“May I see that?” I request. Bea hands me the notice. I look at it briefly, then sneeze into it, and crumble it like a tissue. “I’m sorry, I’m allergic to fuckwads. Now, if you wouldn’t mind, the missus and I have a life to attend to–a life with lots of love, sex, and children, regardless of our financial situation.”
Chris smirks at me, then he and his bodyguard leave. Grandma and Eric are first to console Bea.
“Honey, I’m so sorry,” Grandma explains. “I tried everything to block him, but we’re too far behind and the bank insisted.”
“At least we’ll have the proceeds from the sale, right?” Bea asks.
“Actually, there are no proceeds. It was a short sale,” Grandma laments. “I’m being tossed out as well. We’ll both be homeless for a bit.”
“Nobody’s going to be homeless. I have plenty of room at my place. I’d be honored to have two guests to try my recipes on.”
“He does make a mean french toast,” Grandma kids.
“I’ll prepare a chore list of each of you, and we’ll discuss your allowance.”
Bea smiles, finally.
“Hey, let’s deal with this tomorrow,” I suggest. “It will work out.”
“I know, Husband. Eric and I have been working on a project that should solve this predicament,” Bea recovers.
“Husband. I like the sound of that, Wife,” I assure Bea. I hold her face between my hands, wipe the tears with my thumbs, and kiss her. “Let’s save what’s left of the day and have fun with our guests.”
The sunset reception is wonderful, but Chris floats around the back of my mind. When I visit the bar to freshen my bourbon, Eric joins me.
“So, Eric, tell me about this project you’re working on.”
“Not yet, Mormon. We need a few more commitments. You’ll be blown away, if we can pull this off.”
“Well, let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”
“I don’t want my expectant wife to stress over this.”
“Agreed. She’s a strong woman. She’ll be fine.”
“Cool. What are you drinking?”
When we sit for dinner, I tease Bea about her dress.
“That was a great fucking idea, right there. You have no idea the butterflies you gave me when you came through that door.”
“Aw. I’m so glad you like it.”
“We do need to find an air vent, though, so we can have the true Marilyn effect.”
“Hm, can’t do that.”
“I’m not wearing underwear.”
“Not even a thong?”
“Commando,” she insists as she slides my hand from her knee to her sexiness.
“Here comes the bride … again,” I tease.
We agree to postpone our honeymoon until after we deal with the move. There must be a way to extract Chris from our lives. Our wedding night in the suite is memorable and exhausting. Although the bed is cushy, Lovergirl insists we do it on a wooden chair because “we haven’t done that yet.” I’ll never say no to love, regardless of the playing surface. Still, my sore ass wishes I would be more discerning.
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