Page 118 of A Dead End Wedding

I lifted my head and stared at her. "I only banged it once, then I realized it was stupid to hurt the front of my head when I already have stitches in the back. Not that anybody cares."

I put my head down on my folded arms on my desk and tried not to cry.

Then I tried not to think about why I wanted to cry.

Then I started crying, anyway.

Damn ex-husbands.

Max rushed over and started patting my back. "Oh, honey, what's wrong?"

I sat up and dug in a desk drawer for my travel pack of tissues. After I blew my nose hugely, I took a deep breath. "Mike's marrying my secretary," I mumbled.

"WHAT? That rat bastard! We hate him!"

"No, it's okay. And, anyway, she'shissecretary now," I said.

"Even worse! It's sexual harassment. We hate him!"

"No, it's not sexual harassment. He asked her to marry him, not do him in the file room," I said, cringing at the thought.

"What kind of man gets married before the ink is even dry on your divorce papers? We hate him!" She stalked around the room, fists clenched.

My shoulders slumped, and I shook my head. "Thanks, Max, but there's no need for the best friend's moral support parade. I'm the one who dumpedhim, remember? And I love Brenda like a sister. It's just . . . it's just . . . stupid."

She finally sat down and looked at me with way too much perception. Damn beauty queens. "It's just that he's not supposed to get over you so soon or so easily, right? Can we hate him for that?"

I laughed. Or, at least, I think I laughed. It sounded a little hiccupy. "No hating. I'll have to call him back and congratulate him. And send them a present or something. Is there some guideline for what kind of gift you send when your ex-husband gets engaged to your ex-secretary? I bet Miss Manners doesn't have a chapter on that!"

My phone rang before I could answer. It was Mr. Ellison. "Hey, it's that camera man from the invoice, December. He says he'll only talk to you."

"Thanks, Mr. Ellison. Please put him through. Thanks for all of your hard work today, by the way," I said.

"Fair day's work for a fair day's wage. That's how I was brought up, girlie," he said, then I heard the clicking noise that signaled a line change.

"December Vaughn here. Thanks for calling. To whom am I speaking?"

"Don't worry about that," a man said in a low voice. "Look, I can't talk about this on the phone. We have to meet."

I shot Max a puzzled glance. "I think you have the wrong person. This is December Vaughn, and I'm only calling to ask you about the date you filmed a TV commercial for Greenberg Smithies."

"Yeah, I know who you are. Look, this is turning into a big nightmare. I can't – wait," he said, then I heard muffled talking. I waited about thirty seconds, and he finally came back on the line. "Look, Ms. Vaughn, I can meet you tomorrow. Tomorrow at noon, at . . . at the MOSH. Do you know it?"

"Mosh?" I asked, waving Max over to listen in. She nodded and did a thumbs up at the word mosh.

"Okay, noon at the mosh. Anyplace specific?"

"Uh, at the planetarium. There's a show on Mars that starts then. I'll be in the back row on the left of the door you go in, and I'll be wearing a red hat. Be on time, or I'm outta there."

I wrote down the specifics, then looked at Max and made a finger-twirling by my ear sign, a universal symbol for "nutcase alert." "Mars show, back row, left side, red hat. I'll see you there, Mr. . . .?"

"Don't be late," he warned. Then the line went dead. I put my phone down and stared at Max. "Either I'm dreaming all of this, or I've just walked into a B movie."

"Or a bad soap opera," she offered, helpfully. "The MOSH is the Museum of Science and History, by the way. Cool place. Are you going to meet him?"

"How can I resist after all that buildup? Don't tell Mr. Ellison, he'll think he was right about that government conspiracy stuff."

She shuddered. "If he ever says the words 'anal probes' again, I'm so out of here."

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