The Millionaire Claims His Wife

The men made their goodbyes. Chase finished his drink, refused to give the bartender the satisfaction of telling him he wouldn’t pour him another, and circulated himself right out the door.

* * *

Annie kicked off her shoes, put her feet up on the old chintz-covered ottoman she kept promising herself she’d throw out and puffed out a long, deep sigh.

“Well,” she said, “that’s over.”

Deb, seated opposite her on the sofa, nodded in agreement.

“Over and done with.” She flung her arms along the top of the sofa and kicked off her shoes, too. “And I’ll bet you’re glad it is.”

“Glad?” Annie pursed her lips and blew a very unladylike raspberry. “That doesn’t even come close. I’ll bet Custer had an easier time planning the battle at Little Bighorn than I had, planning this wedding.”

Deb arched a dark, perfect eyebrow. “Bad analogy, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“Yeah.” Annie heaved another sigh. “But you know what I mean. The logistics of the whole thing were beyond belief. Imagine your daughter walking in one night and calmly announcing she’s going to get married in two months and wouldn’t it be wonderful if she could have the perfect wedding she’d always dreamed about?”

Deb stood, reached up under her chiffon skirt and wriggled her panty hose down her legs.

“My daughter’s in love with the seventies,” she said, draping the hose around her throat like a boa. “If I’m lucky, she’ll opt for getting married on a hilltop somewhere, with the guests all invited to bring... What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.” Annie shot to her feet and padded to the kitchen, returning a moment later with a bottle of champagne and a pair of juice glasses. “He accused me of wanting that, you know.”

“Know what? Wanting what? Who accused you?”

“You mind drinking this stuff out of juice glasses? I know you’re supposed to use flutes, but I never got around to buying any.”

“We can drink it out of jelly jars, for all I care. What are you talking about, Annie? Who accused you of what?”

“Chase. Mr. Ex.” Annie undid the wire around the foil, then chewed on her lip as she carefully worked the cork between her fingers. It popped with a loud bang and champagne frothed out. Some of it dripped onto the tile floor. Annie shrugged and mopped it up by moving her stockinged foot over the small puddle. “A few weeks ago, he called to talk to Dawn. I had the misfortune to answer the phone. He said he’d gotten his invitation and he was delighted to see I hadn’t let my instincts run amok.” She held out a glass of wine, and Deb took it. “Amok,” she said, licking her fingertips, “can you imagine? And all because when we were first married, I threw a couple of parties in the backyard behind the house we lived in.”

“I thought you lived in a condo.”

“We did, eventually, but not then. Chase knew somebody who got us this really cheap rental in Queens.”

Deb nodded. “What kind of parties did you throw?”

“Outdoor parties, mostly.”

“So?” Deb made a face. “Big deal.”

Annie’s lips twitched. “Well, it was wintertime.”

“Wintertime?”

“Yes. See, the thing was, the house was so small, the mice pretty much ran it. And—”

“Mice?”

Annie sank down on the chair again. “It wasn’t much of a house, but then, we didn’t have much money. I’d just graduated from high school and the only job I could find was at the local Burger King. Chase had transferred to City College. The tuition was lots cheaper and besides, that way he could work construction jobs for his father a couple of days a week.” She sighed. “We were dead broke. Believe me, we found a million ways to save money!”

Deb smiled. “Including having parties outdoors in midwinter.”

Annie smiled, too. “Oh, it wasn’t that bad. We’d build a fire in a barbecue in the backyard, you know? And I’d make tons and tons of chili and homemade bread. We’d put on a huge pot of coffee, and there’d be beer for the guys...”

Her voice drifted away.

“A far cry from today,” Deb said. She reached for the champagne bottle and refilled both their glasses. “Bubbly, caviar, shrimp on ice, boneless beef with mushrooms...”

“Filet de Boeuf Aux Chanterelles, if you please,” Annie said archly.

Deb grinned. “Pardonnez-moi, madam.”

“No joke. Considering what that stuff cost, you’d better remember to give it its French name.”

“And you didn’t let Chase pay a dime, huh?”