We got married one week after Labor Day at Peter Beard’s house. That day we went waterskiing and invited everyone to watch. Cynthia wore a veil and I had a super-tacky tuxedo shirt on. We did that thing where we were both waterskiing at the same time.
I interviewed Cynthia for BlackBook magazine in 1997. We were both married to other people at the time. We reconnected in Montauk in 2002, and that’s when we got together, summer romance and all that. I proposed at The Taj Mahal in May 2005. I had planned it. It was 105 degrees, and I got down on one knee and said, “Let me ask you something.”
We were married by a surfing judge named Joan. She read a bunch of love letters that Rita Hayworth had written Orson Welles, something like, “You are my life, my very life, never imagine your approximation of my love for you can match what I carry in my heart.”
One of my nieces carried our daughter Gigi out — she was six months old, and she was sleeping. We wanted to have a banner that would fly over us that said, “You may now kiss the bride,” but it was too stormy for them to fly. It rained during dinner, which was lobster and fries.
Afterward we rolled up the flaps of the tent — there was a lightning storm and we were on 75-foot cliffs. Everyone was hanging out on the cliffs and dancing. To this day, Cynthia still makes me eat our wedding cake on our anniversary, even though it’s seven years old.