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was psyching myself up for all the glitz and glamour of the Plaza—decided on something low-key, just for family and close friends. That still equated to about two hundred people. But at least there were no paparazzi.
    Paul and I cut the cake, which was a traditional three-tiered affair but with the Grease car on top with Danny and Kenickie sitting in the front seat, their arms around each other’s shoulders. I was pleased when Paul told me the model was ceramic and not made of some fancy edible marzipan. It would take pride of place on our mantel.
    We danced, ate, mingled, drank, sang, and danced some more. It was the perfect night. It wasn’t until late, when the party started to die down and Paul and I were the only ones on the dance floor, swaying to our song that I asked him about our honeymoon destination. Up until then it had been a secret, with Paul and the rest of his tight-lipped family refusing to tell me.
    “Where did Danny’s love interest come from?” Paul asked, lifting his head from my shoulder and staring into my eyes. His were a little mischievous for my liking.
    “Kenickie is from the same town as Danny.”
    “Not Kenickie. Sandy.”
    “Oh. I don’t see Sandy anymore. My Sandy has a cocky smirk, a penis, and a cigarette hanging out of her mouth. But
she
was from Sydney.” It took me another second to realize what Paul had just told me.
    “Oh my god! We’re going to Australia!”