Wife Is A 4-Letter Word

by Stephanie Bond

  Hiking up her skirt, she walked around to the trunk in stocking feet. Alan got out of the car and followed her. She unlocked and lifted the lid to reveal an unbelievable array of footwear—pumps, sandals, boots, tennis shoes—he guessed there were fifty or more pairs scattered to the far corners of the trunk, no doubt from her perpetual careening.

  “Do you moonlight as a traveling shoe salesman?” he asked.

  She laughed. “I never know what kind of terrain I’ll be showing a house in—I try to be prepared.”

  Alan reached in and withdrew a thigh-high red-patent leather boot. He lifted an eyebrow and asked, “Where’s the matching leash?”

  She smirked and yanked the boot away from him. Pam hastily rummaged through the pile and came up with one light-colored high-heel pump and slid her foot into it, then stood on one leg while she searched for its long-lost mate. “Aha!” she said, finally retrieving it, then tossed in the pair with the broken heel and slammed the trunk with vigor. It bounced back up and she slammed it twice more before it held. “The catch is tricky,” she informed him, slinging her purse over her shoulder. “Let’s go.”

  They garnered more than a little attention as they made their way through the airport and settled into a booth at a tacky lounge. To send him off right, Pam ordered a pitcher of margaritas on the rocks, then poured one for each of them. She licked the back of her hand and sprinkled salt on it. He did the same and lifted his glass to hers.

  “You make the toast,” she said, her eyes bright.

  Her beauty struck him at that moment, and his tongue stumbled slightly. “Uh, to being single,” he said, clinking her glass heartily.

  “I’ll drink to that,” she seconded, then downed half her drink, licked the salt from her hand and sucked on a lime wedge.

  He followed her lead, squinting when the sour juice drenched his tongue. “I really didn’t want to get married anyway,” he mumbled.

  “So why did you propose?” she asked.

  Alan shrugged. “It sounds silly now, but at the time it seemed like the thing to do.”

  Her look was dubious, but she didn’t question him further. Instead, she laughed. “You’re a mess.”

  Alan glanced down at his wet, disheveled tuxedo and chuckled, then scanned her rumpled appearance and grinned. “So are you.”

  They both laughed and he loosened his bow tie, letting the ends hang down the front of his stained, pleated shirt. “What a hell of a day,” he said, shaking his head and cradling the frosty glass of pale green liquid.

  “Yeah,” she agreed. She swallowed the rest of her drink, licked her hand and sucked a fresh lime wedge. “Did you have any idea she was hung up on John Sterling?”

  He frowned. “I knew he was hung up on her, but I never suspected she’d even consider a man with so many kids.” He finished his drink, licked, then sucked. “Did you know?”

  She shook her head and refilled their glasses. “I knew something was bothering her, but I assumed it was just prewedding jitters.” She lifted the glass and downed a good portion of the margarita. He watched with interest as her tongue removed more salt from her hand. She sunk small white teeth into the lime and her cheekbones appeared as she drew in the juice.

  “I feel like a fool,” he announced, swallowing more of the tangy drink and performing the same ritual. “I know everyone is laughing at me.”

  She shook her head again, dislodging another strand from her stiff hairdo. “They probably feel sorry for you.”

  “Oh, thanks, that makes me feel tons better.”

  “Everyone will forget about it by the time you return,” she said in a soothing tone as she topped off their glasses again.

  The alcohol was beginning to take effect on his empty, nervous stomach. His tongue and the tips of his fingers were growing increasingly numb. He pushed his water-spotted glasses back up on his nose. “I hope so, but I doubt it. Maybe I should move.”

  She scowled, an expression which did not diminish the prettiness of flushed cheeks and flashing eyes. “That’s ridiculous—you’ve lived in Savannah all your life. Your parents would be hurt. And your consulting business—” she lifted her glass again and squinted at him “—you can’t leave before you get old Mr. Gordon’s computer account. I went to a lot of trouble linking up the two of you at the children’s benefit.”

  “I know,” he said mournfully, swirling the liquid in his glass before taking another deep drink. “You’re right, of course. But let me wallow a little—my ego is pretty tender at the moment.”

  “You’ll bounce back,” she said with confidence. “There’ll be debutantes lined up at your door by the time you return from your trip.”

  Her words were slightly slurred—or was his hearing becoming somewhat warped? “Nope.” He sat up straight and jerked his thumb to his chest awkwardly. “I’m never getting married. As of today, wife is a four-letter word.”

  “Alan,” Pamela said, leaning forward, “wife has always been a four-letter word.”

  He frowned. “You know what I mean.”

  Feeling a little tipsy herself, Pamela looked across the sticky table at her drinking companion and a feeling akin to envy crept over her. She wondered what it would feel like to have a man so in love with you that he’d swear off marriage completely if he couldn’t have you. Pam bit her bottom lip. She’d known Jo Montgomery for years, and her best friend had always demonstrated remarkable good sense—until today.

  What could have possessed her to abandon her faithful boyfriend of three years at the altar to marry a widower with three kids? Granted, Jo had confided that her and Alan’s sexual relationship left a little to be desired—and personally, Pam found Alan quite bookish and dull, but even a boring man didn’t deserve to be jilted. But she knew Jo felt bad because she’d asked Pam to go after him. Even though she didn’t say it, Pam knew Jo feared Alan might do something impulsive and self-destructive.

  She watched as Alan tilted his head back and emptied his glass. In high school, Pam had triumphantly dubbed him “the Ken doll”, a nickname she still used in conversations with Jo, much to Jo’s consternation. His fair hair was cut in a trendy, precision style, and his round wire glasses were like everything else in his wardrobe: designer quality.

  The man was painfully clean-cut, his skin typically scrubbed within an inch of its life, his preppie clothes stiff enough to stand in a corner. She perused his slim, chiseled nose and squared-off chin, complete with an aristocratic cleft. He was handsome in an Osmond kind of way, she supposed, but everything about him screamed predictable.

  Alan Parish came from thick money, as her mother would say. She doubted if he’d ever experienced belly-hurting hunger, missed school because his shoes had finally fallen completely apart, or scraped together money to post bail for three family members in one week. The worlds they came from were so far apart, they were in separate dimensions.

  Then she bit back a smile. Right now, with his hair mussed, his glasses askew and a narrow streak of mud on his jaw, he looked more like one of her stray lovers—disorderly and disobedient. Only she knew better. Alan was an uptight computer geek—she’d bet the man had a flowchart on the headboard of his bed.

  “What’s so funny?” he asked, his expression hurt.

  “Nothing,” she said as fast as her thick tongue would allow while waving for the waiter to bring them more drinks. Then they spent the next half hour extolling the virtues of being footloose and commitment-free while they drained the second pitcher.

  At last, Alan tossed a spent lime wedge onto the accumulated pile and looked at his watch, moving it up and back as if he was trying to focus. “Time to go,” he said, standing a little unsteadily.

  Pam stuck out her hand. “I think I’ll stick around and sober up for the drive home.”

  “With your driving, who could tell?”

  She scowled. “Have a great time, Alan.”

  “Yeah,” he said dryly. “I’m off on my honeymoon all by myself.” He bowed dramatically.

&nb
sp; “Maybe you’ll meet someone,” she said.

  Alan straightened, then frowned and pursed his lips.

  “What?” she asked, intrigued by the expression on his face.

  “Go with me,” he said.

  Pam nearly choked on her last swallow of margarita. “What?”

  “Go with me,” he repeated, giving her a lopsided smile.

  “You’re drunk,” she accused.

  He hiccuped. “Am not.”

  “Alan, I’m not going on your honeymoon with you.”

  “Why not?” he pressed. “My secretary booked a suite at a first-rate hotel, and it’s all paid for—room, meals, everything.” He pulled the plane tickets from inside his jacket and shook them for emphasis. “Come on, I could use the company and you could probably use a vacation.”

  A week away from Savannah was tempting, she mused.

  His smile was cajoling. “Long days on the beach, drinking margaritas, steak and lobster in the evening.” He wagged his eyebrows. “Skimpily dressed men.”

  At last he had her attention. “Yeah?”

  He nodded drunkenly. “Yeah, you might get lucky.”

  But she couldn’t fathom spending a week with Alan, and she’d never share a bed with the man, no matter how roomy. She shook her head. “I can’t.”

  “I’ll sleep on the pullout bed,” he assured her.

  She set down her drink. “But what will people think? What will Jo think?”

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  Pam squirmed on the uncomfortable bench seat. “Well, you know—us being together for a week.”

  His shocked expression didn’t do much for her ego. “You mean that someone might think that we’re...that we’re... involved?” His howl of laughter made her feel like a fool.

  Of course no one would jump to that conclusion—a high-bred southern gentleman and a trashy white girl from the projects—it was ludicrous.

  “And as far as Jo is concerned,” Alan continued, “if she ever thought there was a remote possibility we’d be attracted to each other, she’d never have trusted me to escort you to your business functions.”

  Pam’s fuzzy brain told her an insult was imbedded in his rambling. “I suppose you’re right, but a few people might jump to conclusions.”

  Alan shrugged. “It’s not like the whole town of Savannah is going to know, Pam.”

  She glanced down at the horrid peach-colored dress. “But I don’t have any clothes.”

  “We’ll go shopping when we get there,” he said simply. “Come on, will you go or won’t you?”

  She had accrued vacation time. And only one deal in progress that she could probably handle over the phone. And Jo had asked her to keep an eye on Alan. She pressed a finger to her aching temple. It hurt to think too deeply.

  Pamela emptied her glass and wiped the back of her hand across her mouth, then looked up at him and smiled. “Well, I could use some new sandals...why the heck not?”

  2

  ALAN SALUTED the head flight attendant, then dropped into his seat, wincing when the jolt threatened to scramble his furry brain. He felt as if he was forgetting something, but the answer hovered on the fringe of his memory, eluding him. His neck suddenly felt rubbery. Laying his head back, he closed his eyes and slowly reached up to pat the wallet in his breast pocket. That wasn’t it. Hmm, what then?

  “Ex-schuse me,” came a loud female voice. He opened his eyes a millimeter and Pamela Kaminski slowly came into focus, just as her purse whacked some poor businessman upside the head. “Sorry, sweetie.” She leaned over to place an apologetic kiss on the man’s receding hairline.

  Alan smiled and tried to snap his fingers, but missed. Pamela! He’d forgotten Pamela.

  “There you are!” Pamela said, her eyes glassy. “When I came out of the ladies’ room, you’d disappeared. Thank God, my middle name is Jo. Then all I had to do was convince a woman at the gate that the last name on my license and the name on the ticket were different because I’d just gotten married.” She giggled. “Whew!” She swung into the seat next to Alan, then leaned against him and squealed. “I’ve never flown first-class before.”

  “Unlimited drinks,” he informed her; rolling his head.

  Her grin was lopsided. “No fooling? I’m up for another pitcher.”

  “You’ll have to settle for one drink at a time—and they don’t serve margaritas.”

  She pouted, sighing at the inconvenience, then noisily fumbled with her seat belt until Alan lifted his head and offered to help. “It’s twisted,” he announced, reaching across her lap to straighten the strap. The chiffon ruffles at her plunging neckline tickled his jaw. He valiantly tried to concentrate on the silver buclde, but his eyes kept straying to her cleavage. The tiny embroidered rose front and center on her black bra made an appearance every time she inhaled. After three clumsy attempts, he finally clicked the belt together, then settled back into his seat heavily.

  The flight attendant eyed them warily when they ordered bourbon and water, but served them promptly enough. They finished the weak drinks before takeoff, and Alan found himself beginning to doze as they taxied down the runway. An iron grip on his arm startled him fully awake.

  Pamela’s left hand encircled his right wrist so tightly her knuckles were white. Her long peach-colored nails were biting into his flesh. And her face was turning as green as the many limes they’d sucked dry.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Remember when I said I’d never flown first-class?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, I’ve never flown before, period.”

  “No kidding? Why not?”

  “I just remembered—it’s a phobia of mine.” She put her fingers to her mouth. “Oh, dear.”

  He leaned forward and twisted in his seat. “What?”

  “I’m going to throw up.”

  Alan panicked. “Oh, don’t do that.”

  Still holding her mouth, she nodded in warning, her eyes wide. Alan fumbled for the airsick bag, and jerked it under her mouth just as the plane banked. She unloaded, missing the bag more than hitting it, although Alan accepted some of the blame for holding the paper bag somewhat less than stone still. He heard a groan go up from surrounding passengers.

  When her retching gave way to dry heaves, Pamela slumped back into her seat, frightfully pale. A flight attendant was at their side as soon as the plane leveled off, extending a warm, wet towel to Pamela. “I’m going to need more than one,” Pam muttered, eyeing the mess she’d made.

  Organza was more absorbent than it looked, Alan decided, fighting the urge to vomit, himself, as he handed the bag to the attendant. Insisting she was too weak to make a trip to the lavatory, Pam cleaned up as well as she could sitting in her seat. The attendant, obviously at a loss, murmured the two-hour trip would pass by quickly.

  “Oh, God,” Pam breathed, laying her head back. “It’s an omen—I should have never gotten on this plane.”

  “Relax,” Alan said, reaching forward to pat her arm, then decided it would be more sanitary to pat her head. Her hair was stiff and had pulled free from the clasp that hung benignly above one ear. “It’ll be a smooth flight—I travel all the time and I’ve never had any problems.”

  Suddenly the plane dipped, then corrected, then dipped and banked again. The Fasten Seat Belt sign dinged on, and the pilot’s voice came over the intercom. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have encountered some turbulence.” The attendant was thrown out of her fold-down wall seat, but she recovered and continued smiling as she fastened her own belt. “Please bear with us while the captain climbs to a higher altitude.”

  It was the worst flight Alan had ever experienced. The plane continued to pitch and roll, eliciting gasps and moans from the passengers. A cabinet door in the small galley gave way, sending trays of food into the aisles.

  Alan felt terrible, willing his stomach to stay calm, and pressing his throbbing head back into the seat to keep it as immobile as possible. He felt terrible, too, f
or inviting Pam to come along. She’d probably be traumatized for life. He heard others seated around them getting sick, and he glanced anxiously at Pam to see if she would lose it again.

  Her eyes were squeezed shut, and her lips were moving. “Hail Mary, full of...full of gr-grace...” She opened one eye and whispered to Alan, “I’ve never said my prayers while I was loaded—do you think it cancels out?”

  Alan pursed his lips and considered the question, then shook his head and she continued to stumble through the prayer, finishing with “Pray for us s-sinners now and...and at the hour of our death. Amen.” Then she crossed herself.

  “Hey,” he whispered soothingly. “We’re going to be fine. It’ll level out here in a few minutes.”

  On cue, the plane made a sickening dip. Pam swallowed and jerked her head toward him. “Are you crazy, Alan? We’re all going to die and I’m going to be buried in this horrid dress—if they find our bodies.”

  He sighed. “Of course they’ll find our bod—” He stopped and shook his head to clear it. “Wait a minute—we’re not going to die, okay? I refuse to die in a plane crash on my wedding day.”

  Her eyes widened and she gestured wildly with her hands. “Oh, Mr. Moneybags, I suppose you’re going to buy your way out of this?”

  Alan frowned. He’d spent his entire life trying to make his own way, only to be frequently reminded he was a Parish, and therefore was forced to share the credit for his accomplishments with his family name. He crossed his arms, closed his eyes and refused to be provoked. “I’m not going to argue with you because I’m drunk and tomorrow this conversation won’t matter.”

  “Does anything affect you, Alan?” Pam asked, her voice escalating. “You got jilted today and you still came on this honeymoon like nothing happened. Now we’re getting ready to crash and you sit there like a dump on a log.”

  “That’s lump,” he corrected, his eyes still closed. “A lump on a log. Or is it bump?”

  “I meant what I said,” she retorted. “I’m drunk, but I’m not incoherent...I’m...I’m...oh, God, I’m going to be sick again.”

  His eyes snapped open. He reached for the airsick bag on his side and thrust it under her chin. “Arrgghhh!” he cried when she missed the bag again. He looked away and tried to reach the attendant bell with his elbow. Once the remaining contents of her stomach appeared to have been transferred to the bag, the floor and all surfaces in between, she fell back into her seat, completely exhausted. At last the pilot located a more comfortable altitude, and the turbulence ceased. The passengers cheered, and within seconds, Pam fell into a deep sleep.