Carol Clark - Hitched

Francis and Marco were on the Garden State Parkway in New Jersey heading south to Atlantic City.

“What’s the matter?” Marco asked.

“Nothing’s the matter. Why should something be the matter?” Francis asked, looking out the side window.

Marco took his hands off the steering wheel to adjust the hand towel he had wrapped around his wrist. The car started to veer to the right.

“Watch it!” Francis yelled.

“You’re very uptight.”

“Please keep your hands on the wheel.”

“I know how to drive. I’ve never had an accident.”

“You also said you’ve never been arrested.”

“Very funny. You’ve been quiet since you got off the phone with Joyce.”

“I feel bad. Last Saturday night I left her home. Now, again this Saturday. It’s not right.”

“She’ll get over it. Listen, I’m in pain. My wrist is killing me.”

“Maybe you should go to a doctor in Atlantic City.”

“I still don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“You probably need stitches. Just tell the doctor you cut yourself with a knife, that’s all. It doesn’t mean you committed a crime. Even though you did.”

“So did you. What the…?” Marco looked in the rearview mirror. A police car was right behind them flashing its lights.

“Pull over!” came a voice through a bullhorn.

Marco cursed and Francis moaned.

“It’s over,” Francis said. “We’re done. Done!”

“We didn’t do anything.”

“What about the dresses in the trunk?”

“Oh, yeah.”

Marco pulled the aging vehicle to the side of the road and stopped. He quickly pulled his sleeve down so that it completely covered the blue hand towel wrapped around his wrist. Before the officer reached the car, he had his license and registration and insurance papers out, hoping to make the ordeal as quick as possible.

A moment later a burly state trooper was standing slightly back from the car. Marco quickly handed over his documents. The trooper took them and walked back to his vehicle while another police car pulled up behind his.

“Safety in numbers,” Francis muttered. “They’re out to find drugs. They should know we have a bunch of foufy wedding dresses in the trunk.”

“Shut up. We’ve also got a lot of cash back there, too.”

Francis groaned.

They sat and waited for what seemed like forever. The trooper finally got out of his car again. He sauntered back up to Marco’s window.

“You in a hurry, boys?”

“No, sir.”

“It seemed like you were.”

“Really?’ Marco feigned surprise. “How fast was I going?”

“Ten miles over the speed limit. Here’s your ticket. And here’s another ticket for a broken tail light.”

“A broken tail light?” Again Marco was aghast.

“You’d better get that fixed real soon. It’s dangerous. And your front left tire looks as if it could use some air. Maybe it has a slow leak. Do you want to change it right now?” He stared down at Marco. “Better safe than sorry.”

“Change it now?” Marco repeated. “Oh, I don’t think so, officer. Perhaps it would be best if we drove to the next rest stop. Maybe I could get the tail light replaced at the same time. And…and…and…I’ll put a little air in the tires. And get the car washed, too.”

“It could sure use it. Wait a minute.” The trooper walked to the back of the car and looked at the tail light. He pulled on a piece of the broken glass.

Francis almost fainted in the front seat. To open the trunk all you had to do was push the button. No key necessary. If the trooper kept fiddling around back there, he’d make four brides very happy.

The trooper walked back to Marco’s window. “Your license here says you live in upstate New York. Where are you boys headed?”

Don’t say Atlantic City, Francis thought wildly. Don’t be that stupid.

“We’re going to visit a classmate from our younger days who just had an operation. He’s going to be fine, thank God, but we want to cheer him up,” Marco answered, doing his best imitation of Eddie Haskell.

“What kind of operation?”

“Knees. Knee. He was a football player and his old injuries were really acting up.”

Francis feigned laughter and pointed to his leg. “I was hurt on the job. Been out of work for months. I hate it. Thought I’d go down and commiserate with him.”

The trooper’s radio squawked, alerting him to a fender bender down the road. He tapped the roof of Marco’s car.

“Take it slow, fellas.”

“I will, sir. Thank you, sir. Yes, sir.”

As the trooper walked back to his car, Francis commented with disgust. “You really laid it on thick, didn’t you?”

“What about you? You didn’t have to tell him you were injured. Remember, don’t give out so much information.”

“I’m sorry. I’ve never been involved in the life of crime before.”

“Get used to it.”

Marco pulled out onto the highway. A few miles down the road was a rest stop. Marco drove right past it.

“Aren’t we going to stop?” Francis asked.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“You think I’m going to pull into a busy rest stop? We’ll find a gas station that is quiet. We’ve got those dresses in the back. You want somebody noticing them?”

“Let’s just get rid of them. Let’s get off at the next exit and find a Dumpster.”

“No way. That’s money down the drain. They’re going to Las Vegas. One hundred thousand brides a year say ‘I do’ in that town. Surely my pal Marty can find four of them who will pony up a few bucks for those designer gowns. In my humble opinion, old Alfred really does have some talent.”

“The note you left said that his designs stink.”

“I knew it would get to him.” Marco smiled. “I also figured that taping the note inside the refrigerator would be twice as creepy.”

As they drove on, Francis desperately wished that he were home with Joyce. Little did he know, she was about to have a wild night on the town.

When Tracy reemerged from the bathroom, her eyes had a vacant stare not unlike the ones actors who played psychos in horror movies affected right before they pounced. But her makeup was perfect-she’d clearly powdered her nose and freshened her pink lipstick, Regan noticed.

One wall of the main room of the loft was mirrored, another was all exposed brick. On good days it felt like a happy, open space full of endless possibilities, Regan thought, where excited brides were fitted for the most important dress of their lives. But now, for the second time in twelve hours, it was the setting for personal disaster. The spot where Brianne found her shredded bloodied dress in a heap was exactly where Tracy had been standing when she’d been shot through the heart, so to speak.

Regan was sure that neither one of them would ever forget every detail of their terrible experiences at Alfred and Charisse’s salon. Tracy ’s pain, of course, was far deeper. After all, what could be worse than having your heart broken a week before your wedding? And better yet, what can turn a basically sane, albeit high-strung person, into a psycho in no time flat?

Getting the royal dump.

Charisse was leaning over the coffee table, pouring tea as though her life depended on it. Nora and Kit were making noise about how wonderful yet another cup of tea would taste. Alfred was slumped on the couch, looking nervous and defeated. When he saw Tracy, he attempted to straighten up.

While her mother and sister stood in the background, Tracy walked over to Alfred and said in a scarily controlled voice, “You have ruined my life. I wanted to pick up my dress two weeks ago. It wasn’t ready. And last week it still wasn’t ready…”