Page 68 of A Dead End Wedding

"I'm not so great at the moment, Mike. All that showed up was one small U-Haul with my most beloved — but least useful — possessions. So now I have a new house with nothing in it but my Carnival Chalk horse collection, my antique side table, my stuffed tigers, and Grandma's Depression glass. None of this is very helpful for daily life, you understand." I blew out a breath. "By the way, when did you hire Brenda? What happened to Mrs. Prosser?"

"She retired to Florida to be with her grandchildren. Seems like all the women in my life are moving to Florida."

I could hear the sadness in his voice. Mike had believed that another year or two of marriage counseling would fix us. I knew it wouldn't—all the talking in the world can't create chemistrywhere there isn't any. Best friends should never get married just because it's comfortable.

I tried for humor. "Well, the women may move to Florida, but the furniture isn't. Are you sure you shipped everything?"

"Absolutely. Let me check my daily planner. Hey, I got one of those PDAs—my daily planner is electric now. You should get one. OK, here it is. Yes, exactly one week ago today at 4:35, we finished loading your things into one large moving truck and one small U-Haul. ETA, your house is listed here as today. So, you're saying the big truck didn't show up?"

"That's right. I called the moving company, but the dispatcher is gone for the day, and nobody else knows what's going on. I thought I'd confirm with you before I yell at them tomorrow." I sighed and studied the ruins of my manicure. This is why I went to law school in the first place. So I didn'thaveto hump boxes. I sighed again.

"Let me know what they say, and whether there's anything we can do on this end. Brenda said she'd be glad to follow up with them for you."

I could hear Brenda's muffled voice in the background and was tempted. But no, this wasmynew life. I could handle my own problems. "Thanks, but I've got it under control. I'll let you know what happens. Take care, Mike, and hugs to Brenda for me."

I stood up and stretched and thought about how much I didn't want to unpack right now. Especially collections of fragile items when I had no shelves. Or tables.

Or a bed, come to think of it. I sighed again. Better see if I can borrow a sleeping bag from Aunt Celia at dinner tonight.The deadbeat college student theme continues.

When I pulled up in the driveway of Aunt Celia and Uncle Nathan's two-story Georgian, I saw that Max's Mini Cooper was already there. I parked my despised ("It's practical, and you need a practical car, now that you're spending all your money on this new venture," Mike'd said, which is one of the many reasons I'd divorced him. Who wants to be married to a man who thinks practical cars are the way to go?) ten-year-old Civic behind it and slammed the door.

"Oh, for Pete's sake, December. Move it in here and tell us all about poor Charlie." Max was standing at the door, wiping her hands on a dish towel. The matador look was gone, replaced by a pink-flowered summer dress. She looked like an ad for some Florida tourist resort aimed right at the male market; all "come drink your fruity umbrella drink with me." I looked like a sweaty, dirty escapee from a home for frizzy-haired women just from the drive over. By the time the AC in the Honda cranked up, I'd usually already gotten where I was going.

Freaking practical cars.

"I hate this freaking car. Have I told you about my precious baby? My darling convertible? My lipstick-red, sunshine-convertible, rolling example of brilliance in German engineering that shouted I Am A Wanton Sex Goddess?"

She rolled her eyes. "Your car was a wanton sex goddess?"

"Not the car, you idiot. Me! And, you know, now that you work for me, you might try treating me with a little respect," I said, grinning as I walked up to the door. Max was the tiara-wearing sister I'd never had.

She snorted out a laugh. "Yeah, keep dreaming, O Wanton One. The chicken is almost ready, and the kids are out on the back deck, bickering."

We walked through the house, comfortably decorated with overstuffed sofas and bright colors. As the president of the Orange Grove senior citizens' association, or the Center, as she called it, Aunt Celia entertained quite a bit, and the profusion of red pillows and miniature parrot figurines from her collection made her home as warm and quirky as she was.

Max headed for the kitchen, and I followed, hoping for a quick bite of something and maybe a glass or six of wine.

"Are you all settled in?" She put a glass on the breakfast bar and pushed an open bottle of Chardonnay toward me, then started chopping salad vegetables. The spicy aroma of whatever was simmering on the stove almost made me drool.

"Don't get me started. Not only am Inotsettled, but my furniture truck is missing in action. My house is currently decorated with cardboard boxes filled with carnival chalk horses and Depression glass."

"Chalk horses?"

"It seemed like a good idea at the time. Don't ask."

I poured a healthy dose of wine and then looked out the sliding glass doors at Celia and Nathan. She was standing over him and shaking her finger as he sat, arms folded over his chest, in a wooden deck chair.

"What's up with them?"

Max laughed. "Nathan came down from his office in the middle of Celia's board meeting luncheon and begged a sandwich, then stood there and went off on a riff about how easy it would be to poison chicken salad, and what if there were a serial killer who murdered random social club committee members from town to town and—this was in total gorefest mode, mind you—howookydeath by arsenic would be."

I was laughing helplessly at the end of the story. I could visualize it perfectly. Nathan always got this blank, glazed look in his eyes when he was plotting a book, and he loved the gory details. "Oh, no."

"Oh,yes. Cleared the room in no time, according to Celia, who is especially miffed that they never got to try the mini pecan cheesecakes she'd made. So, be prepared to eat a lot and pile on the compliments over the cheesecakes, or we're all in for a long night."

She'd finished cutting veggies and was mixing oils and vinegars in a mysterious blend with some fresh herbs. Max and Celia each had the gourmet cooking gene that I totally lacked. I'm a champion eater, though.

I heard the glass door sliding open and turned on my stool.

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