"You can have an affair with someone who doesn't live in town," Duke says against my cheek.
"You can find somebody on your next work trip," I say against his.
"My interest lies elsewhere." His voice is strained. Dare I sayagonized.
"If you tell me who it is, I'll print out her picture and stick it to the sexiest blowup doll I can find."
Air from his terse laugh streams warm against my face. "You're ridiculous."
"Just fulfilling my wifely duty of making sure my husband is satisfied."
Catcalls sound from outside the car.
We look out the windshield and find Margaret from Sammich, and two of her friends. They shimmy their shoulders, shuffling side to side, and three sets of gravity-afflicted breasts undulate.
"Well, that's a sight I won't soon forget," Duke says, nodding and ducking his head like he's bashful.
I smile sweetly, and wave at the old women. They giggle with hearts in their eyes, because everyone loves love, and one of them pushes the other along until they're all three shuffling away.
When the women have gone, Duke drives me back around the building, dropping me off at my car. Before I climb out, he says, "You might want to think about taking a cold shower when you get home."
I laugh. "Send me some links for blowup dolls who tickle your fancy. It'll be my wedding gift to you." And then, because we're in the middle of town, I place a kiss on his cheek.
Chapter 25
Daisy
"Daisy,"my dad booms when I answer my phone. "It's your dad."
I chuckle softly, sitting back on my bed to pull my knee-high boots on over a pair of tall socks. "I know, Dad. Your name comes up when you call me."
"Whoops," he responds, warmth in his tone. "I always forget that."
"What's up?" I ask, pushing myself to stand. "Everything ok at home?" Worry parks itself in my core. We'd been told my mother has another six months for sure, and a year at most, but every time my phone rings and I see my dad's name, I can't help but assume the worst. Because one day, it will be.
"We're doing alright," he assures me. "I was hoping you'd be free to come by the house for lunch today."
"Umm," I hesitate, only because I'm supposed to buy yellow ribbon and labels from the craft store today, before stopping at the liquor store for a bottle of rosé. The ribbon and labels are for the assemblage of my wedding favors. The beverage is for me.
Spending the day assembling wedding favors for a sham wedding requires pink wine.
"I can come over," I say, because there's a ticking clock in the back of my head, counting down the seconds until I can no longer stop for lunch at my parents' house and have both parents present.
"Twelve ok?" my dad asks.
"See you then," I reply, hanging up.
My gaze finds the stack of boxes in the corner of my room, holding all the small jars of local honey I ordered. The biggest box on the top of the stack contains two hundred honey dippers. There aren't that many people coming to my wedding, but I couldn't order a smaller amount in bulk. Maybe Spot can use the leftovers, or Dama Oliva.
I finish the last of my coffee, taking the cup with me down the hallway into the second bathroom. I rinse out the cup, turning it upside down and placing it on the towel I've been using to dry my dishes. Though I'm grateful to have an alternative, it's obvious I made a terrible choice the day I pressed pause on my impulse control and ruined my cabinets.
Then again, if I hadn't done that, I wouldn't have needed Peter's help. Without that, I would've only seen him in a professional setting. There wouldn't have been a trip to a hardware store, a home décor store, a bitchy sales lady and a fall into his arms.
I guess it all happens for a reason, as they say.
With my plans for today delayed, I decide to head over to my parents' house early. I doubt my mom is the one making us lunch, and since my dad should almost never be allowed in the kitchen (two small fires, one blistered grease burn, and a situation with a blender), he would probably appreciate my help.
The air changes on the way to the St. James farm, going from dusty desert to something rockier, more earthen. I don't know if that's real, or imagined by me, but it sets a comfort to my bones. A creek runs parallel to the drive, cottonwood trees standing tallin the creek bed. This time of year they boast leaves a shade brighter than dandelion yellow, a stunning opposition to the red and brown rocky mountains beyond. The rise in elevation is the same as it is if I were to head due east, to the olive grove.
