Luck: When Preparation Meets Opportunity

© 2014 Anna Bergeron. All rights reserved.

Cover Art original oil 1990 Spirit of Truth

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 01/06/2014

ISBN: 978-1-4817-7509-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-7508-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013919058

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Contents

Kitchen Conversations

Humanity House

Royal Officers in Training

At Home

Lake Louise

In Love with Love

A Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing

Time for Something More

A Personal Private Professor

When Lilacs Bloom

Little Taste of Paris

A Date with Destiny

Mr. Right

The Wedding Family

When I Have a House

The Long Road Back

Less Than Perfect World

That Kind of a Day

Time to Call Time

Dedication

To my mother, Rosanna Mary Mariam, my family, and the Piano Man.

Kitchen Conversations

W omen! he shouted. You women! What is it you want?

You are liberated, Anna. For years I’ve listened to you quote the authorities: Betty Friedan, Sylvia Weinstein, Kate Millet, Simone de Beauvoir, Gloria Steinem and…

All right, Grant, you have made your point. You don’t have to go on listing names all night.

Women are liberated. They are equal to men. They are equal but different. Now, where do you go from here? You are confused about your roles, your direction, your values, said Grant.

He slammed his open hand down hard on the kitchen countertop, his iron Engineer’s ring making a dull clink as it hit the hard surface. You women should be sisters now, working towards a common cause. That’s what you used to tell me. What you need now is a great woman to emulate; some marvelous creature who laughs and cries just the way you do, someone with whom you can identify. You need someone to show you the way from here.

We had Jackie Kennedy.

"Passé.

Margaret Thatcher.

Power hungry.

The Queen.

Too Royal.

That just about exhausts the list.

You are ready for something new, said Grant.

What marvelous men do you men have to emulate?

We have had no one of significance since Christ.

Exactly.

Women need an equivalent, she said.

Anyway, stop this warfare with your neighbors. These neighborhood conflicts should not affect your life, said Grant.

I have had many wonderful, kind and loyal friends. These neighbors who profess to be friends are not true friends. They are a closed little group who worship money, power and their connections. They are worshipping false gods.

This is the ME Generation. They compete fiercely with one another to further their own ends. They are more vicious than men. Women can be obnoxious.

Maybe it is you who should change. You cannot change them, said Grant.

It had already been a trying day and her husband was forcing her to accept the situation. She took a sip of Dubonnet and pressed the cool glass against her flushed face. It was soothing. She tightened the belt of her bathrobe and wrapped her arms around herself in a nurturing, protective gesture.

Maybe you are right, Grant. We have known these neighbors for five years. They welcomed us the day we moved in, do you remember? I am positive and optimistic but I am not that competitive. You know what I am like.

You are not a conformist, I know that. This community is all about conformity. You refuse to submerge your own personality to conform to this group. You are a free spirit, fiercely independent. That is why I married you. You are more spontaneous and expressive than any of these career women. You need your own space with challenge, risk and chance as a daily occurrence. I am like that myself, said Grant.

Thank you for your words of wisdom, Grant. They laughed.

I can give you challenge, risk and chance as a daily occurrence, he joked.

That is why I married you. Life is never dull with you, Grant. You make life exciting. They laughed. This neighborhood is powerful, conformist and regimented; quietly going about their own business with deep tunnels of wealth beneath them. Your father was a non-conformist, a Quaker, like President Nixon, he continued. He did not prepare you for a conventional life.

You have to hit back but in humor.

What are you saying? It is a duel, but with words, with its thrusts and pares?

Something like that, he said.

Speaking of the French, do you remember what the French Ambassador said?

The French Ambassador, why are you resurrecting him again? That was thirteen years ago, said Grant.

He thought I had quality. Do you know why? He was astute, sensitive, and a true aristocrat. He recognized the best in people. These nouveau rich neighbors may have money but they have no knowledge of noble thought or aristocratic manners. What it comes down to is consideration for others. That is what manners are all about. These riff-raff know nothing about sensitivity. They look for the worst and always find it.

Riff-raff? Grant challenged.

"It is my mother’s French expression, ‘racaille’, it means rabble," she chuckled.

Let’s stick to the present. You are unhappy. Admit it. It is true, I am unhappy, I admit it.

What have you to be unhappy about? You have everything. We live in a big house in a nice part of town; we have three beautiful children; and you have me, he chuckled.

You! She teased. How did I ever get mixed up with the Greeks? Let’s talk about culture shock. You hypnotized me. I don’t think straight when you are around. I am under your spell.

He laughed.

I found all my happiness through you and the children. I have nothing for myself. I need a challenge. Maybe I should go back to work. You are so preoccupied with your business that you don’t notice me anymore. I question whether you value me or love me. You don’t show it. Your company demands all of your attention. I could take a lover, or run away or marry someone else.

I know who you should marry. You should marry a psychiatrist.

I can’t talk to you, Grant. I should have married someone else. This has been hell. Trying to unite two cultures in a marriage does not work. My father was right, as always, it does not work.

It is twelve o’ clock, let’s go to bed. No, please, let’s finish this.

Well, this is the end of the tenth round with a knockout in the second. I am going to bed.

I can’t talk to you, Grant. You do not try to see my point of view. We just cannot communicate. I should have married one of my old boyfriends.

Old boyfriends! Are you serious? Not one of them would have lasted more than one year with you. I have been on this merry-go-round with you for thirteen years and I can tell you, I am dizzy.

Now you know about my old boyfriends, who do you think would have made the best match for me?

M-m-m. Let’s see, Willy, John, Brett, and Savvier.

Don’t count Savvier, he was only a friend, she interjected.

"Let me see:

Willy—Alcoholic.

John—Greek, but I don’t hold that against him.

Brett—Elitist.

All three of them were losers. Actually, they were all assholes if you ask me."

You discredit my taste in men? You are my ultimate choice!

Oh, Christ. Why do you always suck me into this bullshit?

I don’t know who you should marry, he shouted. I am going to bed. Marry whoever you want.

Saudi kings have four wives she murmured as he stomped off.

He climbed the stairs in a huff, leaving her standing alone with old memories.

She picked up the newspaper sitting on the kitchen counter and glanced at the front page.

The Toronto Star, April 17, 1977.

This is a date I will remember as long as I live, she thought. Anna tucked the newspaper under her arm, picked up her glass of Dubonnet and headed for the living room. She had a lot to think about.

She arranged herself comfortably in one corner of the silk covered sofa. A Nana Mouskouri tape played in the background, her haunting, lyrical voice filled the room. Anna settled herself into the corner of the sofa and paused to listen to the familiar words of the song.

"I have a dream, a song to sing,

To help me cope with anything.

If you see the wonder of a fairy tale,

You can take the future Even if you fail.

I believe in angels

Something good in everything I see I

believe in angels

When I know the time is right for me

I’ll cross the stream

I have a dream."

She wiped a few tears as they spilled down her cheek. This song is so beautiful, she murmured.

A lamp in the corner cast a soft, warm glow over the beige silks and velvets.

Beige, why beige? She couldn’t remember why in the world she decided on a beige color scheme. Oh yes, it began with the Persian carpet, woven with silk threads in the Hunting design in shades of beige, brown and blue. It was far beyond what they could afford at the time but she could not let it go. Grant was furious at first but now he liked it.

The children of Persia wove these carpets in their home. The salesman called it the cottage industry. They used children because their fingers were so small and deft. On some occasions, they were tied to their loom to prevent them from running away. What an inhuman act against a child.

After she bought the carpet, the rest of the room was designed around it. The chairs and sofa were down-filled, covered in heavy beige silk. A pair of Louis XVI chairs covered in blue velvet was drawn up to the fireplace. The paintings were added slowly over the years… her paintings, large, bold abstracts in red, pink, orange and cobalt blue.

Masterpieces! Grant had pronounced. These will never hang in the Louvre. I will not allow it! Their laughter echoed around the room. She felt the happy vibrations were absorbed into the walls and furniture. Everyone called it a good house.

A variety of potted plants and flowers made the room look like a comfortable garden room. It was almost dog proof to accommodate their pup, Aussie.

She sighed and sipped her Dubonnet. A basket of wool and a partially knit sweater sat within reach on the floor.

I believe in angels, she sang softly along with the music. Anna smiled as she recalled what three-year-old Chloe had said this morning.

How are you this morning, Chloe?

I like you and you like me and that is how we are. It made her smile just thinking about it.

Aussie came bounding into the room, upsetting her basket and tangling the wool.

"Bon soir, Aussie. Comment ca va, mon petit chouchou?

Asseyez vous."

Aussie had been a police dog, trained by the RCMP in Quebec and did not understand English commands. Since his services were not required in Quebec, he was shipped out and an ad was placed in the local paper for a French speaking dog. They could not resist him. He was hilarious.

The funny thing was, he was t e a c h i n g everyone to speak French.

. . . To help me through reality sang Nana.

Reality. My reality was living in two cultures. It was stressful. If her family were here, there would be a balance between the two; two dysfunctional families perhaps, but at least, a balance. Anna felt her identity was being swallowed up by a great whale called the Greek culture.

What should I do about Grant? Their friends said they were a matched pair, which was true to a point. They were opposites like salt and pepper, oil and vinegar, hot and cold, day and night. As much as she tried, she could not reconcile their differences and rise above them.

Aussie gave her a quizzical look and whined.

Les francais son tous des raleur. The French are all whiners, she told him.

Aussie was now playing with the ball of wool, leaving it in a tangle. She untangled the wool. This is like the denouement of my life, she thought.

The night she met Grant, she was at a Christmas party with Savvier, the French Count. They both belonged to Les Canadiens Francaises, a French club associated with the French Embassy. She was practicing her French in preparation for a year in France.

This was her date with destiny. She tore up her itinerary, cancelled the travel plans and bought a trousseau.

Life was good, but not so fast. We can never know the days to come. Hubris! Do not tempt the gods. They can take it all away. She picked up her newspaper again as Nat King Cole sang What a Wonderful World. She glanced at the newspaper headlines. April 17th, 1977.

There was another April 17, in 1961, a date she would never forget. It was another time, another place sixteen long years ago. It was the day of the Cuban Crisis.

Kennedy was trying to save the United States from a nuclear invasion. Russia had installed missiles in Castro’s Cuba and the Communists were ready to attack.

Memories of old friends came flooding back. She would never forget Humanity House with Emma and Mike. And then there was Willy; if the group at Humanity House could only see her now.

Humanity House

A nna was a second-year student at the University majoring in Psychology and was a member of the Peace Corp.

Humanity House was a dilapidated, four bedroom house in a once fashionable part of Regina, a growing prairie town with a population of 112,000.

The fireplace in the living room smoked; the carpeting on the stairs was thread-bare; but it was freshly painted, clean and cozy.

Their furniture consisted of Salvation Army, modern, and family contributions, put it together with satisfactory results. They nailed a huge ‘Ban the Bomb’ sign over the front porch and hung a ‘Humanity House-Welcome’ sign in the front window.

And then there was Willy. Willy White. She had not thought of him in years. He was part of Humanity House the night of April 17, 1961, the night of the Cuban Crisis and right in the middle of final exams. The living room was jammed with young leftist intellectuals, students who hung out at Humanity House.

The President of the Student Council was a Socialist but did not associate with the House. He was not an activist and he had a personality clash with the General. He was in Law and disagreed with the General.

That was the beginning of his political career that would earn his first seat in politics in 1967. By that night the students had been cramming for weeks, often until two in the morning in an effort to maintain an A-standing, or for many, just to pass.

Exams were half over. Everyone was bleary-eyed and highly anxious about his or her performance in the weeks to come. An atmosphere of gloom prevailed with pounding headaches, clammy hands, knotted stomachs, blanking out as common complaints-a litany of woe.

Some students should be worried. They had been goofing off all year and deserved to flunk. But some of the prepared students had an unreasoning and totally unnecessary phobia about exams. They went to pieces when faced with an exam. Others lacked the essential study skills. It was sink or swim time.

For so many students, when they received an anticipated low average, their last shred of self-confidence would vanish. They began to question their intelligence, rather than trying to budget their time or read the questions carefully.

My chest feels so constricted.

I can’t take this pressure… what an ordeal… this is agony… I am going crazy… Such comments abounded. They looked haggard. Exams were hell.

It wasn’t usually this busy in the House. During exam time, everyone was holed up studying and only occasionally would they straggle in and sit in sparse little groups here and there to drink espresso and agonize over the exams written and those to come.

Tonight, everyone was taking a break. They were dedicated young idealists, waiting to hear the latest reports from Cuba. After graduation, they would volunteer to serve in third world countries for very low pay, as teachers, economists, engineers and agriculturalists.

This ideology was a grand concept initiated by John F. Kennedy to encourage others to serve their country. The Dean brought the concept of Canadian University Students Overseas—CUSO—to Canadian campuses. It was amazing how the idea caught on.

Willy was very critical of the House. To him it represented a haven for beatniks and communists. He saw himself as the conservative, capitalistic, Establishment.

What a bunch of phonies, Willy would say. They should have been missionaries.

Mike and Emma, student leaders of the Corps and landlords of the House, were studying. Nancy, Lester, Dave and Dennis also lived in the House on a co-op basis, paying what they could afford towards food and rent; sharing in the cleaning and upkeep. They were all studying Spaghetti, their Golden Labrador Retriever, who had been wandering restlessly around the House, began to bark.

The General had a pencil still clamped in his teeth, his hair disheveled from running his fingers through it while he studied. He looked ferocious. Emma had crept silently down the stairs, heard the conversation and dissolved into tears. This was the limit.

She was twenty. As she sat on the stairs and wept, Spaghetti whined at her knee. She could have had anything she ever wanted as the daughter of a powerful, wealthy radio station owner. They did not approve of their marriage but she married Mike anyway.

Mike was the son of a powerful, wealthy lawyer who wanted the best for him. They did not want this marriage either but he married her anyway.

They went to university and were both brilliant students with one year to go before graduation.

She got up, went to their bedroom and flung herself across their bed, weeping hysterically. She tried to sort out the baffling outcome of their marriage but brilliant as she was, she could not reconcile her values to his. She could not reconcile opposites and rise above them.

He wanted her to give up the car and stop wearing her diamond. She said no. She wanted him to wear his Bricks Brothers suits, lock the strangers out of the House and work as a Psychology Professor when he graduated. He said no. And so their fights raged on while the living room filled with strangers who dropped in out of curiosity but stayed to catch the show, the Saga of Emma and Mike.

Their friends, who knew them well and loved them, were pessimistic about the future of their marriage.

Tonight, April 17th, the world may be coming to an end but at least they were together and at peace with each other.

Emma was sitting quietly now amidst the crowd of students. These were people she knew well.

Four TV sets were lined up in a row, all tuned to a different station. Two telephones with thirty-foot extension cords were sitting on the coffee table. A radio sat on an end table, on low volume so it could be heard but wasn’t intrusive. They were covered on all fronts.

Emma’s blond hair gleamed in the dim light. Her three-piece wool suit was carefully pressed; nails were manicured; makeup perfect; her diamond shimmering on her left hand. She looked very much the Capitalist. Her eyes followed Spaghetti, the one thing she loved most in the House. She was chuckling and admonishing the others not to feed it.

General Mike was in the kitchen with his most trusted aides-de-camp, Dennis and Dave. They were engaged in a most mysterious operation. He was humming and muttering, opening and closing cupboards, checking his watch, all the while, throwing out instructions to Dennis and Dave to do this and that, and they would do it.

Then he would bolt for the door, run down the hall to the living room to see what was happening in Cuba. He had all areas covered from Kitchen to Cuba. Sometimes he would get on the phone and talk to an advisor whose opinion he respected. He would pace thirty feet, the length of the cord, turn and come back, talking about the Cuban Crisis all the while. Sometimes, he stood in front of the four TV sets and watched the events unfold. as he analyzed them over the phone. Everything was under control. He was pleased.

Anna sat perched on the arm of the chesterfield. This was her second home. She had been coming to Humanity House since Dave introduced her in September.

Dave was a small elfin student with a great artistic talent. He was in her art class and attracted her attention one day in class by saying, My God, you have golden eyes. She liked his opening line. They began long conversations. He told her to give up smoking, and then told her about Humanity House and Mike and Emma.

She instantly loved the atmosphere and the exchange of ideas. Tonight she was wearing blue jeans, a black turtleneck sweater and over that a Ban the Bomb sweatshirt. Her hair was long, cascading halfway down her back. She was smoking a cigarette and held a small mug of coffee in the other. She surveyed the situation, just observing, not talking.

You are always watching, watching.

Observing, she corrected him.

Dave was smiling as he came up beside her. She moved over so he could share the arm of the chesterfield. She took a deep drag on her cigarette. Dave reached over and took it out of her mouth.

If you only knew what it does to me every time I see you inhale that cigarette.

He butted it into the ashtray.

For heaven’s sake, Dave, who do you think you are? Willy doesn’t even do that.

She took another cigarette from the pack and lit it.

How long have you been going out with him? Almost three years. We started going out in first year."

Do you love him?

Very much, she said quietly." Dave got up to leave.

Don’t go, you are a good friend, she laughed.

Emma wants to see you, he said. It is Top Secret.

Tell her I will just be a minute.

She inhaled another cigarette and sat for a few more minutes gazing around the room. A log was flickering in the fireplace casting a warm glow over the room.

Everyone was discussing the Cuban Crisis with their eyes glued to the television sets.

Dennis was Mike’s best friend. Dennis was in his final year of Political Science, a natural leader who organized most of the rallies on campus. He planned to go to South Africa with CUSO after graduation.

This is Kennedy’s biggest fiasco so far.

The CIA is behind it, said Dennis.

Nancy sat with her arms wrapped around her legs, her chin resting on her knees. She was hauntingly lovely, her eyes deep, sad expressive pools. She looked as though she were still mourning for her dead mother. She looked fragile, alone and vulnerable. She wanted t o be an artist like her father, but she said she had been blessed with only mediocre talent. Her dreams of renting a loft and living in Greenwich Village and making a living from her paintings, was optimistic at best. Yet she knew nothing else.

Art was her life. She had been surrounded by it from the day she was born. She watched her father paint, cleaned his brushes, prepared his canvasses and talked with his artistic friends. She absorbed it through example.

They painted at the Emma Lake School and met New York critics. When she saw Greenberg’s enthusiasm for Saskatchewan art and artists, it was then that she decided to go to New York.

The CIA, Nancy was saying, Don’t talk to me about the CIA. Everyone is terrified of holding a position, of saying anything. TV is so bland.

I hate the bland and thoughtless more than those with opposing views, said Dave.

Dennis and Nancy nodded.

Two more students came to join the group in front of the TV. Andrea and Sidney were regulars at the House. Andrea was a raven-haired atheist with a gentle whimsical air, a wisp of a girl. Sidney was a gangly Orthodox Jew. They were in love and planned to marry in spite of the opposition of his parents. As a last resort, his prominent doctor father promised him a year in Europe, all expenses paid, if he would forget his wedding plans. He agreed. It was too good an offer to pass up, a chance of a lifetime.

Andrea was broken -hearted. She had come to the House in despair and wept bitter tears.

I have always maintained that men will be men, but let me now add that Jews will be Jews, she said bitterly, the tears streaming down her face.

How do you give up what you most want? Andrea asked. I do not know, said Anna. "I do not know. You just let go,

I guess. You become detached. It is easy to say. It must be impossible to do. I have never had to face that and I hope I never do."

Emma brought her coffee into the living room, closely followed by Spaghetti.

She watched Andrea wipe her tears.

Andrea’s hair had fallen free from its barrette and fell in a soft black wave like a raven’s wing over one eye. She flicked it back impatiently.

We are not going to break up yet, Andrea continued. We are going to be together until Sidney leaves in June and then we will never see each other again. Her voice broke and a fresh flood of tears spilled down her face.

Tonight, let’s forget our personal problems and see what is happening in Cuba. This is history in the making.

A shower of sparks exploded in the fireplace making everyone jump.

Christ, we are edgy. Everyone is so jumpy around here tonight. It is exam time, how can you tell? said Andrea.

It has nothing to do with exams, said Dennis.

Some officials must see this as the last chance to oust Castro, continued Dave.

When Russian missiles are aimed at the United States from a base in Cuba it is an act of war.

Well, there are other ways of doing it. That is the wrong way to get things right in Cuba, said Dennis.

It is a completely idiotic, irresponsible thing to do, said Andrea. It is shattering! The new Kennedy administration was so full of élan, of excitement. We all had tremendously high expectations for John F. Kennedy. He prevented an all out war with Russia. He was brilliant.

Perhaps we should load the car with supplies and head north to the cottage until the Cuban Crisis is resolved. This could be the end of the world, said Lester.

Lester bore a striking resemblance to Castro.

He was another boarder in the House, a burly, bearded engineer/poet. His poetry was sensitive with verses taped all over one wall in his bedroom for all to read. At least it was for those brave enough to venture into his netherworld that Lester called his cave. He was encouraged to bring his poetry downstairs to read.

Lester and Karina were permanent fixtures in the House. Karina was seventeen, a very plain girl, in first year Political Science with a very strict mother.

Although it was against House rules, Karina was known to have crept into Lester’s cave one night to read poetry and did not come out until morning. While appreciating Lester’s imagination and sensitivity, there was much shaking of heads and whispered disapproval among the Corps, especially when Karina turned up at the breakfast table and ordered bacon, two fried eggs, sunny side up, brown toast and coffee, please. Everyone stared in disbelief, but her order was filled.

They continued this way, discretely all winter. It was now February. The campus was dreary. The skies were drab with no hint of sun. Dirty snow banks emphasized the dismal time of year. Exams were just around the corner. Everyone was depressed.

Then, one day in the middle of February, Lester and Karina arrived at the House, laughing, arm in arm and announced that they had found the cure for the mid-winter blahs. Now that is like announcing that you have discovered the cure for the common cold. You could be rich. You could be famous.

They threw off their heavy coats, six-foot scarves, hats, mitts and boots and left them in a pile on the stairs. Then they dashed up the stairs, laughing in glee. There was silence for a few moments then the sound of running water was heard.

What in heaven’s name are they doing up there?

Don’t be so naïve, said Dennis, They are running the bath.

But that is absurd. It is outrageous. It is four-thirty in the afternoon. It is broad daylight.

Lester and Karina could be heard talking happily as they poured bubble bath into the steaming water. Ripples of laughter rang through the house as they undressed and sank into the luxurious, scented healing balm.

The core of the Corps fumed with indignation. They did not approve so they gathered in the kitchen to decide what to do.

Are they screwing around up there? The General asked. No, no, nothing like that, said Emma hastily. They are in the tub together.

More ripples of laughter echoed through the House.

Anything that much fun has got to be wrong, said Emma. Mike, do something. Go up there and break the door down if you have to and tell those wood nymphs that what they are doing is abominable.

A loud banging at the front door interrupted their discussion.

Now all we need is the RCMP, Mike joked, and a minor.

Worse, it is Karina’s mother. Emma gasped in horror.

Is Karina here? Her mother demanded. Why wasn’t she home at three-thirty?

She is studying, said Emma gravely. I will get her.

She rushed to the kitchen, closed the door and exploded into gales of laughter.

It is Karina’s mother! she gasped to the room at large. I told her that Karina was studying.

Studying Lester, Emma laughed.

Everyone burst out laughing

Well, I am not going to be the one to fish her out of the tub. She is in very hot water, if you will pardon the pun.

Laughter rocked the kitchen.

We should decide on something, before Karina’s mother calcifies in our front hall. We don’t need an old relic like that cluttering up the place.

I will go and do the dastardly deed, offered Anna. You are all such a giddy bunch today. I think you are enjoying this, she smiled.

Anna left the kitchen shaking her head in mock despair; raced past Karina’s mother still waiting stoically in the front hall; ran up the stairs and stopped, breathless outside the door. She tapped lightly.

Come in, come in, invited Lester.

She stepped into the steamy room and closed the door. Tropical plants hung over the tub and in front of the window like an enchanted pool.

It is like a health Spa in here, she said, stepping over a mound of clothes.

Sit down, sit down, said Lester with a contented smile. He motioned towards the laundry hamper. He and Karina were up to their chins in bubbles, the sweet aroma filling the air.

She sat down. It was a very pleasant spot to be in the middle of February.

Stay awhile, Lester urged. We will talk.

Uh-h-h, I am sorry I can’t stay Lester, but there is someone who does want to talk. Karina’s mother is downstairs in the hall and she wants to talk.

My mother! gasped Karina. My mother did you say!

The suds flew. Never had there been such a flurry, such frenzy, and such blatant panic as there was that day in the bathroom paradise of Humanity House. Blissfully content faces changed in a moment from incredulous disbelief to blank horror to terror. Two wet, naked bodies streaked down the hall, streaming suds, looking like a wedding car.

She watched, propped against the bathroom doorframe, shaking with helpless laughter.

It serves you right, she muttered as she went over to pull the plug of the bathtub. She was still laughing.

Passion leads to pain, she murmured.

What went on behind the closed doors of Lester’s bedroom in the next two seconds, one can only try to imagine.

Two seconds later, they emerged, steaming but dressed and combed, the ends of their hair still dripping wet. They were very serious.

Anna did