Taming Theresa (9 page)

"Jack. Give me a hand; I need a little help
here. She can’t walk."

Jack handed his cup to Vicky and pulled out a
kitchen chair. "What did you do to her?"

"I didn't do anything," John protested.

"Yeah, right!” Theresa whimpered miserably
rubbing her ankle. “This is all your fault.” “Why didn’t you leave
when I asked you to? If you hadn't...”

“Hey.” John held his palms up. “You’re right.
I admit it was my fault, but when a man finds a beautiful naked
woman waiting for him in his bathtub surrounded by candles...well,
he gets ideas.”

“Why do you keep saying I’m beautiful? I
don't feel very beautiful this morning.” Theresa frowned and
extended her right leg exhibiting a very swollen ankle.

"Oh dear," murmured Vicky. "Remember what
your mom said; let's get an ice pack on that right away."

Theresa sighed. "John did that off and on all
night. It helped some, but it's still throbbing like crazy."

“Doc will be here soon,” announced John. "I
called him before we left."

“Please don't go to any trouble on my
account," said Theresa.

“What?” said John indignantly. “Why didn’t
you say that, when I was running up and down stairs all night
getting aspirin, cups of tea, and your ‘Boo Boo’ ice?”

"Okay then,” breathed Vicky. “I'll get some
ice anyway, it certainly won't hurt. I hope it isn't broken."

John went to the coffee pot, got down a mug,
and filled it. Taking a hefty swallow of the scalding liquid, he
shuddered. It felt like a hand grenade going off in his stomach. He
grimaced, put the mug down again.

“We got an hour of sleep, maybe two. You
know, she's very irritable in the morning.”

"I'm not irritable," snapped Theresa from her
chair.

"Whatever," he muttered.

"And what about my car and my things? They’re
still at the B & B. I told you I wanted you to drive my car out
here, but would you listen? Nooo. How am I going to stay here?"

He rolled his eyes. “I’ll bring you back
whenever you want.”

"Don't worry about that now,” said Vicky.
“Let's just get Doc to check you out and we can take care of all
the rest later,"

Jack said, “I'm sure there's a lot more to
this story. Maybe more than you remember?"

"Oh I remember every minute," John said.

"You look a little rough this morning. You
feeling all right?"

"Yeah sure. Listen, can you guys take care of
Theresa. I've got to get down to the Shell Station, to see if
everybody got to work on time. Then I'm going out back and blow my
brains out. Want to come along?"

"I'll pass," said Jack.

Marsha crept into the kitchen, gray and
hollow eyed, clutching a package of saltines and sat down at the
table. "Morning."

Diane stumbled in next and collapsed into a
chair. She held her head in her hands and groaned, "Oh my god. I'm
never doing that again. I think meatballs, cheesecake, and mojitos
are a bad combination."

"Can I get you guys anything?" asked
Vicky.

Marsha shook her head and fished out a
saltine, munching slowly.

Diane groaned, "No, nothing please."

"Could someone get me some coffee?" asked
Theresa.

John quickly filled a cup, added cream and
brought it to her.

“Thanks Babe.” Theresa sipped gratefully. “I
need coffee in the morning, no matter what.”

John glanced at his friend. Jack was staring
at him, eyebrows reaching for the ceiling as he mouthed, "Thanks,
Babe?"

“Ugh!” Marsha bolted from the room, one hand
over her mouth.

Diane looked after her, sympathetic. “It’s
the smell of the coffee, I think.”

Vicky said in a low voice, "Jack, could I
speak with you and John, for a minute. She turned and walked into
her office room.

Jack looked at his friend, John shrugged, and
they followed her.

Vicky turned to face them and in a panicked
voice said, "Listen, this isn't good. I don’t know what to do.” She
pointed a trembling finger toward the kitchen. “This is turning
into a disaster. That's our wedding party out there. There are a
million things I have to do this week, and they don’t look like
they're going to be any help. Jack," she whimpered. “What are we
going to do?" Her lower lip quivered, and she showed the first
signs of a meltdown.

Jack folded her into his arms trying to calm
her. "It'll be okay. Don't worry. We'll work things out."

Edging toward the door, John muttered,
"Listen, I really have to get down to the Shell Station, you know,
check on things."

Vicky looked over Jack's shoulder, blinking
back tears. "John, get back here. Don't you dare go running off. I
need your help."

“Hey. I'd like to help, but wedding plans are
not exactly up my alley," he said, taking another step
backward.

"John, get back in here. I'm not going to ask
you to arrange flowers or frost the cake. Since Terry has hurt
herself...I was hoping you could drive her around. Marsha isn’t
going to be much help, and...” Vicky came apart entirely, sobbing
onto Jack's shoulder.

"Take it easy, Vicky.” Jack held her in his
arms, stroking her back. “Things aren't that bad. Please, don't
worry, and don't cry." He stood, holding her and casting an
imploring look at his friend.

"Okay okay, sure, I've got time. I’ll do
whatever you want, Vicky. Just tell me. Right, Jack?”

"Terry was going to drive to the winery to
pick up our wine with the customized labels this week. Now I’ll
have to see if they’ll deliver. Everyone needs to go for a dress
fitting tomorrow, and Marsha might not fit into hers. I still don't
know who's doing the cake; Terry was going to look into that. And,
oh my god, I can't even remember what all has to get done. We have
less than a week. I've got to make a list." She reached for a
handful of tissues from her roll top desk, snuffling and blowing
her nose.

"Hey, it's all right. John and I will take
care of everything, right John?"

"Uh, yeah Jack, sure."

Doctor Sweeney rapped on the back door of the
farmhouse. "Anybody home," he called.

Vicky hurried to the porch, an index finger
to her lips. "Shhhh, I don't want to wake them."

Puzzled, Doc entered the kitchen and put down
his little black bag. "Where are all the patients I need to see?
Where's Marsha?”

“She’s upstairs resting. Joe’s with her.”

“Jack said Theresa has a bad ankle. Is that
right?"

Vicky beckoned him to follow her into the
living room.

Terry lay on the couch sound asleep, snoring
softly. John sat at the end with her injured ankle propped
carefully on his lap. Somehow, he’d managed to lean over until his
smiling face nestled in her lap, his right hand gripping her
thigh.

Doc smiled broadly. "Well now, don't they
make a nice looking couple there? I'll just bet that before this
wedding is all over those two nice young people will get together.
Yes, they'd make a lovely couple, don't you think Vicky?"

“You seem to be having trouble gassing up.
Can I help?" asked John. He was standing beside her at the Shell
Station.

"What are you doing here? Please just leave
me alone!” Turning her back to him, Theresa examined the credit
card in her hand and then studied the directions on the pump. “I'm
perfectly able to do this myself.”

Amused, John watched her, teetering on her
crutches, as she leaned over the gas nozzles unsure how to get the
gasoline into the little red Mustang convertible. This gave him the
perfect opportunity to admire her tight little rump. The blue knit
dress she wore molded her body into one very fine package.

She glared at him then sighed with
resignation. “I’m not used to this. I can't help it if I'm from
Jersey. You know it's the only state where you still can't pump
your own gas. It's illegal or something.”

John shook his head. Maneuvering around her
he quickly inserted his own card, punched the appropriate buttons,
opened her gas cap, and began filling her tank.

"Hey! What are you doing? You're not going to
pay for my gas."

"I just did," he said grinning. "And you're
not going to drive up to Blossom Creek in that little car.”

“How do you know where I’m going?” Theresa
hobbled to her car door and leaned in to retrieve her purse. When
she stood up to slide the credit card back in, John was staring so
intently at her that she blushed.

“Vicky asked me to help you pick up the wine
and that's what I'm going to do. You don't know how to get up
there. I do. And it's not easy to find. The Blossom Creek Winery is
in the middle of nowhere and the last couple of miles are a little
rough. You don't want to take this nice car over those dirt roads.
Besides, you're on crutches. Doc said you shouldn't be
driving."

"Never mind what Doc said. I drove here okay
didn't I?" She glared at him defiantly. "I can find the winery on
my own, smart ass. I've got GPS."

“You got more than that, Babe,” he muttered
to himself.

“What did you say?”

Ignoring her, he replaced the nozzle into its
slot on the pump, took his receipt, and eyed her car. "How much
wine are we picking up?"

"Ten cases. Why?"

He pointed an accusatory finger at the
Mustang. “Where you going to put it? In there?"

Theresa studied the car for a minute then
narrowed her dark eyes. “I could manage if I folded down the
seats.”

"Right. It would be a tight squeeze. I'll
drive. We can take my SUV. Especially since the rear seats won’t
fold on a Mustang convertible.”

Theresa rolled her eyes. “Okay okay, I give
up Mr. Know-it-all, you can drive...”

“It's a real pretty drive up there. You’ll
enjoy the scenery from the passenger seat.”

“Whatever....”

“Listen, Vicky wants us to do this, so just
shut up, and let’s get it done. For her. She asked me to help you
and that's what I'm going to do."

Theresa met his soft brown eyes then looked
down. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m such a bitch today.”

“Hey. I thought that’s how you were every
day.” He gave her a devilish grin and added, “Why don't you pull
this little beauty around back, and we'll get rolling. Very nice
car, by the way." He glanced up at the leaden sky. "Looks like it
might rain again.”

Anthony DePalma stopped outside of Paulding’s
Rest and looked up and down the main street of Pippin's Grove.
Appraising his surroundings, he took a last drag on his cigarette.
Though still a young man, Tony had thinning dark hair, a fleshy
belly that had begun to protrude over his belt, and small black
eyes were set just a little too close together. He eyed the ominous
gray cloud cover overhead suspiciously and then squinted up and
down the street once more. As he flicked the butt into a gutter, he
noticed a black Ford Explorer sporting NRA and pink 'Save the Ta
Tas' bumper stickers, turn the corner onto a side street.

Got some weird hicks up here. Not much goes
on here in the middle of the week. It was a piece of luck to find
this property in the same little Podunk town where Terry’s in that
wedding. I got three things to do here. Get the owners to sell to
my new boss, get Terry to change her little pea-brained mind, and
most important, get my hands on that money. Thought it was in a
safe place, leaving it in her car, but no, she's got to drive all
the way up here to Hicksville with it. No problem. I'll get it all
done one way or another. If she don't come around to my way of
thinking, I'll make life miserable for the little bitch. He rounded
the corner and entered the tavern.

Ralph Spangenberg tended his bar every Monday
afternoon when all three of his regular bartenders had the day off.
He scheduled it that way intentionally because he enjoyed spending
at least one day a week connecting with his customers. Ralph rubbed
the wood of the old bar until it glowed. It was probably 150 years
old. The shelves behind him held a fine selection of bottles and
rows of shining glasses.

There was a good lunch crowd today. Mostly
they were local business people. His waitress, Kay, bustled about
taking orders and carrying trays laden with food and drinks to her
tables. The customers liked Kay's ready smile and efficient manner.
At the bar, a small number of lunchtime drinkers nursed their beers
talking politics and sports. Ralph relaxed against the bar,
occasionally offering an opinion of his own.

Tony DePalma stood, legs spread, surveying
the room. He wore a black sports jacket over an open necked shirt
that revealed a gold chain, from which dangled a tiny horn. Nodding
as if satisfied, he strode to the bar. Conversation ceased as he
approached. Climbing onto a stool, he didn't notice the suspicious
glances from the regulars. Once more, he looked around the tavern
curiously.

He turned to see the enormous barrel-chested
man behind the bar approaching him.

"Get you something?" asked the big man.

Tony nodded. "Yeah sure. Scotch on the rocks.
Dewar’s if you've got it."

“All right.” He turned to fix the drink.

At the far end of the bar, conversation began
again, but in lower tones. The bartender returned with his glass of
tinkling ice and amber whiskey and placed it on a napkin. "New
around here? Just visiting?"

"You might say I'm here on business," said
Tony. "Is the owner of this place around by any chance?" He took a
swallow of his drink and eyed the man.

"I'm the owner. Name is Ralph Spangenberg." A
huge hairy paw reached across the bar. Tony stared at it, and then
briefly shook, his small hand entirely disappearing in the other's
firm grip. He pulled his hand away quickly.

"Yeah, nice to meet you. So, you're the
owner, huh? Good, that's good. Nice little place you've got
here."