Amy Patricia Meade - Marjorie McClelland 02 - Ghost of a Chance Read Free Page A

fiction. Despite his objections, it was possible that he might wind up marrying Sharon Schutt, if only as a means to assuage his loneliness.
Creighton shuddered as he envisioned awakening every morning
to the sight of Sharon’s pig-like countenance. “All right,” he agreed
hastily. “I’ll do it. I’ll talk to Marjorie.”
    “Good,” the elderly woman proclaimed as she gazed across the
fairgrounds. “You’re just in time too. She’s heading this way.”
    “What! You want me to talk to her now? Here?” he nearly
shrieked.
    “There’s no time to waste, Creighton. We don’t know when
you’ll get another opportunity.” She rose from her post and moved
toward a neighboring table.

    The Englishman blocked her advance. “Where do you think
you’re going?”
    “To talk to some of the other ladies from the parish.”
    “Now?”
    “My dear child, this is a delicate matter between you and Marjorie. It’s not my place to interfere.” She pushed her way past him.
    “Yes, well, you do have a point…. What!” he shouted after her.
“‘You shouldn’t interfere?’ It’s a bit late for that!”
    “What’s wrong?” asked Marjorie as she approached the shouting Englishman.
    “Oh, nothing,” Creighton replied in disgust.
    “Where’s Mrs. Patterson off to?”
    “Joining the other hens for a little gossip.”
    “Hmm, Mrs. Patterson’s with her friends, Robert’s on his way to
headquarters, and Sharon is quite engrossed with her role as judge
at the baking competition. I guess that leaves you and me. What
would you like to do first? Take a ride on the Ferris wheel, try our
hands at some of the games?” She arched a sly eyebrow. “Or maybe
you’d like to visit the kissing booth again? I hear Susie’s been asking
for you.”
    “Actually, I’d like to talk to you first, if you don’t mind,” he proposed.
    “Sure,” she amiably agreed. “What about?”
    “Your wedding.”
    “What about the wedding?”
    Creighton bit his lip and stared blankly at the young woman all
the while berating his own cowardice. Don’t pick at it, man. Rip the
bandage off “Marjorie, I don’t think you should marry Jameson.”

    Marjorie was eerily calm. “Oh? Why not?”
    “Because it’s too soon,” he sputtered. “You’ve only been seeing
Jameson for three months. How much could you possibly know
about the man?”
    “Plenty.” Her eyes narrowed in defiance.
    “Really? Let’s test this” He folded his arms across his chest and
fired his first question with all the grace of an army drill sergeant.
“When’s his birthday?”
    Marjorie mimicked Creighton’s arm fold and thrust her nose
in the air. “July 31”
    “What year?”
    “1899”
    “What’s his middle name?” he volleyed.
    “He doesn’t have one. His parents couldn’t think of anything
they liked.”
    “Ah, creativity runs in the family I see. What’s his favorite color?”
    “Brown”
    “Brown?” He shook his head. “Sounds like an exciting fellow.”
    Marjorie dropped her arms to her sides and heaved a loud sigh.
“Will you please get on with this silly experiment of yours?”
    “Absolutely. Just one question left,” he smirked, confident that
his last question would be the stumper. “What was Jameson’s boyhood nickname?”
    “Boyhood nickname!” she shouted in annoyance. “What does
that have to do with anything?”
    Aha! Point! “Just answer the question, please.”
    Marjorie rolled her eyes and then finally capitulated. “I guess
Rob or Bob or Robbie or Bobby, or something like that.”

    “No, no, no,” he corrected. “I mean a descriptive nickname. My
chums and I all had them. If someone was intelligent, we called him
`Professor’ or `Egghead’ or maybe even `Sponge’ If he was tough, it
”
was ‘Butch ; `Spike; `Killer’ That sort of thing.”
    I don’t know! But what does it matter, anyway?”
    “It matters quite a bit. You can tell a lot about a man from the
nickname his