Read My Mail Order Wife (The Value of a Man Book 1) Online
Authors: Olivia Gaines
Davonshire House Publishing
PO Box 9716
Augusta, GA 30916
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s vivid imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, are entirely a coincidence.
© 2014 Olivia Gaines, Cheryl Aaron Corbin
Editor: Teresa Thompson Blackwell
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means whatsoever. For information address, Davonshire House Publishing, PO Box 9716, Augusta, GA 30916.
Printed in the United States of America
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 10 9 8
First Davonshire House Publishing February 2015, The Value of a Man Series
Table of Contents
Chapter 3.Ah.. Maybe she had been right
Chapter 5. A shot in the dark
Chapter 7. Skinning and Grinning
Chapter 8. I am sending a car
Chapter 9. Making Preparations
Chapter 11. Home, Sweet, What?
Chapter 12. It was all coming together
Chapter 14. Receiving so much
Chapter 16. Here comes the rain
Come, sit, let me tell you a story...
This is Thurston Cromwell, IV
Something was wrong. The beads of sweat squeezed out of the tiny pores of his forehead likes inmates pouring into a prison yard after a three-day lockdown. Gobs of gushy perspiration covered the smooth brown skin of the honest face, making him appear to be a greasy and untrustworthy politician. His arm pits were now welling up, soaking his white shirt, and his chest began to tighten. Then, that fearful gurgle rumbled in his belly and he was almost out of time.
Thurston pushed hard at the double doors that led into the back hallway of the hotel conference center.
Bathroom. Find a bathroom
. The blurred vision arising from the sweat pouring down his face and into his eyes made it difficult to see where he was going. He was stumbling. His stomach was rumbling, and in about three more seconds he was going to be tumbling down the steps.
“Sir, is something wrong?” a sweet voice asked.
“Bathroom? I need to get to the bathroom,” he mumbled as he held onto his stomach.
The next pain that shot through his system doubled him over and things were about to get ugly. The lady, whose face he could not discern, slipped her hand under his arm and whispered, “Lean on me…I got you.” He had no choice. He leaned into her frame for support as she guided him as fast as he could move to a staff bathroom. The gurgling in his stomach was so loud that even she understood what was going on with him. Without hesitation, without questioning, she unbuttoned the jacket of his expensive suit coat and got him out of the material. She grabbed the buckle of his belt, undoing the latch that held the leather together and unzipped his pants, dropping them to his ankles and parking him on the commode. The look on his face also told her it was going to be a twofer. In a flash, she exited the stall and came back with a small lined trashcan that she shoved in his lap. The poor lady stepped out of the stall just in time as the floodgates of the worst night of his life opened and his body emptied the food, which had poisoned his system.
In twenty minutes he was due on stage to give one of the most important speeches of his political career. A career that was about to end because he was too sick to take the stage. Or worse, he would take the stage and lose control of his bodily functions.
This can’t be happening to me
It was happening. For ten straight liquidly minutes it was happening. He could hear taps on the outer door. “Mr. Cromwell, are you okay. You are due on stage in 10 minutes.”
He couldn’t speak. He could barely move. He was weak, limp and hurling bad sushi. His angel of mercy spoke up, “Can you stall for an additional five, maybe ten minutes?”
The voice on the other side of the door called back, “We can try.”
“Get dessert started, pour more wine, start coffee service and he will be right there,” the sweet voice called out.
She tapped on the stall door. “If you can, reach behind you and flush. I have a cool cloth that I need to get on your neck and face.”
It was a struggle, but he sat down the garbage can and did as she asked. He could hear the water starting and the squeeze of the cloth ridding it of excess moisture. She cracked open the door and wanted to throw the cloth in and take off running, but instead she stepped inside, placing the cool cloth on his neck, all the while holding her breath. This seemed to stop the sweating.
“I have Pepto and Imodium tablets, which do you prefer?” She asked him.
He pointed to the Imodium. She popped the tabs and fed him two washed down with a small bottle of water. “Okay, get cleaned up. You have about five minutes before you have to get to that stage.”
He nodded as his sweet angel of mercy stepped out of the stall, taking the garbage pail with her. He heard the outer door close as she stepped into the hallway and he tried to pull together what remained of his dignity. This was bad. This was bordering on absurd. He was on his feet and the gurgling had stopped. He didn’t think it could get any more humiliating than this already was.
The outer door opened and she reached over the stall door to hand him an oversized feminine napkin. “Put this on just in case there happens to be an issue while you are on stage.” He didn’t argue. He removed the wrapper, peeled off the paper, which was affixed to the self-adhesive sticky strips and stuck the padding into his briefs. He heard a knock at the door. “Mr. Cromwell, we need you on stage now!”
Thurston exited the stall to be greeted by a woman he still could not see clearly; his vision was still distorted. She helped him put his jacket on and whispered, “Lean on me, I got you.” She used the wet cloth to wipe his face as she guided him to the sink to wash his hands.
Back straight, eyes unfocused, she aimed him towards the door and they stepped into the cool air of the hallway. Like a Seeing Eye guide, she entered through the side door of the main conference room as the music started and she steered him around the side of the stage. Carefully, he climbed the stairs as applause filled the room.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I proudly give you the Chairman of the Communications Committee of the Republican National Party, Thurston Cromwell the Fourth.”
His voice was steady. His hands were fixed as he held the sides of the podium. “Good afternoon and thank you. I am not one for long-winded speeches or filling the air with promises we know we cannot keep. We are in for a long fight as we head toward 2016. Every fundraising dollar that you give helps strengthen our resolve to build a better America. Let me be very clear because our message will be. We are taking back our country and reestablishing the values that made this nation great. With your generous donations, we are sending a message to the White House to reinforce that we have the Senate and we have the House; it is time for
to get packing and head back to Illinois!”
The thunderous applause that followed his words was almost deafening. Thurston held up his hand, “We are the party of action. Our message is clear. Our focus is clear. Our mission is clear. Therefore, I am not going to stand on this podium preaching about what we are going to do or laying out a plan of how it will be accomplished. I am here to communicate to you to open those wallets, be generous, and support your party. While you are here tonight, make a new friend, sign up for committees, and prepare to get on the front line as we organize ourselves to take back our country!”
This too was met with deafening applause. “I am going to leave you tonight with these words. We must show
people what effective leadership looks like. We can no longer afford to continuously pass around handouts to
unwilling to work and earn their fair share. We are severing the ties to the government teat and putting the freeloaders on notice! In 2016, let it be heard throughout the land: your mooching days are over!”
More applause as Thurston raised both hands, yelled goodnight, and exited the stage. His vision was still blurry as he reached the bottom of the stairs and looked about for the angel who had assisted him. The smell of her perfume hit him first and he knew she was at his side as she squirreled him out the back door. “Mr. Cromwell, Mr. Cromwell… you are needed on the floor.”
“He is terribly ill. I have to get him to his room,” his angel said. The lady looked at his face and the color had drained from it again. He was barely standing. She asked his room number as she pulled him into the elevator. Thurston could hear the dinging of the bell six times as they reached his floor. Weak hands tapped at his pockets, indicating the key was inside.
She opened the door to his suite and guided him towards the bed. He flopped down face first as she headed towards the door. “Don’t leave me,” he whispered.
“I can’t stay. I will lose my job,” she told him.
He tried to turn over while reaching for his wallet. He took out a business card and handed it to her. “Give this to your boss or supervisor. Tell them I am pulling you away to assist me tonight and ask them to call me first thing in the morning.”
Doing as she was instructed, the angel left him for a while, returning with ginger ale, applesauce, and crackers. His guardian angel also assisted with getting him out of the suit and into bed; it was a rough night for Thurston. He vacillated between shivers of cold and bouts of sweat. She saw no need to change his clothing during the night as she went from adding or removing blankets to applying cool cloths to his forehead.
Somewhere around three am, his fever broke along with her exhaustion, which took over her, and she collapsed on the small settee. The need for sleep overtook her and she drifted off, giving in to the desire for rest. He was out of the woods and finally sleeping peacefully. In truth, she needed to get home, but she was too tired to walk to the metro station. She only hoped her good deed didn’t get her in a world of trouble.