It's a Wonderful Wife Read Free

sporty red Mercedes for just five minutes with that notebook.
    Jesse heard the tired-sounding wail of an off-key siren not ten seconds before an ancient fire truck came barreling around the curve up ahead, followed by a parade of pickups and cars—as well as two equally ancient men on bicycles pedaling furiously to keep up. “That was quick.”
    â€œNot really,” she said on another sigh, “since there are probably more police scanners than televisions in town, which everyone listens to with bated breath waiting for something exciting to happen.”

TWO
    It was nearly an hour later when the parade of vehicles Jesse was now part of reached what he could only describe as a classic Maine fishing village that hadn’t quite made it into the twenty-first century. A bit remote for tourist traffic, businesses evidently had to diversify to stay afloat, as Whistler’s Landing’s financial district consisted of a post office/convenience store/gas station, a diner/lounge/ice-cream parlor, and a gift shop/hardware/feed store. There was a large white building sporting a sign claiming it to be the Grange, the requisite bell-towered church, and a one-bay fire station attached to the town office. The residential section boasted a good two dozen homes crowded up against the rock-bound cove spilling in from the Gulf of Maine, at the center of which was a small working pier to service the three lobster boats bobbing on their moorings.
    In truth, Jesse was surprised the town was even on his navigation device.
    â€œThere’s a large area down behind the office where you can park,” his passenger said as Jesse took his turn stopping at the intersection that didn’t even have a stop sign. “The driveway circles the building, so you don’t have to worry about turning the camper around to get out.”
    Jesse looked left and right, not exactly sure which way the office was, since he’d come in from the direction of Castle Cove the few times he’d been here—on the slightly wider but no less crooked road he still had to haul the camper across. Oh yeah; he’d definitely let his eagerness to see his house overrule his
usually
sharp mind. “Which way?” he asked.
    â€œJust follow everyone,” she said, gesturing to the right, “since they’re all going to the party.”
    So he’d gathered while standing in the peanut gallery watching the volunteer firemen efficiently douse the flames on the definitely totaled car. Miss Glace, however, had elected to remain in his truck while dealing with the sheriff and then receive blow-by-blow updates from the small gathering of female friends crowded around her. She’d also elected to ride into town with him despite those friends offering her a lift—Jesse presumed because she didn’t want to battle the balloons again. “Won’t everyone descending on Stanley before you get there ruin your surprise?” he asked as he turned right.
    â€œMy car could have exploded right in front of the office and he wouldn’t have known, because he always closes the blinds and locks the door and plays opera music loud enough to rattle the windows when he’s drafting.” Her snit apparently over, she shot him a smile. “Since my father took Stanley on as a partner five years ago, I swear that poor old building has settled another six inches into the ground.”
    Instead of turning down the driveway when he spotted the peanut gallery reassembling in front of the familiar building, many of them now carrying pans of food, Jesse stopped in the middle of the road. “I’ll just drop you off and come back on Friday as planned,” he said at her questioning look. “I don’t want to crash your party.”
    â€œBut you’re supposed to take the blame for the cake. And why come back in two days when you’re here
now
?”
    â€œI’d feel guilty for ruining Stanley’s