Free Goose in the Pond by Earlene Fowler

promising to be emotional, a box of Ding Dongs. Most of the time Sam would have to fend for himself, or Gabe would have to take him out, because I was busy almost every night through Sunday. Not that it was different from my usual way. Food was something that Gabe and I, along with finances and housing, hadn’t quite worked out in our marriage, though we’d been living together for over seven months. At this point it had been catch-as-catch-can on meals, with the local restaurants profiting. Our finances had settled into a comfortable pattern of him paying the rent and utilities and his own personal bills and me paying my personal bills as well as things like insurance, household repairs, and what food we do keep around the house. But we’d never talked about any long-range plans. It all seemed to stem from him still having that house over by Nick’s. Somehow, I felt, when he was forced to mingle all his possessions with mine, we’d have to face up to the fact that we were indeed and most certainly forever-and-ever-amen legally hitched and we would be compelled to come up with some sort of team plan.
    I climbed out of the truck and was, as Dove would say, trying to juggle a lazy man’s load of three bags of groceries and my purse when a patrol car pulled up behind me. Gabe stepped out and gave the driver a wave of thanks. My heart quickened to a rate that would have set off five-star alarms if it had been hooked to a monitor.
    Please, I thought, don’t let Sam walk out right this minute.
    Gabe trotted over and grabbed two of the slipping bags. “What’s this?” he asked, his voice pleased. “Did my wife actually listen to my pleas for a home-cooked meal?” He peered down into one of the bags. “Fresh asparagus? Chicken breasts? Mushrooms? Was I dropped off at the right house?”
    “Gabe, honey, before we go in—”
    His head popped up, his expression frozen for a split second. “What’s wrong?” he demanded. “What have you done?”
    “What do you mean what have I done?” I shifted the third bag in front of me for protection. “What makes you think I’ve done anything?”
    “For the duration of our relationship you have at times called me Ortiz or Chief or Friday or Gabe, as well as a few things I’d just as soon not remember or repeat. Once, in the deepest throes of passion, I think you might have even whispered ‘baby’ in my ear. But you have never, ever called me anything that remotely resembled a loving endearment like honey.” He set the brown bags on the hood of the truck. “I repeat, what have you done?”
    I set my bag next to the other two. “I really resent the fact that you assume that I’ve—” Before I could finish, I heard the front door open. My heart landed with what I swore was an audible thud to the bottoms of my well-worn boots.
    In horror then surprise, I watched Gabe’s face go from suspicious to confused. His slate-blue eyes widened, and a quirky smile tugged underneath his mustache. I let out my held breath. Maybe this reunion wasn’t going to be as emotional as I thought.
    He let out a low wolf whistle.
    “Who in the heck is that?” he asked.

5

    I SWUNG AROUND, my heart pounding. If that kid wasn’t Sam, then who was he? Then I let out a loud groan.
    “Hi, y’ all,” said the vision in a minuscule denim skirt and tight pink angora sweater. “What’s for supper?”
    I slumped against the truck, Sam temporarily forgotten.
    “Well?” Gabe said, his eyes glued to her as she took the three porch steps, as the song goes, one hip at a time. Her bright pink cowboy boots with RIDE ’EM COWBOY in carmine red leather across the shaft, reached the bottoms of her very shapely knees.
    “Rita,” I said, groaning again.
    Gabe nodded his head, impressed. “Ah, the infamous cousin Rita.”
    I punched his arm. “You can shove your eyes back in your head now.” Though I couldn’t blame him. Rita always had that effect on men. If you compared our vital statistics—five