they’d met, knowing he’d burst a blood vessel but finding it easier than dealing with his interrogation over the phone or worse, face to face.
She could imagine his reaction and hadn’t had a response yet. She’d sent the email Wednesday, today was Friday; in this case maybe silence was truly golden?
Hank’s hands drifted lower, massaging her upper arms with a tenderness that brought tears to her eyes. Where had this man been all her life?
Tending his farm, watching classic old movies and devouring Western novels while she’d been holed up in her Beverly Hills mansion playing society hostess in an empty shell of a marriage, tolerating George’s daily put-downs, turning a blind eye to his numerous affairs and hating every minute of it.
“Why don’t you invite him here? We can get to know each other before the wedding?”
Her career-driven, self-made millionaire son in Love? He rarely set foot outside his skyscraper glass office let alone LA unless it involved business or one of those plastic floozies he dated on a regular basis following the bust-up with Annie seven years ago. Unfortunately, when it came to women, her son followed in his father’s footsteps, chasing after unsuitable women. She’d hoped Marc’s taste would develop into discerning as the years passed but so far he’d disappointed.
Why couldn’t he find someone classy, someone who could match him, rather than settle for the fake arm candy he paraded around the city with? He needed a woman with intelligence, panache, and class, his equal in every way.
This town was brimming with savvy women and in that instant Hank’s suggestion didn’t sound so ludicrous. A glimmer of an idea took root and grew…to matrimonial proportions.
All she had to do was get Marc here, orchestrate a few meetings and let the sparks fly.
“You darling man, you’re a genius.” She tilted her head back and nuzzled under Hank’s chin. “I’ll invite Marc to stay first thing in the morning. For now, I have some bits that need scrubbing…”
Marc slid into a back booth at the Love Shack, feeling more like the Fonz with every tick of the ancient kitchen clock hanging askew from the faded candy-striped walls of the old diner. Any minute Ritchie, Potsie and Ralph-Malph would join him, completing the bizarre scenario.
He’d never seen anything like this: a long, marble counter with stainless steel stools beneath it, high back booths in red Naugahyde, black and white tiled floor, and an authentic 1956 Warlitzer jukebox in the far corner.
Throw in the framed posters of Marilyn Monroe, the vintage cookie tins and soda bottles perched precariously on rickety wooden shelves lining one wall, the rotary dial telephones and the peppy fifties music making his head ache, and he knew he’d stepped into a sitcom.
He should find his mom pronto rather than waste time having dinner with a woman, no matter how beautiful, he wouldn’t see after tonight.
Barging in on his mom unannounced had seemed like a good idea back in LA, now he was here he knew it would be smarter to calm down, get a good night’s sleep and confront the senile pair in the morning.
Senility was the only reason he could think of for his mom’s whacko behavior. Dementia had set in early. He couldn’t fault her for finally leaving his father and their loveless marriage but to shack up with some country hick barely twelve months after the ink on the divorce papers was dry? Not to mention the stranger phenomenon of wanting to get hitched to a farmer she’d met on the Internet?
No, something wasn’t right. This whole scenario screamed scam. Hopefully Eric Grayson, the local PI he’d hired an hour ago to get the dirt on this Hank character would come through ASAP and he’d have proof.
And if he found out this no-good son of a bitch was using his mom as a one way ticket out of Dullsville before throwing her away like yesterday’s trash, he’d whisk her out of this godforsaken town so fast her head
She could imagine his reaction and hadn’t had a response yet. She’d sent the email Wednesday, today was Friday; in this case maybe silence was truly golden?
Hank’s hands drifted lower, massaging her upper arms with a tenderness that brought tears to her eyes. Where had this man been all her life?
Tending his farm, watching classic old movies and devouring Western novels while she’d been holed up in her Beverly Hills mansion playing society hostess in an empty shell of a marriage, tolerating George’s daily put-downs, turning a blind eye to his numerous affairs and hating every minute of it.
“Why don’t you invite him here? We can get to know each other before the wedding?”
Her career-driven, self-made millionaire son in Love? He rarely set foot outside his skyscraper glass office let alone LA unless it involved business or one of those plastic floozies he dated on a regular basis following the bust-up with Annie seven years ago. Unfortunately, when it came to women, her son followed in his father’s footsteps, chasing after unsuitable women. She’d hoped Marc’s taste would develop into discerning as the years passed but so far he’d disappointed.
Why couldn’t he find someone classy, someone who could match him, rather than settle for the fake arm candy he paraded around the city with? He needed a woman with intelligence, panache, and class, his equal in every way.
This town was brimming with savvy women and in that instant Hank’s suggestion didn’t sound so ludicrous. A glimmer of an idea took root and grew…to matrimonial proportions.
All she had to do was get Marc here, orchestrate a few meetings and let the sparks fly.
“You darling man, you’re a genius.” She tilted her head back and nuzzled under Hank’s chin. “I’ll invite Marc to stay first thing in the morning. For now, I have some bits that need scrubbing…”
Marc slid into a back booth at the Love Shack, feeling more like the Fonz with every tick of the ancient kitchen clock hanging askew from the faded candy-striped walls of the old diner. Any minute Ritchie, Potsie and Ralph-Malph would join him, completing the bizarre scenario.
He’d never seen anything like this: a long, marble counter with stainless steel stools beneath it, high back booths in red Naugahyde, black and white tiled floor, and an authentic 1956 Warlitzer jukebox in the far corner.
Throw in the framed posters of Marilyn Monroe, the vintage cookie tins and soda bottles perched precariously on rickety wooden shelves lining one wall, the rotary dial telephones and the peppy fifties music making his head ache, and he knew he’d stepped into a sitcom.
He should find his mom pronto rather than waste time having dinner with a woman, no matter how beautiful, he wouldn’t see after tonight.
Barging in on his mom unannounced had seemed like a good idea back in LA, now he was here he knew it would be smarter to calm down, get a good night’s sleep and confront the senile pair in the morning.
Senility was the only reason he could think of for his mom’s whacko behavior. Dementia had set in early. He couldn’t fault her for finally leaving his father and their loveless marriage but to shack up with some country hick barely twelve months after the ink on the divorce papers was dry? Not to mention the stranger phenomenon of wanting to get hitched to a farmer she’d met on the Internet?
No, something wasn’t right. This whole scenario screamed scam. Hopefully Eric Grayson, the local PI he’d hired an hour ago to get the dirt on this Hank character would come through ASAP and he’d have proof.
And if he found out this no-good son of a bitch was using his mom as a one way ticket out of Dullsville before throwing her away like yesterday’s trash, he’d whisk her out of this godforsaken town so fast her head
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