The M4 fleet of airplanes leaves early Wednesday to this perfect resort island, a favorite among celebrities. Private residences and beach bungalows occupy most of the land, along with a central resort hotel building where all cars arrive and depart from; the rest of the island is accessible only by golf carts, bicycles, or on foot.
Our reception will be held at the island botanical gardens, a mere three-minute walk from the chapel.
When the fleet of M4 airplanes land, Saint, my mother, and I emerge from one of the planes. Another brings Tahoe, Callan, and a dozen of Saint’s friends. Another flies in Wynn, Gina, Valentine, Sandy, and my old Edge colleagues. One more carries Saint’s business acquaintances. A handful more fly in our security and wedding crew.
Everyone is impressed by the lush surroundings and the deliciously warm breeze because Malcolm Saint and I are getting married in paradise.
“Wow.” Tahoe strides over and slaps Malcolm’s back, his Texan drawl coming out. “You did good, man.”
Saint laughs and slaps him back. “Tell me something new.”
