman he adores. And you fucking puke on him? In front of a whole dining room. Sweet Jumping Jesus, Kaykay, are you trying to drive that man away? Or is this some form of freakish Croatian courtship I want to know nothing about?”

  Jet never, ever, ever sugarcoats anything. It's why I consider her my closest friend. Librarian by day, tattooed model by night; she's my dose of cold water in the face for dealing with reality. I'm positive that her brain lacks a central
censoring system to moderate that which plops out of her mouth. She is also always seemingly equipped with mimosa fixings, which at this moment, during this conversation-- not even an hour after dealing with my maternal unit's irritating coercing-- is a very good thing. Safely ensconced at home while Dmitri finished his gardening, I was eager to get into the verbal free-for-all with my best friend.

  Let the drinking commence, courtesy of Jetnia Akbari. Half American mutt, half Balinese, pure attitude. At a stately height of five foot nine when barefoot, in her perpetual heels, she towers over my five foot nine-and-a-half frame. Her long, black hair possessed a smattering of bright green streaks which were a new addition since I saw her three days ago. They matched her personality; bright, obvious and somewhat obnoxious.

  We sat in the living room as she continued on her tirade. “The man who has stuck by you in the shittiest of shitty years of your life, the guy who pretty much worships the ground you tread and the air you breathe, this same paragon of manly virtue who took you to the most expensive place in Chico so he could ask you to marry him was puked upon? I can't even wrap my brain around it. What the fuck were you thinking?” She wasn't watching as she poured the champagne into her glass. She left just enough room for splash of orange juice. I'm certain it was there for coloring, not flavor.

  “You know, when you put it that way, it doesn't make me feel as bad as when I spewed on him. So, yeah. Thanks for driving the point home. I already feel horrible.”

  “That's a given. But why?”

  “I don't know. Felt scared shitless when I realized this was it, the proposal. Went from Oh My God to Pukey Brewster.” The look in his eyes the moment afterward it registered in his brain... I can never wipe that from my mind – and I've tried. “I can't believe I'll tell the kids we'll adopt that when Daddy asked Mommy to marry him, Mommy upchucked on him like a drunken sorority girl at her first frat party.” I didn't sip my mimosa. I downed it like a man dying of thirst and poured myself another. “Maybe I'll tell my kids that he proposed during Rocky Horror Picture Show. That's less embarrassing, right?” A shred of hope lingered in my voice.