Our Husband (a humorous romantic mystery) (43 page)

Epilogue

Natalie stood with Beatrix and Ruby over Raymond's grave, each holding a long-stemmed red rose. Natalie could scarcely

believe the recent changes in her life—she was a bona fide wife and mother now, her days jammed with so many snatches of

joy, her existence before seemed comatose by comparison.

Beatrix's broken arm had healed nicely, although Natalie suspected she had dragged out her recovery longer than

necessary to keep Ruby close by. Meanwhile, the younger woman had settled into Beatrix's life with the pervasiveness of a

kudzu vine, and despite their constant arguing, it was clear they adored one another. Beatrix was taking cooking classes, of all

things, and working part-time in an antique bookstore.

Ruby's stomach was well-rounded. She was due to deliver a baby girl in a couple of weeks (a relief to Natalie and

Beatrix who shared nightmarish visions of Raymond Carmichael's son being unleashed on the unsuspecting women of the

world). Flush with pride over her recent GED certification, Ruby chattered on and on about the possibility of taking college

classes in the spring. The metamorphosis was nothing short of astounding.

Natalie's eyes brimmed. If Raymond Carmichael had performed a single deed to warrant grace in the afterlife, it was

bringing the three of them together.

They dropped their roses on the new gray marble headstone that read simply "Our Husband." As they walked away arm in

arm, Ruby halted abruptly, looked down at her wet shoes, then lifted a beaming smile. "Twenty percent of firstborn babies

arrive early."

The End

Page forward for more from Stephanie Bond

Excerpt from

Whole Lotta Trouble

by

Stephanie Bond

Chapter 1

Dear Mr. Blankenship,

My name is Richard Wannamaker. After retiring from the IRS, I decided to write a story about my roller-coaster life as a

cost accountant. Enclosed please find my 500-page autobiography, a volume I have fondly entitled Journal Entry—get it?

Tallie winced. She got it, and about twenty others like it on her desk every week. Reams of paper containing stories utterly

inappropriate for the mystery and romance fiction lines for which she acquired. It wasn't that she didn't admire the man for

creating the tome, but if he'd researched Parkbench Publishing at all, he would have known they weren't looking for

autobiographies. And that she wasn't a Mr., but a Miss.
Miss—
as in unmarried and unlikely to be in the near future. If only

Richard Wannamaker had been on her mother's Christmas card mailing list, he'd have been privy to that tidbit, courtesy of her

mother's annual
Blankenship Bulletin,
complete with pictures, favorite family recipes, and news. This year's headline:

YES, OUR BEAUTIFUL, SUCCESSFUL DAUGHTER IS STILL SINGLE!

It was almost February and she was still recovering from that one.

Tallie sighed and forced her attention back to the cover letter in her hand.

My brother-in-law is a tax attorney and will be handling the contract negotiation
—

A rap sounded at her office door and Tallie glanced up to see her assistant, Norah, stick her fair head inside. "Is this a bad

time?"

"No—please save me."

Norah gestured to the mound of curled manuscripts on Tallie's desk. "Wading through the slush I flagged?"

Tallie nodded and rubbed her eyes. "And a few you didn't. Ron tripped over one of my floor stacks the other day, so I

thought I'd better do some housecleaning. What's up?"

Norah looked apologetic. "Ron wants you in his office. He seems... agitated."

Tallie's stomach convulsed. Executive Editor Ron Springer was always a handful for the editorial staff to deal with, but

lately he'd been wound as tightly as his name implied, snapping at the least provocation. Tallie had secretly wondered if the

health of the company was in jeopardy, or if Ron himself was experiencing personal problems, but she wasn't about to put her

middle-of-the-road job on the line by asking. She had rent to pay, and a three-meals-a-day habit to support.

"Tell him I'll be right there."

Norah disappeared and Tallie pulled a mirror from her desk drawer, quickly checked her lipstick and her teeth, then

smoothed a couple of dark strands back into her chin-length bob. Her hand stopped suddenly, and she yanked the mirror closer

in disbelief.

Her first gray hair. She almost choked on the irony. While she was home during the holidays, her mother had accused her

of letting her childbearing years slide by, and right on cue, here was an outward sign that her innards were aging. She knew that

at thirty-four, she had no reason to complain, but it was still a blow... and it would remain her best-kept secret lest she give her

mother another headline for the holiday newsletter.

OUR SPINSTER DAUGHTER IS GOING GRAY!

She replaced the mirror and slammed the desk drawer. Hoping that Ron wasn't about to deliver news to add more silver to

her head, Tallie grabbed a pad of paper and a pen, then walked in the direction of her boss's office.

The bullpen was its usual beehive of activity, keyboards clicking and printers whirring, voices raised to be heard over

cubicle walls. Although grateful for her ten-foot-by-ten-foot office with an actual door, she missed the camaraderie that she'd

shared with her coworkers when they'd all been interns and assistants, still in awe of the publishing process and of the movers

and shakers in the industry. All of the women she'd started with nine years ago had moved on to positions at other publishing

houses or had left the industry altogether. She, on the other hand, had found a home at Parkbench and had managed to grow a

stable of prolific and modestly successful writers. No
New York Times
best sellers yet, but she had high hopes for two books

coming out in the spring.

The department walls were lined with framed covers of some of the company's best-selling authors—Dewey Diamond,

Grace Sharp, Linda Addison. It still gave Tallie a thrill to see the faces and signatures of writers she'd grown up reading.

Parkbench had made its mark in the 1950s with film noir spin-offs, then they'd developed successful mystery series in the

1960s and '70s. In the '80s, the company had cashed in on the romance genre boom and continued to grow their line of thrillers.

In the last thirty-plus years, Parkbench had become known as a boutique publisher, one of the few privately owned houses left

after the merging madness of the late '90s. They were small, but mighty, with a reputation for being author-friendly. Some of

their writers had been around for longer than Tallie had been alive.

Kara Hatteras, aka Scary Kara—editor in the health and nutrition books section and Tallie's nemesis—came out of her

office and arranged her Botox-puffy face into a smug expression. "Hello, Tallie."

Tallie was forced to stop, since the Nordic giant towered over her and was standing with her legs wide enough for a child

to walk through. "Hi, Kara."

"Have you heard that my book
The Soup to Nuts Diet
is going to be featured on CNN?"

Tallie bit the inside of her cheek; Kara never gave credit to her authors and bragged endlessly about "her"

accomplishments. "Um, no, I hadn't heard. That will be great coverage for the company."

Kara lifted her finger and wagged it precisely. "No. That will be great coverage for
me."
She dipped her chin. "I heard

through the grapevine that our department is going to be reorganized. This little media coup might be just the thing for Ron to

finally make me a senior editor."

Ahead of Tallie, she might as well have said. Tallie managed a tight smile at the woman whose surgically enhanced

lifestyle was the antithesis of the books she edited. "Good for you, Kara."

Kara made a rueful noise. "Don't worry, Tallie—even though you haven't hit any home runs, I'm sure Ron appreciates the

little things you do around here."

Tallie gritted her teeth. But Kara's condescension aside, Tallie hadn't heard any rumors about a reorganization—because

she was going to be reorganized out onto the street? Was that why Ron had been acting so edgy lately, because he was going to

have to fire someone?

Her?

"Oh, Tallie," Kara said, leaning down. "Is that a gray hair?"

Tallie froze. "No."

"I think it is."

"No, it isn't. I have to be going. Ron wants to see me." She hadn't meant to say that.

Kara looked sympathetic. "Good luck."

Tallie pushed past her and, with heart tripping overtime, headed toward the hallway where Ron's corner office was

located. His assistant Lil was coming out of his door, and she gave Tallie a warning look when they passed.

Tallie's stomach churned as she walked into his office.

Ron glanced up from his desk where he was frantically scribbling in the margins of a memo, and frowned. "Close the

door, Tallie."

She did, truly worried now. Ron's handsome face was flushed, and his normally perfectly knotted tie was pulled to one

side.

"Sit," he ordered.

She sat in one of two sleek Eames chairs that faced his desk. Ron collected chairs—he claimed they would be worth more

than his stock portfolio when he retired. She herself would be sitting pretty if "some assembly required" furniture became

collectible.

While Ron finished his note-making, she glanced around his office, never failing to be impressed by his accumulation of