Page 67 of A Dead End Wedding

"Wait up, girlie. If you're leaving, you can give me a ride home." Mr. Ellison burst out of the file room door.

Great. I'd almost forgotten about him.

"I took the bus to get here, and there're all sorts of weirdos on the bus. Not so's you people would notice," he added, aiming his chin at Max. "Let me just grab my sweater."

"I don't really have time to . . . Oh, fine. Let's go. But do you really need a sweater? It's June in Florida. You're going to melt." I studied him as he pulled on the thick cardigan. His belt had surrendered to migration and rested snugly under his armpits. I'msonot even going to discuss the black socks/white shoes combination. I leaned over and whispered to Max. "Try to get Bessup on the phone. If we can solve this problem, maybe we'll get rid of Ellison."

She grinned at me. "Way ahead of you, boss. Already left three messages for him."

Ellison stared at us suspiciously as he creaked his way across the room, but didn't ask questions. "Old bones get chilled easy, girl—December," he said, brushing past me and out the door.

Amazing. In the space of a single morning, I went from assault victim to chauffeur for the old blackmailer, who was my new employee.Really, could my Monday get any better?

3

"It's a U-Haul." I stood on the sidewalk in front of my brand-new house and looked down at the driver. He was about five-eight and built like an aging professional wrestler whose muscles had melted into Jello. I'm five feet ten, even in the flat sandals I'd changed into to go with my shorts and Sun Records T-shirt, so I look down on most of the rest of the world.

Strictly from a height perspective, not like an arrogance thing.

He peered up at me. "Are you Deborah Vaygan?"

"It's December Vaughn, andthatis a U-Haul. A tiny U-Haul. It's not a moving van at all. Where's the rest of it?" I looked down the street. This must just be the overflow.

"What rest? This is a delivery for Deborah Vaygan. Household furniture and belongings. Shipped from one Gareth in Columbus, Ohio."

One Gareth. One Michael E. Gareth, or Doctor Mike, as he liked to introduce himself to his patients. I'd told him once that it was a little too fake-buddy-buddy for people who were expecting a shrink to look and sound like Freud, but he'd just smileda calm smile and quizzed me about my tendency to passive-aggressiveness.

Which kind of summed up our marriage. He was too passive. I was too aggressive. We're great friends but sucked at being husband and wife.

The sweaty driver interrupted my thoughts. "You need to sign here, lady. I don't want to stand around all day. I'm burning up. I don't unload, either, so you better have help." He swiped at the sweat dripping off of his face with one beefy arm and rubbed it on his shirt.

I snatched the clipboard out of his other hand, wishing I had sanitary wipes or rubber gloves, and stabbed the pen at the paper. One lousy U-Haul. Where the hell was my furniture? Mike probably forgot to put it in his daily planner, which meant it would never happen. This was a man who literally wrote Brush Teeth in his daily planner. Every single day.

Twice.

After I unloaded the U-Haul—with no help from the driver, as promised — I collapsed inside my front door on the floor, saying a prayer of thanks for whoever'd invented air conditioning. Then I pulled out my cell phone.

"Dr. Gareth's office, Brenda speaking."

"Brenda?MyBrenda? Is that you?" I was sure I recognized my secretary's voice. Or, at least, she had been my secretary, back at my law firm in Columbus.

She giggled. Yep, that was her. Nobody else had that sultry giggle. "Oh, hi, December. Yes, it's me. I work for Dr. Mike now. I thought he told you? I started last week."

Brenda bizarrely combined pinup-girl body and brilliant organizational mind. I'd usually spent a good part of my day wading through all the male lawyers sniffing around her desk. I'd tried to convince her to go to law school, but she only wanted to get married and have enough babies for her own soccer team.

"No, he didn't mention it. Is he in? I'm having problems with the moving company."

"Sure, let me put you through. His last patient just left. And let me know if you need any help with the movers."

"Thanks, Brenda. Talk to you soon. And congrats on the new job."

She giggled again. I had to grin; I hadn't heard anybody giggle for a few months. It didn't surprise me that Mike had hired her. He'd often said he wished he could find an assistant who was as efficient as my Brenda. She wasn't crazy about lawyers, either; she'd planned to leave the firm when I did.

Mike's soothing voice came on the line. I'd always told him that his voice should be bottled and sold to help insomniacs everywhere. Unfortunately for our marriage, its soporific tones meant almost all I ever did in our bed was sleep.

Well, that and other reasons, like the fact that his equipment apparently only worked on national holidays.

"December. So good to hear from you. How are you? What's the problem with the moving company?"

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