Free Once Upon a Project by Bettye Griffin Page A

sure.”
    â€œOh.” Susan didn’t realize Franklin was past sixty. He hadn’t seemed that much older than they were when he and Elyse got married. But of course they’d still been in their early twenties back then, and he in his midthirties. It seemed weird to have a husband past sixty when you were still in your forties.
    â€œHe’s always claiming to be sick,” Elyse continued, “but he’s taking his time going to the doctor.”
    Susan tried again. “Are you sure you’re not taking this too lightly? I know I’d be concerned if Bruce told me repeatedly that he didn’t feel well.”
    â€œOh, Susan. If there’s really something wrong with Franklin, I’m the pope. He’s just making excuses for not going out with me. Not only doesn’t he go to the doctor, but he hasn’t missed one day at work. The only time he says he doesn’t feel well is when it’s time to follow through on plans he and I have made.”
    Susan absorbed this. So she wasn’t the only one who felt hurt, even betrayed, by her husband’s behavior. The moment she made that statement about dining at Ricky’s place the next time she and Bruce weekended in the city, she regretted it, knowing it would never happen. They used to take weekend trips frequently, but they hadn’t gone anywhere since her cancer diagnosis.
    She noted that Elyse struck back against Franklin by refusing to stay in the house like an obedient little wife, and hoped that eventually he would come around and want to reclaim a social life. That seemed fair enough, but Elyse’s problem was different from her own. Franklin might be slowing down some, but from what Elyse said, he wasn’t cheating on her.
    She could think of only one way to strike back at a cheating husband, and that was to have an affair herself, tit for tat. But that seemed childish.
    Still, she couldn’t help wondering how she’d react if she was to come face-to-face with Charles Valentine after all these years.
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    Excitement sparked the air around the nondescript corner building of dirty tan brick that was Junior’s Bar. Cars jamming the street, coupled with the man just inside the door taking money and stamping the backs of hands, told onlookers a special event was taking place.
    The crowd started arriving at nine o’clock. Ten dollars got a person in the door, a complimentary glass of beer or wine, and a dinner of fried chicken, spaghetti, and a roll. Susan and Elyse each paid the cover charge and entered, leaving their overcoats in the car because they knew there was nowhere to hang them up inside.
    Soon the seats at the elongated bar were filled, along with the booths opposite it. Tonight the usually active jukebox stood silent and dark, with oldies music provided by a CD player and two large speakers in the back room, which was not enclosed but merely divided by the center bar. The back room had tables and chairs set up alongside the walls, and a long buffet table with chafing dishes parallel to the far wall but with about two feet of space between it and the wall.
    â€œI’m sure Pat got here early. Do you suppose Grace is here yet?” Susan asked Elyse.
    â€œYou know Grace—no telling when she’ll show up!”
    Pat was standing at the bar, her right hand resting on the back of a stool while she carried on an animated conversation with its occupant and the person sitting on her left.
    Pat had always been outgoing and personable, even as a child. In high school she’d been voted Most Popular. A too-strong jawline prevented her from being a classic beauty, but with her hourglass figure and attractive face she turned plenty of heads, both then and now. The shortage of eligible black men must be a lot worse than I thought , Elyse said to herself, if no one has snapped up a good catch like Pat. Elyse hoped Brontë would be able to find someone suitable when she reached