My eyes popped open and I listened to determine what had awakened me from a sound sleep. On the other side of Nat, Caroline was sliding out from underneath the covers.
"Momma!"
I lifted covers and rolled right. I had my feet on the floor first. I hoped we didn't wake Nat up, too, but our baby needed her mommies. Priorities.
Rounding the foot of the bed, Caroline held out my robe. We dressed on the way to Tiffany's room, turning on the hallway's fifteen-watt bulb. Even its dim glow, muted behind a hand-painted bowl, made us squint.
The night-light in Tiffany's room was much dimmer, and easier on the eyes. We could see Tiffany sitting up, clutching Mr. Raggedycoon, her other arm twisting a fist into one eye. Tiffy's expression wasn't so much woebegone as annoyed, until Caroline lay down beside her. Her free hand shot around Caroline's neck, her face butted itself in Momma's robe.
"Bad dream, sweetheart?" A solemn headshake, up and down. "All gone now?" Same headshake. "Want me to stay here until you fall asleep?" A third rendition. "Okay, roll over." Tiffany let go Caroline's neck and settled in. Caroline snuggled down beside her.
I whispered to Caroline, "You just sleep in with her. I'll get the menfolk moving this morning." I leaned past her to kiss Tiffany's cheek, which she promptly rubbed off—scamp—and kissed Caroline, too. She turned her head enough to catch it nearly on the lips. We squeezed hands and I left them, pulling the door loosely closed.
I noticed the light come on under the guest room door. John had to leave early, to catch the ferry to the peninsula. His orders called for him to report to CASA by noon. I figured I'd send the latest family hero off with at least a decent breakfast, so I went to the kitchen.
I'm not a bad cook, but I never get much practice, not with Caroline around. Both our families had the tradition of one stay-at-home mom, though her mothers had rotated that enormous responsibility; in my family, Mama Celeste was eternal mistress of the hearth. But Mama insisted that all her daughters and sons know how.
Scrambled eggs are a snap. Chop a small onion, a mushroom or two, saute in butter and dump in a bowl of eggs, then keep it all moving over low heat until it reached the right firmness. Slabs of bacon under the broiler take no time at all. Slice up some of Caroline's fresh bread from yesterday, butter it, and broil that for a minute or two — voila!
John came into the kitchen as I was setting plates in the breakfast nook. "You shouldn't have gone to all this bother," he said, but he wore a happy grin. He glanced down the hallway. "Will Caroline be getting up before I have to leave?" He seemed wistful, almost hopeful.
I shook my head, but he wasn't looking. "No. Tiffy had a nightmare. Caroline is keeping her company; they'll both sleep in today."
John almost managed to hide his disappointment. I thought I understood. Caroline had confided to me that she and her younger brother had enjoyed some… youthful experimentation, as she put it. She was concerned that John had come away from it with an unrealistic infatuation. One she tried to discourage.
From my vantage, it was more a case of "tried not to encourage." I don't think the feelings were entirely one-sided. It was just that Caroline wasn't willing to violate marital taboo, whatever she might have done as an adolescent. Society frowns on that sort of behavior.
For my part, I think John Carter is excellent husband material. Handsome, trim but well muscled, polite, even-tempered. I could see that if I'd met him before Caroline, a choice would have been difficult. But for the fact of his brotherhood, Nat Caroline and I would by now have held a family council over whether or not to pop the question.
I wonder… Caroline told me that she and John have different biological mothers but the same father. How could they be certain? There are tests, these days, but how did one go about arranging for them? Paternity in a polygamous society isn't usually a matter for concern, babies are the children of all the mothers and fathers.
But if it would make John and Caroline happy, I figured I would have to find out. Quietly. I wouldn't want to raise any false hopes.
I began to consider John from a different perspective. Okay, I'd need to find out quickly and quietly.
David hugged Marla goodbye while Arthur kissed Melody, then they swapped. Their wives stayed in the open door, smiling and waving until they were in the car and out of the driveway. Even with their hair sleep-tussled, their figures hidden in bulky robes, David thought his wives heartrendingly gorgeous.
"Dave," Art said, breaking into his pleasant thoughts, "do you feel like going to work this morning is like taking a vacation?"
Dave laughed. "Feeling a little worn out, Art?"
Art nodded. "Getting pregnant is hard work!"
"Maybe," David agreed, still laughing, "but you have to admit the wages are great."
"You think so?" Art groaned through a grin. "I guess maybe you're right. I'm gonna miss all this overtime when they cut us back to regular hours."
"Your problem is, you're putting it in terms of a job. Making a baby isn't a job, it's an adventure!"
"Dave, ol' husband, ol' pal, you ought to go into advertising. That'd make a great slogan for some company. Maybe even the military."
"Oh, sure, I can see it on the recruiting posters. 'The Army: It's not a job, it's an adventure.'" They both laughed. "So, anyway, what's your 'vacation' schedule this week? How's the Birmingham coming?"
"I'm done with Birmingham until trials. This week we're doing the same mods on Chattanooga, upgrading launch systems and fire control. Piece of cake. Then, if all goes well, I get a shot at the upgrades on that new sub, the Areolee."
"The 'Areolee?' They named a sub after anatomy?"
"Nah. It's the Robert E. Lee. Areolee—R. E. Lee, get it?—is just a very unofficial nickname." Arthur snickered. "I hear the skipper of that boat has a conniption every time he hears it. Seems his name is R. E. Lee, too." They laughed again.
Things were quiet for a few minutes as David negotiated his way into the inbound shipyard traffic queue. David had been thinking. "Are you going to ride that sub for recommissioning trials?"
"Probably, if I get to do the upgrades. Why?"
"Well, you know the tradition about tee-shirts?"
"Sure." At this shipyard, civilian riders on Navy vessels generally had a clever message printed on tee-shirts worn for the ride. It was a long-standing tradition. The leading contender for the next ship due out of the yards was "There ain't no fat on a Birming Ham."
"How about, 'I love to go down on your Areolee'?"
Arthur burst into laughter. When he had it under control, he said, "Like I said. Advertising. Make us a fortune."
David grinned.
"Ouch! Damn it"
Some other day, I might have taken myself to task for muttering a curse aloud over a little shaving cut. Strange, I suppose, given the reputation for "swearing like a sailor" that all members of the Navy have. But Mama Willow insisted that all her children learn to express themselves without resort to mere profanity. "If you want to make your strong emotions and intense feelings understood under stressful conditions, learn to master the language arts. A well formed sarcastic remark, or a timely rhetorical question, delivered in a quiet tone can be far more effective than swearing."
She was wonderful.
She followed her own precept. Mama Willow could tan your hide with words alone, and leave you stinging with out ever raising her voice once, or allowing a single obscenity to touch her lips. Except of course when she said, "Follow these rules, and you will be known as a person who can keep their head in a crisis, remain rational despite severe provocation. And besides," she'd finished, "when you do say 'Shit!', the object of your anger will know they are well and truly fucked."
"Ouch! Da… Bless me, I'm clumsy this morning." I moved the razor away from my face and took a deep breath. Yes, I was keeping my future wife waiting, but I'd be ready no faster by committing sepaku one tiny nick at a time. Calmer, I finished removing my overnight stubble.
That was the wording I stumbled over: "Well and truly fucked." Last night had been quite an eye opener. Coached by the demure, proper fiancée waiting in the lounge downstairs, I had uttered phrases and euphemisms I hadn't used since junior high school, sniggering with other boys behind the gymnasium. With every obscenity that passed my lips, my other fiancée became more aroused, more passionate. more consumed with lust.
She was wonderful.
While Nancy recovered, Deborah demonstrated that grammar and rhetoric were not the oral skills she most prized in the bedroom, either. When Nancy regained her wits, she, too, became a coach. I discovered that a skill I thought mastered could be honed and improved. The art of the tongue-lashing without profanities; lessons that Mama Willow never taught her children.
She was wonderful, too.
We still had a lot of things to work out, but all three of us were… satisfied… that the bedroom would be the least of our problems.
The bathroom, on the other hand, would take some careful negotiation. Being relegated to the guest bathroom this morning, after what we'd shared the night before, was a bit of a surprise. Another surprise, given what I'd explored, was the total lack of shaving equipment. None at all.
Well, I hadn't been prepared to spend a night. I suspect that wasn't in their original plans, either. Likely there were feminine beauty secrets to which I'd be exposed slowly, in order to avoid destroying my illusions.
Or maybe it was a pig-stye. By their own estimation, I mean, not mine nor anyone else's. There had been some preparation before the night's festivities commenced. No doubt they'd been embarrassed.
I checked my own appearance, dressed now in freshly pressed dress grays. The tiny bits of toilet paper stuck on my face did not enhance my image of authority, but I was otherwise ready to perform my duties. I glanced at my sink. I grimaced. Then I spent a few minutes rinsing hair and shaving soap from the bowl. I wouldn't have wanted Deborah or Nancy to see my mess, either.
Out the door and down the stairs to the lobby. Deborah stood when she saw me, one hand clutching an impressive sheath of messages. At a guess, the engagement announcement had generated even more messages for me than for them. After a chaste kiss, Deborah confirmed the guess.
"I've organized your 'congratulations' messages as best I could. Family first, then crew, then other military, mostly Ships' Captains. After that, the advertisements for wedding services. There's one I'm not sure which category to put in. Perhaps 'old girlfriends'?"
I winced. That certainly seemed unlikely. "Who does it say it's from?"
"I'm guessing they are female," she said. "Who are 'Cilla' and 'Charybdis'?" Was there a touch of jealousy in her tone?
If so, it didn't stop me from laughing. "Family, definitely family." A raised eyebrow told me I'd better explain. "Pricilla and Constance Lee, two out of three of my romance advisors."
That lovely eyebrow arched even higher. "Did they advise you to place that engagement announcement?"
I barely stifled a snort. "Quite the opposite. They physically assaulted me for having the temerity to even consider such a thing. At the time, I'd thought to have a week before it would appear, and had to promise to cancel it first thing this morning. Only that promise saved my scalp."
Deborah considered a moment. "I think I'm going to like your family."
What could I do but smile?
It had the potential to turn into a party. One of those outdoor "block parties" you may have attended at one time or another. I kept trying to herd the Captain and his fiancée into the building, but it was slow going.
Every couple of steps, the skipper had to salute and shake hands with another round of congratulations, as did the Assistant Weapons Officer. Handshakes and hugs abounded for both. Crewmember were being very demonstrative, and so were many of their spouses. I don't think the Captain realized just how much his crew liked him.
I noticed various faces at the windows of the Squadron Headquarters building, including Rear Admiral Shingleton himself. Squadron HQ was where the offices of Submarine Cadre Units were located. No telling what impression this was having on the HQ Staff. I spied the COB in the crowd, and waved him over.
He saluted. "Yes ma'am?"
I returned the salute. "COB, we've got to get this mob into the offices and under control before our boss," I indicated with a thumb over my shoulder in the direction of the Admiral's office, "takes a notion to get involved."
The COB grinned. "Yes ma'am." He spun around, producing a shiny whistle which he proceeded to blow, quite shrilly. "Cadre Unit, Atten-HUT!" Quiet descended over the parking lot, even among the dependants. "Three cheers for the Captain and his intended! Hip-hip—"
"Hurrah!"
"Hip-hip—"
"Hurrah!"
"Hip-hip—"
"Hurrah!"
"Now fall out and muster by divisions in the Cadre main office!" That broke up the party atmosphere, at least enough to get things moving in a more organized, proficient, military manner.
I clapped the Chief of the Boat on the shoulder. "Thanks, COB. You're a lifesaver."
He grinned. "All part of the job, XO."
"Do you carry that whistle all the time?" I was curious.
He nodded. Then he leaned in closer, his voice much quieter. "Do you think anyone missed the fact that the Skipper arrived in Lt. Harboard's car?"
"Just giving the Captain a ride, COB."
"Yes ma'am. And then providing transportation the next morning." He waggled his eyebrows.
When I stopped laughing, I gestured for the COB to lead the way inside. "You're a dirty-minded old sea-dog, COB."
"Yes ma'am." He grinned again, unrepentant.
"But you're probably right."
"Yes ma'am."
Okay, so taking Friday off wasn't the smartest thing to do, Nancy told herself. Still, if I had to do it over, I wouldn't change a thing. She wasn't aware that she was humming to herself as she processed her backlog of paperwork. She'd even smiled at Amy when she'd delivered another stack. Smiles being contageous, Amy was now infecting everyone who passed her desk.
I can't believe I've got a fiancé. It seems like only yesterday I was a quivering blob of insecurity over even dating Bob. Now I'm ready to go down the aisle on roller skates. She hummed a snatch of a wedding march, and smiled even more.
She pressed her intercom. "Amy? I've got the first batch done, can you pick them up and send them on their merry way?"
Amy entered, still smiling from previous visit, to be greeted by another incandescent smile. Emboldened by that smile, Amy asked, "Good weekend, Mrs. Harboard?"
You wouldn't believe how good! "Great weekend, Amy! And you can call me Nancy when it's just us girls."
Amy beamed. "Really? Gosh, Mrs... Nancy, that must have been some hot date." She retrieved the outgoing files.
Thinking about last night, Nancy blushed. "I guess you could say that." She held up her left hand.
Amy's eyes grew huge. "Oh, wow!" She moved closer and leaned down to look. "Who're the lucky guys? I mean, if you don't mind my asking."
"I don't mind. Remember that phone call on Thursday from Robert E. Lee?"
"Yes ma'am?"
"That's him." Nancy's smile outshone the rock on her finger.
Amy squealed her congratulations and wished her and her wife happiness, then retreated smiling again from the office to her own desk. Nancy returned to her work with a smile and a song on the tip of her tongue.
Their smiles persisted until nearly lunchtime. That's when Amy informed Nancy that there was a Mrs. Cummings on line two.
Nancy's smile disappeared. No sense putting it off. It'll just get worse. She picked up the phone and stabbed the blinking button. "Hello, Mother."
"No, Mother, I—" No, Mother, you didn't raise a daughter to be rude to her parents, and I would have called if I had known the announcement was going to be in yesterday's paper. If I had known I was engaged, even.
"No, Mother, I—" No, Mother, you didn't raise your daughters to not to answer your every phone call promptly. We learned that on our own.
"Yes, Mother." Yes, I understand a daughter has a duty to her parents. But what about the parents' duty to be supportive to their children? I'd be happy to explain everything if you'd just give me a chance, just listen for once!
"Yes, Mother, but—" Sure a young bride's prospective husband should have the approval of the brides' parents. But I'm not a young bride, I'm a grown women and a wife already. Why can't you see that?
"No, Mother, he—" No, Mother, he certainly isn't trying to marry into the Cummings name. How can you even think such a ridiculous thing? For God's sake, he's a Lee of Virginia!
Mother! How can you—" Pregnant? I wish! But nothing we've done so far could make me pregnant, even if I wanted to be. So, no, I don't have to marry Bob. I want to.
"Yes Mother." Why am I even listening to this? You made me the compliant, obedient, dutiful wife that The Dick loved to vent his spleen on, just like you're doing now. Bob likes me to be feisty—he told me so. He said it was one of the things that attracted him to me.
"Yes Mother." Whatever. I'll certainly take precautions. I'll take the precaution of not raising my own children to be doorstops or whipping posts. God, enough is enough!
"Shut up, Mother!" Did you even hear what I said? Can't you stop talking long enough for me to say anything? Ah, it's sinking in.
"Yes Mother, I said shut up. Deborah is my wife. Bob will be our husband. Deal with that any way you wish, but deal with it, or don't call again. Goodbye, Mother." Trembling, Nancy disconnected and set the phone in its receiver.
Nancy sat looking at the phone, her hands not quite steady. Damn, that felt good. I think I really needed that. Feisty. I'll have to thank Bob when I see him
Amy announced via the intercom that Mrs Cummings was on line two again. She picked it up. "Hello?" She pulled the phone away from her ear as a burst of invective screeched at her. She hung up again.
"Amy? I'm not taking any more calls from Mrs. Cummings today, thank you." she released the intercom button. She looked at her ring finger for perhaps the fiftieth time today, and began smiling again. She returned to her work. Before too long she resumed humming.
"Submarine Cadre Detachment Six-Oh-Seven, Petty Officer Dorchester speaking, may I help you?" Siobhan has spoken the standard telephone greeting fifty times since the office opened at 08:00.
"No, sir, the Captain is in a meeting with SubRon Two until 14:00. May I take a message?" She filled out a salmon-colored message blank with the twenty-first message of congratulations so far today, smiling as she did so. She repeated the message back to verify accuracy, and promised that it would be delivered when the Captain returned. She disconnected with the usual phone courtesies.
The Cadre Detachment Office was nothing more than a long room with two small offices and a conference room at one end, and cubical dividers throughout the rest for the various departments. Only two of the current occupants were actually on duty; herself as "Duty PO" (Phone Watch) and Radioman Chief "Sparky" Schulz as "Duty Officer." Siobhan walked to the cubicle in front of the two offices shared by the Captain's Yeoman and Ship's Personnelman.
"Got another one for the Skipper," she said. The Captain's Yeoman smiled and added the latest message to the stack before turning back to his typing. Siobhan returned to her desk.
Between the liberal leave and liberty policy, taking advantage of schools, and short workday (09:00 to 12:00) of the first two weeks, the Cadre Office was nearly empty. Siobhan and the Duty Officer had opened the office at 08:00 and would stay until 16:00, but the rest of the crew not on leave or in school had come and gone for the day. The Captain was still in the building, and the XO was in her office. The Admin Department (that yeoman and personnelman) were actually busier now than aboard ship, processing records. Even they would leave by 15:00, unless the Skipper or Exec stayed later.
Siobhan had volunteered for duty the first day. There were enough Petty Officers in the crew so that none would have to stand duty more than twice over the next nine weeks. She wanted to get hers out of the way early. Besides, two of her spouses had gotten underway very early this morning, and she was already up.
Her only concern with her duties was actually for her brief bouts of "morning sickness." So far, the only episodes had been immediately after waking, and mercifully short. But, as the oldest of nine, she could remember her mothers' pregnancies. Cassiopeia, her youngest mother, had suffered from nausea several times a day through eight months. She'd actually lost weight during her term. Momma Cass never had gotten fat.
"Urp." Damn. Shouldn't have conjured up those images. She stood and looked around. She waved wildly at the Duty Officer, then dashed out of the office and down the hall to the nearest ladies room.
She barely made it, but barely was good enough. She managed to call for Ralph O'Rourke on the big porcelain phone.
She was still waiting for his answer when she heard the door open and close. A hand squeezed her shoulder. "Feel better now?" She nodded, spat once more and reached for the flush mechanism again. The hand patted her shoulder and left.
Water ran. That helpful hand appeared in front of her, holding a paper cup. "Here. Rinse and spit." She took the cup gratefully and did just that, several times. She flushed again.
"Can you stand?" Siobhan nodded. The hands helped, lifting under her armpits, and steered her to the sofa in the ladies room. She sat, eyes closed, gathering herself. Water ran again. Then she felt a cool, damp handerchief pressed to her forehead. "Want to lay down a minute?" She tried to shake her head "no" but realized that was a mistake. She moaned instead.
She felt her legs being lifted and turned onto the sofa. Then her head and shoulders were supported as she was eased into a horizontal position.
Her angel of mercy sat on the edge of the sofa and held her hand. Siobhan squeezed her gratitude. The hand squeezed back. "You just rest here as long as you need to. I'll let the Duty Officer know you're okay. Don't worry about the phones." The door opened and closed again.
After a while, Siobhan felt strong enough to rise. She did so, slowly, then went to the sink. She brushed her teeth as best she could with a finger, wishing for mouthwash or at least a breath mint. She checked and straightened her uniform. At least she hadn't gotten any on herself. Then, her legs still just the least bit wobbly, she returned to the office.
She arrived just in time to hear, "Submarine Cadre Detachment Six-Oh-Seven, Lieutenant Harboard speaking, may I help you?" Oh, good grief, the Captain's fiancée was filling in for her? Could this get more embarrassing? She glanced at the handkerchief in her hand. The monogram in the corner was "DH." Yes, apparently it could.
The Lieutenant was smiling and thanking someone while she stood and waved Siobhan to the seat. Another call of congratulations, she guessed. She watched as the call was transferred to the Captain, and the Lieutenant hung up.
"Sit! Sit!" the Lieutenant urged her. She did. She looked at a clock; 14:45. She'd been out of it for nearly an hour. She started to express her profuse thanks to Lt. Harboard, but the officer waved it off. "Shipmates look out for shipmates," she said. "And besides, I'm not the only woman in the crew that deserves congratulations, am I. You take good care of yourself and your baby, and that will be thanks enough."
The Captain swept out of his office. "Ready?" The Lieutenant nodded, and they left.
Siobhan decided she was going to miss this crew, a lot.
Hog heaven, Donna thought, might very aptly describe where I am right now. She snapped off three quick pictures of the brides and groom cutting the cake. She chose an entirely different angle than their "professional" photographer, a much better one, she thought.
The reception was lavishly catered. I feel like I'm gaining weight just being around the buffet. She saw an angle that emphasized the oppulance of the feast and snapped three more pictures. Capturing the guests, the brides and groom, and their families had used up four rolls of film. Of course, if I were shooting the wedding for the brides, four rolls wouldn't even be a start. The paper was unlikely to use more than a few photos, even for a feature. Donna was ready to leave.
Unfortunately, the Society Reporter was not. She seemed to feel that grazing rights at the post nuptual banquet were perks of the job. She looks like she's covered an awful lot of weddings. Next time, I'll take a cab. I can afford it, now.
In fact, "Do you need me for any other pictures?" She had to wait until the reporter chewed and swallowed for her answer. It wasn't long.
"What's the rush, deary? Got a date later? Need a fourth?"
As if! I certainly wouldn't ask— Donna shook her head. Let's not go there. Despite first impressions, you might have a heart of gold and the loyalty of a cocker spaniel. "No, I just wanted to see that new exhibit at the Mariner's Museum, and they close early on Mondays."
The reporter waved her away with a "Suit yourself" and returned to her grazing. Despite herself, Donna snatched up a piece of baklava and a napkin on her way out. Better watch yourself, "deary," or you'll have no room to talk, she thought to herself.
Catching a cab in front of the Princesse Anne Hotel was no problem; there were always a line of cabs waiting. Donna gave her destination and settled back to savor the sweet treat she'd grabbed.
Shortly, she was wondering the hallways of the Mariner's Museum. The theme of the new exhibit was Life on the Waters of the Chesapeake. It featured the paintings of three artists, two in oils and one in oils, watercolors, and charcoal.
The subjects of the various paintings varied wildly, from sailboats and yachts to families of clammers in the tidal flats. One of the artists specialized in people. The oil of the clammers was signed EKG. Donna especially liked those. I'd have taken that picture, If I'd been there. Exactly like that. Exactly.
There were signs in the museum discouraging photography, but Donna had shown her press credentials, and the museum staff ignored her. She used up several rolls, and found herself returning to the painting of the clammers. Nibbling a corner of her lip, she stood on a bench to snap several pictures of the painting, using varied settings and filters.
When she moved to descend from the bench, a young man extended a hand to assist. She smiled her gratitude and accepted the hand. "You like that one?" he asked.
"Very much," she replied. "I think it's my favorite of the exposition."
"Really?" He glanced at the picture and frowned. "It's just some people digging clams," he said dismissively.
Donna almost bristled. Do you have no soul? "Look at it again. Look at the faces of the people in the painting. Do you see how the artist manages to capture both their weariness and a sense of satisfaction? Can you see the little details, the wrinkles and the smile lines and the patches on their clothes, the swirl of mud there, the..."
The young man wasn't looking at the painting. He was looking at Donna. Smiling. Donna blushed. "You seem very passionate about art."
Blushing deeper, Donna held up her camera. "A kindred spirit."
The young man smiled. "That wasn't a criticism." He extended his hand again. "Edgar Galloway. Call me Ed. And you are?"
Still feeling the heat on her face, Donna took his hand and shook it. "Donna Delvechio" Making a guess, she asked, "What's the 'K' stand for?"
He laughed. "Kenton. Will you join me—and my wife—for dinner?"
"I'd love..." Donna broke off, and groaned. "I'm afraid I can't, tonight. I need to spend the evening in a darkroom." Damn! Kindred spirit, and cute, too. Damn.
"Oh, I'm sure my wife would love to join us in a dark room somewhere." Donna giggled. "Perhaps another time?" He smiled as Donna nodded, still giggling.
They exchanged cards and numbers.
"Thank you, Bob. Dinner was excellent."
"It couldn't hold a candle to yours, Nancy, but you're welcome anyway."
"Thanks again! You're too sweet." Nancy was smiling warmly. After-dinner coffee was fresh in their cups, and Bob was being his sweet, charming self.
Deborah couldn't help but smile. Nancy seemed to be blossoming around Bob. Bubbling. Percolating, even.
There'd been no time since last night's unexpected ending for Deborah to talk seriously with her wife, and they really needed to. Where did they go from here? Dropping Nancy at work and taking Bob to the office via the BOQ had left no time. Staying there until Bob could get away, even though she herself was on leave; dropping him at the BOQ before getting Nancy and returning for dinner; the only time for talk had been in the car, and Nancy's reaction to her mothers' calls had consumed most of that.
Where do we go from here? Deborah asked herself. What comes next? She glanced at her ring finger. We're engaged, yes. Does he want a long engagement? Do I? Does Nancy? We've had a big wedding. I don't think I want another. But does he? The smile didn't entirely fade from her lips, but it was tempered by her thoughts.
"So, anyway... Bob, I've been thinking, all day as a matter of fact..." Nancy paused. She turned her head to Deborah. "Deb and I haven't had a chance to talk since yesterday," she turned back to Bob, "but what I'm thinking is that your staying in the BOQ is very inconvenient for all of us and I'd like you to move out. Tonight," she hurriedly finished, looking back and forth between Bob and Deborah.
There was a lot of three cornered glancing. Nancy looked at Bob with embarressed adoration, Deborah could see, and at her with hopeful appeal. Bob looked back with some surprise and much affection, and at Deborah with much the same, plus a tinge of worry. Deborah had no idea what her own face showed beyond shock.
She forced herself to look only at Nancy. "What happened to my wife? You know, the uncertain woman who barely tolerated the thought of dating, much less marriage."
Nancy's face turned serious. "I know what you mean. But I had three weeks to face myself alone. I think I'd already turned a corner. And then there was Bob." She faced him, now. "I know you love Deborah. I see it in your eyes. What shocks me is that I see some of that for me, too."
"Never doubt that," Bob answered her softly. "I saw something in you even on the first date. I love you both."
Nancy turned back to Deborah. "You see? And he gives me strength. I never could have faced down my mothers, even over a phone, without thinking about Bob."
By now, each had taken the hands of the other, and squeezes were circulating. Deborah inhaled, and fixed her eyes on Bob. "How long will it take you to pack?"
Bob's eyes gleamed and Nancy squeezed Deborah's hand hard enough to hurt. But just as suddenly, bob looked away. When he looked back, his expression was guarded. "Before I answer, we need to discuss a few things."
"Like what?" Nancy had lost a little of the bubbliness at Bob's hesitation. Deborah just raised her eyebrows, and leaned a little closer.
"Well, for one, just how long would we be cohabitating sans marriage? Put another way," he added hastily, "how long an engagement were my ladies anticipating?"
Nancy turned to Deborah. Her hand squeezed once, very briefly. Short, Deborah interpreted. She nodded slightly. She squeezed back, twice. Two days? Nancy frowned, then nodded. They turned to Bob as one and said, together, "Wednesday."
Bob leaned back and laughed, loudly enough to draw the attention of other diners. Realizing he'd done so, he announced loudly, "The wedding is on Wednesday!" There was a smattering of applause and a few chers, and the other diners returned to their own affairs.
Bob lifted each of their hands to his lips in turn for a kiss. "Finish your coffee, Darlings. We've packing to do.
Nancy was beaming again. "You had other questions?"
Bob smiled wickedly at Deborah's wife and his fiancée. "Time enough for the deep, probing questions when I've unpacked."
Nancy flushed prettily as she dropped her eyes to her coffee. Bob raised a hand to signal their waitress. "Check, please."
Like many writers, I thrive on the feedback from my readers. I'm constantly fretting: Did anyone like it? What did they like? Did anyone hate it? What did they hate? Did I confuse the sex of fiancé and fiancée again?
I don't insist you use your e-mail address. I read anonymous mail also, but if you want a reply (and I do reply to the ones with addresses) I'll need it to reply to.
A big thank you to those of you who have written already. You're why it no longer says "a little insecure" or "frightfully insecure" above, but just "thrive".