Rachel Dahlrumple. Shea McMaster

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      Did I have STUPID and GULLIBLE tattooed on my forehead?

      All right, all right, after the previous night’s little gift, I supposed I did, but honestly, what if it was merely a prank? I didn’t exactly have proof of his cheating. Plenty of suspicion, but no proof. His phone call could have been on the up and up. Stranger things had happened, which explained why they’d fenced off Area 51.

      On the other hand, why schedule a week-long seminar the week before a major holiday? Obviously Burton Earl Bruckmeister considered me too brainless to understand. Of course Burt had to accept the golf invitation, too. Never mind he hadn’t played in five years and his clubs sat in the garage covered with cobwebs. I didn’t even want to address the issue of what other kinds of putts he might be making. The very thought of him, doing that, with someone else…

      As soon as I got the back door open, I ran to the bathroom and threw up the sugary junk the Weston children had forced on me during the parade. I wanted to convince myself it was due to the sugar. Unfortunately, I could eat almost as much candy as them without burping.

      What really made me sick? I hadn’t questioned him. I’d taken Burt’s words on faith. In the light of day, and after the ominous delivery, I began to think differently. Once I’d brushed my teeth and held a little water down, I contemplated all the ways I’d been monumentally idiotic while I filled the bathroom with rolls of toilet paper and fresh hand towels. Then I paced, stewing and steaming, waiting for him to haul his philandering ass home so I could have the pleasure of kicking it out the door.

      After the party, of course.

      The party. With a groan I slammed into the kitchen, hauled pitchers from the cabinets, and started making iced tea and lemonade while trying to envision how to go about kicking him out. I didn’t want to have to spend the evening explaining why Burt and his clothes were out in the flower beds, much less cause damage to my daisies and iris. Some things one just doesn’t do in a small town. However, after the delicious deputy had seen to reviving me from my asthma attack-slash-faint, I’d spent the first half of the night hauling clothes out of the closet, then spent the other half putting them back–why should I have to pack for Burt?–all the while plotting evil ways to tell him I’d drag his two timing–Three? Four-timing?–sleazy butt through court.

      It would be hard to pinpoint any one emotion I felt, but all raged in competition with the heat of the day. The week leading up to the party I’d been so happy about his promotion, but when celebrating, my reasons, though no less joyous than his, were completely different. It would mean more traveling for him. Training, staying at the leading edge of technology. Long hours on the road. Weeks off at seminars and conventions. Glorious time for me to be alone and for the first time, truly enjoy a vacation my way. At home. Yeah, I had been all for his promotion. The raise was pretty nice, too, but the real reward for me was the time my husband would be away. Bliss.

      After the nighttime delivery, bliss would mean the house completely to myself, decorated my way, without his lies and the rules he imposed. And the lovely alimony checks I’d squeeze out of his miserly grasp. See if he had funds for tomcatting around when I got through with him.

      In my angry energetic mode, I attacked the last of the party preparations on my list with a vengeance until I had to stop. Hot and sweaty, I finally headed back to the kitchen and the relative coolness of my house. Relative, because eighty-five inside seemed cool in contrast to the ninety-seven outside under the century old trees enclosing three sides of the back yard. Normally, I’d have left on the air conditioning, but in just a few hours the screen doors would be swinging open and slamming shut. The breakable knickknacks were already locked in our library, as they wouldn’t mix well with the young ones who always waited until the last possible moment before racing into the house to use the restroom. So, in the interest of sanity, no AC for the day.

      As was common for me, I found solace in the kitchen. Barefoot and chugging down a glass of iced tea poured from a jug in the fridge, I stood near the big box fan. I loved the way the air flowed up under my dress, small runnels of air zooming up the line of my spine and between my breasts before shooting up to whisk away the sheen of sweat coating my neck. Besides cooling me, it also soothed me in an odd way. It felt silly, wicked and naughty, especially on those days when I wore nothing under my dress, which after last night, wasn’t today. And I wouldn’t wear the dress much longer. Soon I’d change into a swimsuit and tie a sarong around my hips. Add a large hat and dark glasses, and I envisioned myself sauntering around the yard doing my best femme fatale impression. If it earned me a single grope, I’d call it a success.

      Three o’clock had just passed and I expected Burt at any minute. For the moment, everything on my list had a check mark. As the neighbors arrived, the brawny men folk would gladly heft that ice chest, light those coals, or carry a load of whatever, wherever it needed to go. Families would arrive with their contributions, folding chairs, kids and toys, make themselves at home, and the festivities would ramp up until it came time to line up the blankets and chairs along the river and watch the fireworks. As smoke drifted away from the final barrage, leaving behind the smell of sulfur and a ringing in our ears, the exodus would begin, leaving behind bare tables, full trash barrels and a trail of damp footprints through the house.

      As far as the party went, my furious energy had powered me through every task, mine and Burt’s, and all I needed were the guests. Bags of charcoal waited to fill the Texas-sized grill. The tables had their plastic covers weighted down in case a breeze decided to come by. Underneath, people would stash their coolers filled with mountains of ice to keep the potluck salads cool. I’d even run an extension cord for the ice cream makers and Judy Marshall’s monstrous electric roaster filled with meatballs and covered with several jars of grape jelly. Believe it or not, it made a fabulous sauce for meatballs, Little Smokies, and Vienna sausages. Seriously. Good stuff.

      While I usually anticipated the city fireworks display, I directed more thought to the fireworks to come later. I debated asking Deputy Weston to be on hand to help me throw the big ass out. But first, the party.

      Long ago generations had termed the party as BYOSOB. Officially it stood for Bring Your Own Salad Or Beef. Or Beer. Or Beverage. Or as the women privately defined it: Bring Your Own Son Of a Bitch. Legend had it my great-great-grandmother and her contemporaries had come up with that version. The old family tree boasted several truly feisty women. How the kick-ass gene had bypassed me remained a mystery.

      Yeah, I had an SOB for one more night. If he made it through the party alive. The more I thought about it, the madder I got. To distract myself again, I focused on the blown-up photo of the very first Fourth of July barbeque hanging on the backside of the free-standing fireplace that divided the front room from the kitchen. The tradition went back more than a century and was always interesting to think about.

      In my mind, I visualized the original map of the valley. I found it a great way to travel. I could almost go all the way back to when the first white settlers arrived. As the gold fever petered out, farmers chose one side of the county–the flat side–and ranchers the other–the foothills of the coastal mountain range. Our house, on one of the original ranches, was more or less built in the center of our section, so it’d been the gathering spot for a hundred years, give or take twenty. Rising and falling with the country as a whole, we’d had a few years when celebrations were thin, such as during a world war or two.

      Since my great-great-great grandfather, Joseph Reginald Martin, was a rancher who married a farmer’s daughter, our land tended to be regarded as neutral ground. He’d built the house near the river, providing us with a prime location. It was here the tradition had begun. The ranchers brought the beef, the farmers brought the side dishes, and my beloved ancestor, one of the town’s founding fathers, provided the meeting spot.

      The photo before me depicted the Centennial СКАЧАТЬ