Page 69 of A Dead End Wedding

"Deedee! Why didn't you come outside and tell us you were here? I want to hear all about your meeting with poor Charlie."

My Aunt Celia was gorgeous, and the only person in the universe I'd ever allow to call me Deedee. Her peaches and cream complexion—'never, ever sit in the sun, December, unless you want to look like a rhinoceros when you're fifty'—and strawberry-blonde hair still drew male attention. From the stories Uncle Nathan liked to tell, she and my mom were the prettiest sisters in northern Florida back in the day.

All of his stories ended the same way: "Could have had any man she wanted, December. But she picked me." After which Celia would blush and smack Nathan on the arm, muttering something about old reprobates. Their marriage was the kind of wonderful I'd always secretly hoped for, but never really expected. I wasn't making much progress, either, going from a mediocre marriage tonomarriage in one easy step.

Which reminded me I didn't have any furniture, either. I moaned and rested my head on the countertop.

"Oh, no. Is it that bad? Did that other lawyer mess up poor Charlie's case?" Celia stuck her face really close to mine and peered into my eyes.

"No, no. I was moaning about my missing furniture, not poor Charlie, er, I mean Mr. Deaver. And you know I can't talk about my clients, Aunt Celia. Client confidentiality and all that."

Celia tsked. She thinks client confidentiality shouldn't apply to the relatives who practically raised you. She wandered off to the other side of the counter, peering in the pot simmering on the stove.

"What is that, Max? Did you add the rosemary? What about the fresh peas?"

Max put her hands on Celia's shoulder and drew her away from the stove. "Yes, I did. Don't you think you should wear those nice glasses of yours, so you can see what's cooking without having to stick your face right in the pot?"

"Hmmph. I don't need glasses. Anyway, they make my face look fat."

I rolled my eyes. "Right, fat is a big problem for all one hundred pounds of you. Do you want me to get Uncle Nathan?"

"I honestly don't care if you get him or not. Thatman. Honestly. Margaret Pelman clipped half of my azalea bush with her Continental, because she was trying to get out of here so fast. If he'd justthinkbefore he goes all plotty in the middle of a luncheon. A board meeting luncheon, no less."

Nathan had walked inside during the last part of her recitation. "Me going all plotty paid for our cruise to Alaska last summer, dear. And the tour of the Pacific Northwest. You seemed to like Vancouver well enough." His voice was mild, and I could see the amusement in his eyes. Sometimes I thought he pulled the absent-minded mystery writer act to get a rise out of Celia.

It always worked.

As we dished up and dug into the delicious chicken-something-with-a-French-name that had been this month's cooking magazine's featured selection, Celia turned her attention to me. "I've referred all my friends down at the Center to you, dear. I hope you're up on your wills and trusts law. These people aren't getting any younger. We've had three different quadruple bypasses in the past six weeks."

Before I could respond, she moved on to Max. "Speaking of not getting any younger, I've found the perfect man for you. He works on the construction crew that's renovating the kitchen at the Center, and he's a total hottie."

She beamed a smile at Max. She'd been trying to fix both of us up with 'a nice boy so you can settle down' for about ten years now. Well, except during my marriage.

Max paused, fork halfway to her mouth. "Total hottie? Have you been watching MTV again? You didn't order any more DVDs, did you? That teen queen pop festival you put us through last month nearly melted my ears."

Celia narrowed her eyes. "I have to say, Maxine, you were much nicer during your pageant years. Whatever happened toworld peace?"

"Youtry being peaceful when you have to superglue swimsuits to your butt."

I stepped in to help. "What does he do on the construction crew? Is he the foreperson or just a lowly carpenter? Nothing but the best for our Max, after all."

Celia stopped buttering her roll. "Hmm. I'm not sure, but he has a drill kind of thing. And a really big hammer."

4

After we'd finally quit laughing and cleaned up the dishes, while Celia issued a good-natured lecture on childish behavior, I borrowed a sleeping bag and headed out to my house. Celia and Nathan had invited me to stay with them until my furniture arrived, but I wanted to spend the first night in my new rental house, actuallyinmy new house. (Not that they were letting me pay any rent, yet, but still. I was keeping track and was going to pay it all retroactively once I got the business going.)

Thirty minutes later, I sat on the floor in my borrowed sleeping bag, surrounded by boxes, and toasted myself with a paper cup of wine and a Krispy Kreme donut.

To a new life and a new December.

In fewer than seventy-two hours, I'd find out that my old life wasn't quite done with me yet.

Polished hardwood floors are much better to look at than sleep on, so I gave up and headed for the office early. Getting in at seven would be all productive and business-owner-like. I'd have at least an hour and a half of quiet time to catch up on the paperwork I hadn't had time for the day before. Law is usually about five percent excitement to ninety-five percent paperwork, despite what you see on TV.

As I pulled into my private parking space—Max had painted my name on it in big blue letters—I smiled to myself.I can do this. Running a law firm isn't that hard.

"Are you running a law firm here or what? Where the hell have you been?"

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