It's a Wonderful Wife Read Free Page B

balloons,” she said, ducking the swarm to reach past him when he straightened.
    â€œWhat have you got in here?” he asked, holding up the heavy purse when she backed out with the cake. “Rocks? A small red Mercedes sports coupe?”
    â€œI wish,” she said, rolling her eyes as she started up the driveway. “I’ve got two bottles of wine in there.” She shot him another smile as he fell into step beside her. “And a small brick of modeling clay, so I can add one final detail to your island before you show up
this Friday
.”
    â€œYou build the models? Stanley doesn’t source those out?”
    â€œWhy would he do that when he has me?”
    â€œBecause during my search for an architect, I was led to believe fabricating architectural models was a specialized field, and small firms like Glace and Kerr hired that out.”
    â€œThey usually do,” she said dryly, “unless the architect happens to have a young teenage daughter he can teach to build them for free.”
    â€œYou don’t get paid?”
    â€œI finally wised up by age sixteen,” she said with a laugh. “So trust me, Mr. Sinclair; I will definitely hunt you down if the balloons carry you off, because a good chunk of that check in your wallet will be going into mine.”
    Jesse decided he was buying a compressor and bottling up the air on his island to take back to New York. And instead of sending flowers after his next date with Pamela, he would have a bottle of Maine air delivered the day
before
, and see if it didn’t get the woman interested in talking about something other than her latest shopping trip to Paris. “Then if I don’t want to spend the night stuck in a tree with a bunch of deflated balloons, I probably shouldn’t mention that I mailed the check to Stanley last week.”
    â€œCome on, Cadi, hurry up,” a woman called out, carrying a huge rectangular pot as she walked down the driveway toward them, a wild-haired, sun-weathered gentleman shuffling along beside her. “We need to plug in Elmer’s chowder to reheat it. Your car blowing up set us back a good hour, and everyone’s starved.”
    â€œThem fools wanted to dig out the plastic spoons and eat it right outta the pot,” the man said, having to raise his voice over the muted blare of music coming from the building.
    Jesse perked up. “Would that be clam chowder?”
    â€œIf’n it ain’t got clams in it, mister, you ain’t eating real chowdah.” He started shuffling back up the driveway. “That fancy rig of yours is a tad big to be hauling across Bog Road, don’t yah think,” Elmer continued—Jesse recognizing him as one of the bicycle-pedaling madmen. “If’n you was coming from Ellsworth, yah coulda just gone another two miles and taken Clancy Lane. It’s a mite longer but a helluva lot straighter.”
    â€œSo I’ve been told,” Jesse murmured. Five times, actually, by members of the peanut gallery as they’d stood watching the flames being doused.
    The sea of hungry people parted when the four of them rounded the corner of the building, opening a path to the door. “I hope you realize, Cadi,” an elderly woman said, “that your car exploding was a sign you shoulda gotten that fancy Mercedes you wanted.”
    Miss Glace passed the cake to a nearby empty-handed gentleman. “Don’t worry, Doreen, I always take something trying to kill me as a sign.”
    â€œHey, what happened to the cake?” the man asked, scowling down at the box.
    â€œApparently Mr. Sinclair isn’t a fan of chocolate,” she said, reaching toward Jesse with a smug smile. “The office key is in my— Darn,” she muttered, dropping her hand. “It’s hanging off the ignition of my crappy car. Okay, everyone; turn around and no peeking,” she instructed, bending over to the sound of several