Page 106 of A Dead End Wedding

"It's not box twelve hundred and twelve," Mr. Ellison said triumphantly, almost jumping up and down with excitement. "It's the box that responds to request for production twelve and interrogatory twelve. See? Twelve and twelve!"

I grabbed the document requests out of his hand and flipped pages until I got to twelve. "Blah, blah, blah . . . communication with the FDA," I muttered, then put the papers down and started pulling file folders out of the box. "Regulatory division . . .Dear Mr. . .holy crap, you're right! Do they all match up like this?"

"Every one in this room does," he said, grinning.

I grabbed him and hugged him. "Mr. Ellison, you are a genius! I – oh, sorry," I said, dropping my arms and backing away.

Not really a hugger.Plus, "don't hug your employees" is probably pretty standard in the employee manual I have yet to write.

He looked at the floor and shuffled his feet, the tips of his ears bright red. "Aw, that's all right. I can see how you might get carried away. I always had that effect on the ladies."

Max, who had been standing there gaping, burst out laughing. "And you still do, Mr. Ellison. Because I just might have to kiss you."

He flinched and looked up at her, looking alarmed and hopeful all at the same time. "Now, now. I don't want you two to ruin a perfectly good friendship fighting over me. I'm sure there are plenty of men out there your own age," he said, sidling toward the door.

Before either Max or I could say a word, we heard an unfamiliar female voice call out in a musical tone. "Oh, Mr. Ellison! Will you be a dear and come help me set up?"

He winked at us. "Too many women, not enough time." Then he rushed out of the room, leaving Max and me staring after him.

"Did he—" I asked.

"Does he—" she asked.

Then we cracked up. By the time I could catch my breath, I had tears rolling down my face. "This is . . . this is great, though. Saved by the bus driver."

"Yeah, it's a good thing his neighbor bulldozed his shed, or we'd never be able to get a thing done," she said, which set us off again.

Finally, the sounds of clattering and clinking broke through our laughter, and I looked up. "Wait a minute. Did she say, 'help me set up'? And whowasthat? What is she setting up?"

Max grabbed my arm. "Even worse. Is that smell . . .tuna casserole?"

We hit the door running.

I slowed down at the end of the hall to look more sedate and . . . lawyerly. Max didn't bother, so she shoved past me. When I reached her and looked over at her shoulder, Aunt Celia was standing in the middle of the room, directing a stream of blue-haired ladies — who each held casserole dishes — toward the table behind the reception desk. The unmistakable scent of tuna casserole perfumed the air.

And chicken casserole.

And – was that – Spam?Euwww. I plastered a smile on my face and threaded my way through what Mr. Ellison had called the casserole brigade to Aunt Celia. "Um, what's going on?"

She beamed at me. "Isn't it wonderful? All of my friends are here to help. They brought lunch, and they're going to help you with all of those files. Stella and Margaret and Helen and so many others brought casseroles and lovely pies. Isn't that sweet?"

"It's very sweet," I said, then leaned over to whisper in her ear. "Tell me everyone's name, so I can say thank you. I really appreciate the offer, but this is complicated work. I'm not sure they could help much."

She grabbed my arm and pulled me to the door, away from everybody. Then she put her hands on her hips and whispered back at me. "Now December Vaughn. You were not raised to think that just because a person is mature, she or he is not extremely capable. Mr. McChesney used to run our local branch of Bank of America. Stella was a paralegal for forty-three years. They've all offered to help you, and I'd think you'd be more grateful."

"Trust me, I'm very grateful for every bit of help I can get," I assured her, trying to put lots of enthusiasm in my voice, although my shiny new law practice was being bailed out by octogenarians armed with tuna casserole. It made me feel about twelve years old.

As I tried to find something else to say that would make Aunt Celia quit giving me the "I'd disappointed in you, dear" look, the door swung open and smacked me in the butt. Hard.

"Ouch!" I jumped and rubbed the place that was certain to have an enormous bruise by tomorrow, and my surprise guest walked in and looked down at me, grinning.

I should have known.

"Hello, Brody," I said, resigned to never looking like anything but a complete and total idiot around the man.

"I'm sorry, Vaughn. Didn't mean to hit you with the door. Are you okay? Anything broken?"

"You—" I started, but Aunt Celia put her hand on my arm and interrupted.

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