You Bet Your Life Read Online Free PDF Page B

away before lifting the phone to his ear, while the waiters refilled champagne glasses.
    “Chappy is one of Daddy’s partners,” Jane volunteered, her voice slightly slurred.
    “Jane, Mrs. Fletcher isn’t interested in your father’s business affairs,” Oliver said. His voice held a warning for her. She frowned at him but kept silent.
    Victor returned to the table, sliding Oliver’s cell phone into his own jacket pocket. “Before the main course comes, I have a little gift for my wife,” he announced. He drew a slim box wrapped in gold foil from under his seat and walked to Martha’s end of the table.
    “What’s this?” she asked, looking up at him.
    “A little something to go along with your favorite pastime,” he said, rocking back on his heels. “Go on, open it.”
    “Right now?”
    “Yes, now. Everyone is curious to know what if is.”
    There was a chorus of encouragement, and Martha slipped the ribbon off the box and carefully released the tape holding the wrapping paper.
    “Oh, no. Not another paper saver,” said Henry.
    Martha grinned. “Afraid so. It’s a longtime habit.” She unfolded the ends of the wrapping and pulled the box out, smoothing out the paper before laying the white box on the table. “What could it be?”
    “You’re not going to find out, staring at the box,” Betsy said. “Open it. I want to see what’s inside.”
    Martha lifted the lid, set it aside, and pulled apart the leaves of tissue paper. Whatever it was was made of silver fabric. “I still don’t know what it is,” she said, looking perplexed.
    Victor thrust his hand in the box and shook out a pair of silver lamé gloves.
    Betsy cackled. “They’re slots gloves,” she said, holding up her handbag. “I’ve got mine in here, but they’re not as fancy as yours.”
    Martha bit her bottom lip to keep from laughing.
    “I know you like the slots,” Victor said, leaning over and kissing her cheek.
    “Yes, I do,” she said, letting a giggle escape.
    “Well, now you’ve got the slots uniform.” He nuzzled her neck.
    “Pretty jazzy uniform,” she said, cocking her head. She slid her right hand into the glove, and pressed Victor’s cheek. “Thank you.”
    “You’re welcome,” he said, straightening. “I expect you to win a big jackpot with those.”
    “It won’t be for lack of trying,” she said. “Are you prepared ?”
    “No problem,” he said over his shoulder as he returned to his seat. “Just keep careful records. I’ll want fifty percent of your profits.”
    “No problem,” she called back, “as long as you foot one hundred percent of my losses.”
    The jovial exchange seemed to stir all the guests into animated conversation while the dishes from the first course were removed.
    The entrée was another of Victor’s surprises for Martha.
    “What’s this?” she asked when the waiter placed the dish with a beautifully browned crust in front of her.
    “Maine lobster pie.”
    “Oh, Victor,” she whispered. She looked up at her new husband with dewy eyes. “Look what he’s made me do,” she said, laughing as the tears overflowed. “Isn’t he something ?”
    Seth handed her his handkerchief. Martha wiped away the moisture under her eyes and picked up her fork. “I know this is going to be wonderful.”
    “Considering how far that lobster had to swim to get to the middle of the desert is wonderful all by itself,” said Seth.
    I could see the Cabot Covers girding themselves in case they didn’t like the main course. After all, lobster pie is not a fancy dish where we come from. It’s an old family recipe in many kitchens along the Maine coast. We didn’t have to worry, though. It was delicious, not precisely traditional, but delicious all the same.
    “I’m not a light eater,” said Maureen, scooping the last bit of sauce from the lobster pie onto her fork, “but I think I’ve reached my limit. Everything was just yummy.”
    “Didn’t you save any room for my wedding