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There aren't many people to invite. Vlad sends his warmest congratulations--and his regrets. Maggie accepts delightedly, as does, unexpectedly, Sterling. Tara says, "You're crazy, but you know I'll be there." Neighbors from Boston, staff members from the brewpub, Sophie's best acting students.
She saves the best for last.
She thought she was dialing Parker, but she must've mixed up the numbers, because the voice that answers is deep, exuberant, and in many other ways not Parker.
"Oh, Hardison, how wonderful to hear your voice!" Sophie cries.
There's a long pause on the other end, then, "Sophie?"
"Darling, how are you? I'm sorry; I thought I was calling Parker, if you're in the middle of something--"
"Naw, lady, it's cool. It's Parker's phone; I was just closer." There's a muffling sound, like Hardison's put his hand over the phone, and then, "Yo, dudes, shush. I'm talking to Sophie."
There's a lot of squealing, then a lot of jostling, then Hardison saying, "Baby, get your elbow outta Eliot's face," and then Parker, for once, snarling, "Damn it, Hardison!" Sophie feels so peaceful.
"Sophie!" Parker shouts. "We stole Lehman Brothers!"
"We thought that was you." Sophie smiles. "It was a very distinctive con."
Eliot mutters in the background, but it's drowned out by Parker and Hardison's bright bursts of laughter. "Where you at, beautiful?" Hardison asks.
"St. Kitts and Nevis."
"What's to steal there?" Sophie swears she hears Parker's confused eyebrow tilt.
"Nothing. That's what makes it perfect. How's the pub?"
"Eliot's menu is amazing," Hardison says instantly.
"Yeah, and Hardison's beers don't suck anymore," Eliot says, and there are some shuffling sounds that aren't quite what Sophie expects from Hardison hitting Eliot, although she supposes they could be.
"And," Hardison adds, "Parker is owning the people aspect. Staff management, advertising, all that stuff."
Sophie's heart fills with a warm glow she can barely contain. "We're so proud of all of you," she says, laughing when they trail into embarrassed insistence that it's really nothing.
(In San Tropez, the sky was cloudless blue and the drinks were strong and comped. An elderly American in an unconscionable hat sat down beside Sophie and started asking deeply invasive questions about her personal life, which Sophie answered gleefully, piling lie upon lie.
When the woman asked if she had children, she replied, "Three," without hesitation and pulled out the last Leverage Christmas photo. It had been taken at the lowest point in the Chubby Snubby mess, everyone out of sorts. Parker and Hardison have too many points of contact between them for siblings who aren't ancient Egyptian royalty. Eliot stands behind them, arms crossed, scowl showing every day of his age, making him look like Sophie's surly older brother.
But the woman in the hat got stuck on Hardison and said, very carefully, "Is he…adopted?"
Sophie nodded, making sure the woman was tracking her finger as it stroked gently over Eliot's face in the picture. "Yes, but we've always made it clear we don't love him any less.")
"Listen, then," Sophie says, "I'm calling to ask you all to be in the wedding."
Puzzled silence is not the reaction she expects. But it's what she gets until Parker tentatively asks, "What wedding?"
"Mine and Nate's." More silence. Sophie groans. "You were right there when he proposed!"
A briefer silence this time, followed by a cacophony of, "Oh, yeah, sure, right, no I knew you meant--"
"We figured you'd done it already," Parker blurts.
"Yeah, uh, ran down to a courthouse or found some hokey chapel in Vegas." Hardison pauses. "It's been a year, girl. What've you been doing?"
(As they left the BridgePort for the last time, Sophie making her not-stolen engagement ring wink in the sunlight, she asked, "Is it true that the best part of a wedding is the honeymoon?"
Nate did that half-smiling head-bob of his. "Maggie and I thought so."
"Let's do it first."
They didn't intend to become the Jessica Fletcher of the yacht set. It was just that a rich old man died unexpectedly, and the Barbados police were happy to pin it on his young, dumb wife. But it seemed clear to Sophie and Nate that Ginger, while definitely a gold-digger, was not a killer. They found the evidence incriminating the dead man's jealous brother and went about their lives with a sense of righteousness. But people kept dying around them, and they kept being the only ones willing to undertake an in-depth investigation. It was getting creepy.
One morning, after ten months of that, Sophie looked at Nate across the galley of The Long Con and said, a bit startled, "You asked me to marry you."
Nate blinked back and said, "I did."
"Maybe we should do that.")
"Never you mind. Did you honestly think we would get married without the three of you?"
Properly chastened, the kids take down the time and location details. "If any of you are seeing anyone, please bring them."
Another unexpected silence falls. "Uh, yeah," Hardison says, voice strangled. "We'll keep it in mind."
(She struggled against their agreement not to contact each other for a year after the retirement. Every time news broke of another Black Book big-shot brought low, her fingers twitched toward her phone to make that celebratory call.
She got what Nate was doing, making Parker, Hardison, and Eliot stand on their own six feet. Truly, the last thing Sophie wanted was to advise them on heists. What she missed was the daily contact. She no longer knew how long Eliot's hair was, or which kitchen appliance had received the latest mega-upgrade from Hardison, or what social nicety Parker had finally mastered. For now she only missed the players, not the game, but she missed them fiercely.)
Hardison pauses and then says, "Hey, guys, this wedding's gonna be right near the--"
"No!" Parker and Eliot snap in unison.
"But we could take the--"
"Hardison, no," they say again, and Hardison subsides with a grumble. Sophie barely holds back a giggle. They're doing all right, her family.
*
When holding a 50-guest wedding in an all-inclusive Caribbean resort, wearing clothes already in her possession, there's nothing for a bride to do, nowhere to vent her Bridezilla tendencies. Sophie stands at the base of the stairs to the platform where she and Nate will plight their troths, one hand fisted in her hair, watching the too-efficient resort staff bustle around.
A warm, gruff chuckle in her ear zooms straight to her toes. "The great Sophie Devereaux," Eliot says, "a director without a production."
"Eliot!" Sophie shouts, flinging her arms around him.
His hug back crushes her, and he lifts her off the ground to spin her in a circle. "You look beautiful, darlin'," he says.
"Of course I do. It's my wedding day." She steps back, holding Eliot at arm's length to study him. He looks damned good. His black suit with its dark blue shirt fits deliciously. His hair's long again, the longest she's seen it, and dear lord is that an earring? More than that, he looks calm. Settled. Sure of himself.
"Where's Nate?" he asks.
Sophie waves a hand dismissively toward the bar on the other side of the lawn. "Hiding. He claims he's old-fashioned and shouldn't see the bride before the wedding, but I think he's just scared of me."
"Soph, we're all a little scared of you."
"As you should be. Where are Parker and Hardison?"
"Hardison's...I don't know. He was talking to Maggie, earlier. Parker's inside with Tara. Some kinda girlie dress problem I didn't actually care about." Eliot laughs and pushes his left hand through his hair, and--
"Eliot Spencer, what is that?" She grabs his hand before she can stop and think that grabbing a hitter without warning isn't her smartest idea ever.
The ring looks organic, almost wild. Three narrow bands, white gold, yellow gold, and copper, twist around each other like vines.
Sophie stares at him. "Did you get married?"
Eliot turns an adorable red and ducks his head. "Kinda?"
"And you didn't invite us?" There's more petulance to her tone than she'd like, but it hurts.
"No, Soph, it wasn't--" He huffs and looks away, pinch-faced.
Sophie follows his gaze and finds Hardison, across the grounds chatting with Maggie. He looks incredibly hale, as well. Dressed in the same black suit as Eliot, but with a black shirt underneath, Hardison is a long, dark slash across the landscape, drawing in all light and attention around him. Sophie hums appreciatively.
"Anyway," Eliot says, his drawl heavier, his voice rougher, than a moment ago, "it wasn't a thing." Sophie raises both eyebrows, and he huffs, "A legal...like, a wedding...thing. No witnesses, no license, nobody but us. We said some things needed sayin', exchanged rings, and that was that."
"Ah, Eliot," she sighs. "Such a romantic."
"Yeah, well, they knew what they were gettin' into." He's scowling, but it's a shadow of his old scowl. Whoever this woman is, she's good for him.
"So?" she asks. Eliot looks at her. She gestures; he stares some more. "Where is she?"
Eliot's scowl turns more genuine. "Where's who?"
Honestly. Men. "Your wife, Eliot. Please tell me you brought the poor woman and didn't abandon her while you swanned off to the sunny Caribbean."
Eliot coughs. The cough turns into a startled laugh. "You don't know?" Lower, stunned, he repeats, "She doesn't know."
Now it's Sophie's turn for confusion. "Know what?"
One of Eliot's rare slow grins creeps across his face. He shifts his stance and crosses his arms--game on. "All right, Ms. Devereaux, y'interested in a game?"
Sophie crosses her own arms. "What sort of game?"
Eliot shrugs one shoulder and jerks his chin at the milling guests. "There's, what, 50 people here? You know half? Two thirds? Find them." He waggles his finger. "Find who goes with this."
Something fizzes under Sophie's skin. The thrill of the hunt. A grift at her own wedding. The best gift Eliot could've given her. She nods and sticks out her hand. They shake and Sophie keeps hold of his hand after. "What are we playing for? I'm thinking of the secret recipe for your barley risotto."
It warms her heart, the pride in Eliot's eyes that a dish of his made such an impression on her. "I'll even come to wherever you're holing up and walk you through making it the first time."
"And you?"
"Your boat," he says immediately. "For all of August."
"A whole month?"
Eliot shrugs, unconcerned. "We never got a honeymoon."
Since they're still holding hands from the first shake, it's just an extra press of fingers now and the deed is done. Then the resort's wedding coordinator rushes up to breathlessly gasp that one of Sophie's attendants is suspended from the chandelier and would Sophie please come get her down? Sophie and Eliot smirk at each other, and then Sophie's off to rescue a thief and finally have her long overdue wedding.
*
Like anyone, Sophie hates to lose. But she's always been pragmatic about admitting when she's been bested.
She's talked to almost every woman here. She's badgered Hardison and Parker. She's even asked two women flat out if they’re Eliot's wife. Bupkis.
The problem isn't the women. At least five here are the sort who'd devote their lives to Eliot Spencer. The problem is that she can't imagine Eliot devoting his life to any of them.
"The problem," says a new voice in her ear, "is that you started with a false assumption."
Sophie leans into Nate, her back against his chest, and breathes it in. After everything, to have this moment, with her husband, surrounded by friends and with no one trying to shoot or arrest them--there'd been a time she hadn't allowed herself to believe it was possible, and now that she has it she's going to cling to it as fiercely as she knows how. "What assumption?" she murmurs as she lifts two champagne flutes from a passing tray.
"That you were looking for a wife," Nate replies before relieving her of a flute and lifting it in mocking toast. Well. She married the needlessly cryptic jerk.
Then his words catch up with her, and, no. Just--absolutely not. Eliot's left a trail of pining women all over the world. Never once did he even hint--only, replaying their conversation, Sophie realizes that Eliot never once said "wife," never said "she." Son of a bitch. She supposes, in Eliot's line of work, he wouldn't want that getting around. Still, if he turns out to be other than perfectly straight, she's giving him a piece of her mind about Oslo. A man who could comfortably flirt with other men would've been a godsend on that job.
"That makes it harder," she admits. "I know his type when we're talking about women. I've seen it. Men..." She makes a gesture of surrender. "I'd be flying completely blind."
"Would it be that different? Strong. Clever. Self-assured."
"That's every man we know!"
"Brave," Nate continues. That knocked out one or two. "Respects him but isn't afraid to challenge him."
Now that could really only be--but, no, Eliot wouldn't do that to--
Images flood in almost too fast to process. Eliot and Hardison, standing beside Nate at the altar, right hands folded solemnly over left.
Passing her bouquet to Parker, Parker's fingers obscured by the trailing blooms.
Eliot's sure voice goading Sophie, "Find them. Find who goes with this."
Hardison telling Sophie, "Oh, yeah, a real thrill-seeker."
Parker saying, "I guess protecting people's in Eliot's blood, because he really needed someone to take care of."
She glances toward the head table, which she abandoned an hour ago. Tara's also wandered away, charming the wallet off Nate's last remaining friend from IYS. Only Eliot, Parker, and Hardison are still sitting there.
Hardison leans forward in his chair, draped across Parker's back. One arm stretches behind her, fingers carding gently through the long fall of Eliot's hair. Eliot and Parker each rest a hand on the table, fingers intertwined.
Sophie clicks up to them, the sound of her shoes oddly muffled on the tent's synthetic flooring. "Hands!" she snaps. Instantly, three left hands rise into the air, showing off three identical braided rings. Sophie looms over Eliot from across the table. "I trust the recipe will be in my inbox in the next 24 hours."
Eliot nods, despite Parker's grumbled protest that they practically gave Sophie the game. "We'll talk about the boat later," Nate says, and Parker's squeal is worth any inconvenience they’ll incur for giving up the yacht for a month.
Sophie shakes her head at Eliot. "You're very good, Mr. Spencer."
Eliot smiles almost bashfully. "Honest to god, Soph, we thought you knew all along."
"How would I have known?"
"Seriously?" Eliot squints at her. "You remember, right before you guys left, you asked me to keep them safe?" She nods. "What did I say?"
Sophie draws in a sharp breath. She hasn't forgotten, exactly, but a lot has happened since, and that moment was buried in the back recesses of her mind. "'Til my dying day.'"
"You know me, Sophie," Eliot says quietly. "I don't say what I don't mean. Might not'a been as romantic as droppin' to one knee and pullin' out the fancy ring, but I made my oath. And I aim to keep it."
The looks Hardison and Parker give him are gloriously sappy.
"But the three of you weren't--I mean, not back then," Nate says. "Were you?"
"Course we were," Eliot says, just as Parker says, "Not yet." Eliot glares at Parker, and she growls back.
"Aw, great," Hardison says, turning his free hand palm-up and spreading his fingers in a "now see what you've done" gesture. "You had to get 'em started."
"Now this story I have to hear," Sophie says. She looks for a place to sit, but Nate's beaten her to it, hauling up two chairs from the table behind them. She sits, and waits, and watches. She sees that, though this is a contentious story for Parker and Eliot, they're still holding hands. And she sees that, though Hardison looks like he's a thousand percent over this argument, he hasn't pulled away even an inch from either of the others.
Under the table, Sophie rests her hand on Nate's leg, and his hand covers hers. For one glorious moment, everything is perfect.
Parker leans forward eagerly. "Okay, so, did we ever tell you about the time we stopped the Spanish flu?"