Six of One (25 page)

Chapter Forty-One

Beau Tied and Dwarf Morphed

Wally lifted me to my feet and then walked over to Harry, his right arm extended for a manly handshake. “Harry,” he said, “a man with your reputation on the playing field couldn’t possibly be a poor loser. Friends?”

Harry took Wally’s hand grudgingly.

“Friends,” he said.

“How about a kiss for
me
?” I asked gingerly, proffering my cheek to my erstwhile fiancé.

“Anything for you, Dolly, any time,” said Harry, giving me a brotherly peck. “All you ever need to do is ask, Dolly. And now, it is time for me to put Plan B into effect. A man with my reputation in the boardroom
always
has a Plan B.”

“Harry, what
are
you talking about?” asked Kath.

“Well, I promised myself this time, with six divorces under my belt, that I would have a Plan B available just in case my seventh marriage went the way of the first six. I’ve done all the footwork already; the way is prepared for me.”

“Sounds very philosophical,” said Wally respectfully.

“It
is
very philosophical,” said Harry. “I am going to become a Buddhist monk.”

“It takes a very good man to make a successful Buddhist monk,” Kath said. “You have six ex-wives behind you. Are you sure you qualify?”

“My dear,” said Harry seriously, “I’m a very good man; I’m just a very bad husband. Don’t you see? Dedicating myself to celibacy and contemplation is the logical way to redress a lifetime of poor connubial decision-making. As I said, I have already laid the groundwork for Plan B so that I could implement it at a moment’s notice if I had to. Once we figure out what to do about the wedding guests and all that, I will be on a plane to Tibet. They even have my Buddhist-monk name picked out for me at the monastery.”

“What is it?” I asked.

“Pu-tai,” Harry responded.

“I’d be wary of a name that started with the monosyllable ‘poo,’” said Kath, nuzzling her little dog.

“What does
Pu-tai
mean?” I asked.

Wally was able to supply this information, having picked up a little Tibetan in his travels. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Harry,” he said, “but doesn’t that more or less mean ‘fat and happy’?”

“Happy!” whispered Kath into my ear. “That means Harry gets to be your ‘Happy’ dwarf, even if he doesn’t get to marry you.”

“Yes,” I whispered back into her ear, “and look who I
am
going to marry.” The two of us could not help laughing, and the men urgently demanded to know what was going on. All Kath and I could do, though, was answer in unison, “
Doc!
”

Now all we had to do was figure out how to turn the inside joke into an inside job.

Chapter Forty-Two

Get Thee to the Church on a Dime

Kath and I headed back to the hotel, an impressive team of two. My job was to be made up, coiffed, and hook-and-eyed into my wedding ensemble. Kath, like a bulldog, defended my change-of-intended to the assembled bridal party. In the meantime, Wally wended his way to Splendid Tuxedos and came out suitably attired in nuptial raiment. Palpably in love, Wally and I drifted up the aisle and were hitched without a hitch. Harry procured a saffron robe and sandals and got his head shaved in time to stand beside Wally as best man. Our wedding reception doubled as Harry’s farewell-to-the-flatlands-of-civilization party and was a success on both counts. Harry’s best-man toast was simple but heartfelt.

“To Dolly and Wally Rolly!”

“To Dolly and Wally! May they always be jolly!” chorused Harry’s six exes.

“Dolly and Wally,
humph
! We think it’s folly,” said Harry’s mother and grandma, but they raised their glasses in the toast just the same.

“Wally asked us to mind his collie, Molly, till he and Dolly get settled in the Cotswolds,” said the four Marias. They were happy about being able to help.

“We’ll be minding Harry’s parrot, Polly, forever, because of Dolly and Wally,” moaned Harry’s sisters. “Those things live to be hundreds of years old!”

“To Dolly and Wally—and our father, Harry, too, by golly!” said Harry’s daughters.

“Really,” Bella said, “whatever way you look at it, Harry still gets his Dolly.”

“Whatever are you prattling about?” Miss Bess asked her.

“
Our
Dolly or the Dalai Lama; either way, it’s a win for Harry,” replied Bella.

Fending off a volley of tossed rice with her bridesmaid’s parasol brolley, my dear cousin Jean summed up the bridal toasts as we all left the building.

“Happiness always, and never forget how much we all love you.”

I have never forgotten; after what came next, how could I forget?

Chapter Forty-Three

A Consummation Devoutly to be
Wished—or Perhaps Not

It has been a year now that Wally and I are married—a year since my night in “the Almighty’s Way Station for Wayward Tudor Women.” I have kept rule number one and not told a living soul about that night—not even Wally.

Life with him here in the Cotswolds is everything I had hoped it would be. I know with absolute certainty that I made the right decision in marrying him. Wally is happy, too. He says he is as contented as the village cattle are, now that cows are no longer mad and sheep may safely graze due to his much-admired research work. Wally has developed an interest in archeology since we moved here to the Cotswolds and is now doing groundbreaking work on the local burial mounds. He says that his working in the field of history is just one more thing that brings us together.

As for me, I am working on a new treatise, working title “Henry VIII: Man of Constant Sorrow.” I am confining myself to primary-source documents to bolster my argument so as not to break rule number one, but it takes constant vigilance.

When I am not working on that, I am enjoying the fantastic sex with Wally in our cottage bedroom or the good conversation with him in our peaceful cottage garden.

We planted some Shakespeare flowers in the garden, and on the anniversary of our first fateful night in a Shakespeare Garden all those years ago, we reenacted the scene this year. With an afternoon nap and a pregame Red Bull, Wally actually made it through to the end game this time, so we plan to make it an annual event. And
speaking
of annual events, there was a sighting of Pu-tai, the fiancé formerly known as Harry, at a recent Tibetan New Year celebration, and he was looking—well—fat and happy.

Certain as I am that my decision was the right one, I am troubled sometimes by the absence of the message my spirit-world friends promised me. Have they forgotten me? Or am I living in a fool’s paradise, with everything maybe not as perfect as I think? Or could it be that my Tudor gal pals were really just a figment of my imagination?

Chapter Forty-Four

Before, a Joy Proposed; Behind, a Dream

“Wally, I’m home!”

“Perfect timing, Dolly! Dinner is in the oven and will be ready in about fifteen minutes. That will give you just enough time to open the package that came for you today.”

“What kind of package?”

“Light, oblong…and mysterious.”

“Why ‘mysterious’?”

“No return address. None at all.”

“That
is
odd. Where did you put it?”

“It’s in our room, dear, on the bed. We can open it before dinner. I’m curious myself what it could possibly be.”

“Well, the handwriting on the label looks a lot like Auntie Reine-Marie’s,” I said, as I examined the package.

“Damned old-fashioned handwriting she’s got, then.”

“Well, Wally, you know what a character she is. This must be from her, though,” I said, once I unwrapped the package. “It’s a needlework piece. Looks like a quilt, but it’s too small to cover the bed.”

Wally held up the other item in the package, a wooden cylinder. “Would this mysterious object assist in the identification? It looks like a dowel of some kind.”

“It’s a quilt hanger, Wally! Auntie Reine Marie has sent us a quilted wall hanging. Her handiwork is incredible; look how beautiful the piece is. The play of color and pattern and the intricate trapunto work are remarkable.”

“Well, Dolly, it’s geometric; I’ll say
that
for it.”

“Wally, you’re holding it upside down! It goes
this
way, silly; see, the rod pocket is at the top.”

“What’s that about pocket rods?”

“Be serious for a minute, Wally. The dowel goes in the rod pocket, and you hang it up on the wall, like so,” I said, holding the piece up to show Wally.

“It just looks like a bunch of triangles to me, Dolly. Here, let
me
hold it up against the wall, and
you
stand back, take a good look, and see what you think. Maybe you can see something in it that I am missing. I know all these quilt patterns have fanciful names. What is this one called, ‘Bermuda Triangles’?”

“No,” I said, showing off my needlework knowledge. “This pattern is called ‘Flying Geese.’”

Wally squinted at the textile for a moment and then smiled. “I see! The triangles represent the geese in a flock, and they are all lined up and flying heavenward.”

Just then, a beam of sun shone through the window and onto the little quilt. “You’re
right
, Wally,” I said. “That is
exactly
what those silly geese are doing. They’re flying to heaven—each and every one of them.”

“Well, it’s an uplifting and aspirational choice of pattern on your auntie’s part, I’m sure, but you seem to be disproportionately emotional about it. There’s some arcane, female message in this thing, isn’t there?”

“There is, but it’s way too arcane to explain. Just kiss me, darling.”

“Right here, in front of all these silly geese?”

“Yes, right here. I want to make sure they all can see.”

The End