Honeymoonâs Over
For better or worse.
Easy vows for newlyweds Chantel and Charlie. Having been widowed, they knew the worst of love was years away. Furthermore, at fifty, they wouldnât live long enough for the bad to blossom.
Then they came home from their honeymoon.
Chantelâs pregnant daughter Sissy, living with them during her husbandâs deployment, must remain on bed rest. Histrionic and bored, sheâs a ⌠challenge.
Chantelâs vegetarian son Graham moves in for a few weeks to help with his sister, but something doesnât seem right. He never got along with his military-loving, meat-eating sibling. He didnât have ulterior motives for coming to help, did he?
Charlieâs married daughter, Margo, could certainly enumerate the issues these adult children her fatherâs new wife had. On top of everything, how could her father have chosen that woman?
Then thereâs Charlieâs fatherâlost in old-age absentmindedness. Certainly, he was only forgetful.
Thank heavens for jobs they love that get them out of the house. Except âŚ
Should they have vowed for worse or better?
Honeymoonâs Over
For better or worse.
Easy vows for newlyweds Chantel and Charlie. Having been widowed, they knew the worst of love was years away. Furthermore, at fifty, they wouldnât live long enough for the bad to blossom.
Then they came home from their honeymoon.
Chantelâs pregnant daughter Sissy, living with them during her husbandâs deployment, must remain on bed rest. Histrionic and bored, sheâs a ⌠challenge.
Chantelâs vegetarian son Graham moves in for a few weeks to help with his sister, but something doesnât seem right. He never got along with his military-loving, meat-eating sibling. He didnât have ulterior motives for coming to help, did he?
Charlieâs married daughter, Margo, could certainly enumerate the issues these adult children her fatherâs new wife had. On top of everything, how could her father have chosen that woman?
Then thereâs Charlieâs fatherâlost in old-age absentmindedness. Certainly, he was only forgetful.
Thank heavens for jobs they love that get them out of the house. Except âŚ
Should they have vowed for worse or better?
Chapter 1
Chantel
I crawled in darkness through the spare walk-in closet in my new hubbyâs bedroom. Junk threatened to rain down and flatten me. Why didnât Charlie throw this stuff out before our wedding? I leaned back on my heels and stifled a groanâsort of.
Husbands aggravate their wives. This is what they were trained for. I grinned in spite of my annoyance. Despite his few flaws, I married the sweetest, kindest man in the world.
After my late husbandâs passing, I never dreamed Iâd find another good man. Iâd âgone-over-the-hill,â so to speak, and hit my fifties. Who wanted an old lady?
I wormed my body toward the back of the overstuffed abyss, fearful of the door slamming. No one could find me under the detritus shoved in here.
A heavy-duty paper bag with twine handles sat in the rear of the closet. Charlie probably stuffed the sack with empty boxes. Charlieâs nothing if heâs not a hoarder. He saves the Sunday papers, bread ties, and the rubber bands from bunches of broccoli. He says thereâs a use for them.
Yeah. I realized their use a year and a half ago when we started dating. For me to throw out.
I hoisted the bag, prepared to toss the sack onto the pile of stuff already removed from the floor, but I stumbled at the unexpected weight. Had he stored dumbbells in this bag? His saving everything and stuffing junk anywhere was his MO. However, heâd use the dumbbells, so he wouldnât cram them back here. Theyâd be in his main closetâthe one with no room for me.
One of the twine handles tore loose as I heaved the bag out of the corner, through the closet, and into the light. A vase lay inside. On the attached tag was her name. Ruby Sanders.
âCharlie!â The bag slipped from my hands and clunked on the floor.
I held my breath. He stowed his mother in the closet? I didnât hear Mamma Sandersâs urn shatter. Still, what if she now lay puddled at the bottom of the bag, all dust and ashes and worseâbone bits?
Bone debris horrified me more than the spider that had crawled into my ear during our honeymoon. I shuddered despite the August heat. How do you extract an eight-legged creepy crawler from your ear canal? Press against the horrid creature and squish it inside? No thanks. Tweezers? I ditched them when I discovered the glories of waxing my eyebrows.
No need for tweezers should I grow chin whiskers. My kids had strict instructions to shoot me if that happened.
Fortunately, the revolting arachnidâa black widow, Iâm sureâfound no food in my ear. The creature got hungry and crawled out on its own.
I looked at the bag holding the urn. My lungs constricted with anger, and I fought to keep the ire out of my voice. I failed. âCharles Anthony Sanders!â My hands flapped like a turkey taking off.
No husband came to help. He had gone to the garage to stow ourâor should I say hisâcamping gear.
I stormed down the hallway and through the spare room. Since he added on his office off the garage, this room became little more than a pass-through. I stepped down the two stairs into his study and into the attached two-car garage that faced the circular drive in front of the home.
âCharlie. Didnât you hear me?â
He stood on a ladder, his head hidden in the rafters. Had I been an English teacher rather than a music one, thereâd be joy in the potential in my metaphor. Charlie never had his head in the clouds. His solid, reliable nature was one of the billion things I loved about himâpredictable, dependable. An adorable, middle-aged jock.
Boxes shuffled overhead. He bent down, and his gorgeous, salt-and-pepper-haired head appeared. Lips, full and lushâsmackers a starlet would envyâcurved up. His dimpled chin deepened with his Harrison Ford lopsided grin.
No. Looks and desire would not make my anger go away. I fisted my hands on my hips and widened my stance. No way would I let him leave Mamma Sandersâs urn lying in what was now my closet waiting for me to break the thing scattering her remains all over the bedroom.
âI know that look.â He winked. âHere to ravish me, babe?â
My anger sputtered like the dying notes of a sousaphone. All heat vanished. At least the heat of anger evaporated. I stood in the doorway, mute as Harpo Marx.
âNot until you stash those camping supplies.â
âDo you mean ...â His voice trailed off as his head poked up through the ceiling. Boxes and gear shuffled above my head. Charlie had made camping sound so romanticâisolation, pristine nature, and hours on Moosehead Lake in Maine where weâd hear nothing but our beating hearts or a moose call, and the Penobscot Riverâs rustle.
He never mentioned torrential rain, dirt, and spiders.
Thatâs what happens if you marry a jock.
Downpours never ended in Maine. Not the whole week. Not even in Charlieâs jeep. We discovered the canvas top leaked. Over the passenger seat.
After I demanded for about the thirty-eighth time that we get a motel room for our last two days, hubs caved. Our honeymoon turned divine.
I leaned against the doorjamb and dreamed of those spa-filled days.
A warm hand stirred me from my reveries. I opened my eyes and stared into the warmest brown eyes framed by lashes so dark, the girls we taught at Breezy Point High School whispered he wore mascara.
Those eyesâso hungry. So innocent. Harrison Ford and Antonio Banderas had nothing on Charlie and his chocolate-pudding peepers. His arms slid around me. His lips nuzzled my shoulder. I slipped my hands behind his head and pulled his lips to mine.
I floated, almost literally, as Charlie lifted me and took a step up toward his office. The honeymoon hadnât ended.
A wild groan escaped. A moan.
Sadly, not from us.
The garage door screeched open, and my daughterâs battered green Kia Soul inched its nose into the garage. A horn blared.
I jumped like an Olympic gymnast.
To Charlieâs credit, he didnât drop me.
My feet touched the ground. Still, Charlieâs arms held me against him.
âFor heavenâs sake, Mom, rent a room.â Sissy slid her swelling frame from her boxy car and cupped her hands around her baby bump. âCharlie, can you help me carry the groceries? Iâm making dinner. Have a hankering for summer salad pie.â She waddled past with one nearly empty canvas shopping bag in one hand, her purse in the other. âOh, and move the ladder so I can drive my car in.â She continued chatting as she walked through the house. Thankfully, we heard only mumbles.
âSissyâs cooking again?â Charlie swallowed hard, as though avoiding a gag. For over a month, heâd endured my daughterâs hormonal cravingsâbacon-banana muffins, ice cream and olive oil, or strawberries and blood orange infused balsamic vinegar.
I wouldnât have blamed him if he retched.
He stepped toward her car. Such a fine figure of a fifty-year-old. Nine months younger than I, we teased about me being the cougar and he the studly youth. My child-groom didnât need to know what summer salad pie contained. Iâm sure, given her other menu choices, he knew whipped cream wouldnât be in the ingredients.
Lemon Jell-O, pimento-stuffed olives, and tuna fish. Even before she became pregnant, Sissy devoured the concoction.
I joined Charlie and grabbed a few bags. âBy the way, can you move your motherâs remains? Maybe store her in your closet? She scaredââ
âMom! Come here! Mom, Mom, Mom!â
My heart thumped as Sissyâs words screeched through the garage. I dropped my grocery bagsânot even worrying whether they contained anything breakableâand sprinted into the houseâwith hubby right behind me.
Sissy sat on the closed toilet in the guest bath with the blood-pressure monitor still wrapped around her arm. Her face matched the bathroomâs white porcelain. Her lips, drained of color, almost mirrored her skin.
âCecilia, you scared your motherââ
âItâs 180 over 110.â Sissyâs brown eyes stared up at us, tears clouding them.
âTake a deep breath,â I told her. âYouâve taken your medicine, havenât you?â
âOf course. Iâm not an idiot.â She inhaled.
As though her inhale infected me, I, too, took a deep, cleansing breath. My nerves steadied. My daughter was nothing if not dramatic.
The swoosh of the pressure cuff refocused me. Sissyâs breathing had changed the pressureâ182/115.
âWeâre heading to the ER.â I helped Sissy stand.
âWait.â She slipped a wallet out of her pocketbook. The purse tumbled over, spilling the contents alongside the toilet. âTheyâll want insurance stuff.â She waved the leather in front of my face. She stooped to pick up her junk.
âLetâs go. Weâll worry about this later. I took her damp, cool arm.
Her wide eyes pooled with tears, and she trembled.
Like a gallant knight, Charlie guided her through the pass-through former bedroom abutting the bath. He held her arm as they shuffled through the garage, and he half hoisted Sissy into the back seat of his jeep, not an easy accomplishment, nor comfortable. I scrambledâwith a hand upâinto the back with my baby.
My husband was a cautious driverâor so he led me to believe. I figure this was why I drove my Mustang and he a Wrangler. Today proved me wrong. Charlie raced down the street at a speed that would make Dale Earnhardtâfather and sonâproud. Charlie took curves on two tires, raced through every red light, passed a speeding cop carâor so I imagined, and I didnât care. I held my little girl. My hand smoothed her hair as we both mumbled prayers.
She had her daddyâs blood pressure issues. What if she died on me like Henry had?
God wouldnât be so brutal.
***
Charlie
Northport blurred into Kings Park, then turned into Smithtown. Finally, St. Lukeâs Hospital came into sight.
I swerved into my right-hand turn. My Wranglerâs tires squealed against the black pavement. Sissy might die. She couldnât. Not on my watch.
I loved this young woman. In the six weeks she lived with me, she became as much my daughter as Margo.
At the ER entrance, my Wrangler screeched to a stopâtires smoking. I hopped out, leaving the door swinging. After hoisting Sissy from the back seat, I carried her through the doors reserved for ambulances.
âMy daughter. Pre-eclampsia. Her blood pressureâs over 180.â I lifted her like an offering.
Nurses tucked Sissy into a wheelchair and whisked her away. âSign her in at the registration desk,â said another nurse or attendant or someone in those pajama suits medical people wore.
Chantel clung to me. Her nails dug into my arm. I thought she was digging for blood. âWhere?â
The medical assistant pointed. âDown the hall. Once sheâs registered, go to the waiting room. Weâll find you once sheâs stable.â
Fifteen minutes later, we found the aptly named waiting room.
I drew Chantel into my arms.
âNot now, Charlie. Sheesh.â Chantel pulled away.
Does she think ...? I wandered to the other end of the room.
Chantel gnawed her nails. A sure sign she wasnât a happy camper.
How could I heal her pain? For too many years, my late wife kept me at bay, hiding her shame and her antics. Her addiction destroyed Margo and me. Because of Corinne, never would I ignore Chantelâs pain.
Chantel paced. At the wall, she pivoted like a soldier, then walked back to where she started.
I too strode across the room, then ran into my bride, knocking into her back. âSorryââ
She flailed her handsâmy signal to shut up.
We sat. We stood. Lingered. Dawdled.
Waited.
Now slumped in the chair, I watched Chantelâs marching as though her action riveted me like a Vin Diesel movie. Swallowing became impossible. Another death on my watch couldnât happen. Thatâs why Sissy lived with us.
My mind drifted to a month and a half ago.
Sissyâs husband, Butch, had called. Sissyâs blood pressure had been running high. He didnât know when the army would deploy him to a hot spotârumor had it heâd be deployed any day. Heâs a Green Beret, gone in a momentâwho knew where?
âWe canât leave her in North Carolina by herself.â Chantelâs eyes had grown big and soulful when Butch asked if she could stay with us.
âFort Bragg has doctors.â I teased my future wife. Iâd already figured Iâd put Sissy in the guest room across from the master, the only other private bedroom in my house. The third bedroom had been converted into a throughway into the study I had added on in the back of the garage. That room wouldnât give her any privacy.
âBut sheâs my baby. What if she dies like ...?â
As if Sissyâs needs hadnât already sacked me, my wifeâs pleas completed the blitz. How could I look into her hound-dog eyes and deny her request?
Of course, I could never tell her I always thought of the soulful eyes of a hound dog when I peered into those gorgeous baby-browns. Sheâd spit fire and call me insulting.
Six weeks ago, Sissy moved to New York. Long Island. Northport. My house. With me.
Daughters. Had God ever created anything finer? Well, aside from football? Even without Chantelâs petitions, I wouldâve insisted she come here as soon as Butch asked.
I enjoyed watching the love of my life beg, knowing full well sheâd get anything she wanted.
My wife. Thoughts of Chantel turned my attention back to her.
After sitting for five minutes, I needed movement. Only action would work off my worry. I stood and paced while Chantel organized magazines on the table. Fear had to have slobberknocked her. Her head bent in concentration, and her hair hid her face.
My heart sped up, and my breath rasped like a freight train.
She was adorable when she worried.
âWhy isnât anyone talking to us? Itâs beenââshe looked at her watchââtwo hours.â
Despite the unease in her voice and the stiffness in her shoulders, I wanted to kiss her sweet lips. âProbably because theyâre looking after your daughter.â
âDonât be fresh.â
Her words sounded harsh, but her voice purred. The plea of her heart shattered mine despite a smidgeon of hope. If they admitted Sissy, I couldnât see how they wouldnât, Chantel would be all mine for a few daysâlike newlyweds were supposed to be. Alone. Weâd sit in the Jacuzzi, neck on the couchâin short, continue our honeymoon when our workdays ended.
I buried my head against Chantelâs. Her hair smelled goodâkind of like the football field after the custodians mowedâonly sweeter. I kissed her curls and dreamed of an extended honeymoon.
Except.
Marching band camp started Monday. If I complained about her obsession with band and the hours spent on it, sheâd point out my football fixation. Iâd be a sacked quarterback.
Her marching band and my Eagles? We were a matched set. Only she was prettier.
I ran my hand through her hair and whispered in her ear, âSissy will be okay.â
She giggled.
âGlad my words cheer you.â
âNot your words. Your whispering tickles my ear.â
I blew again.
Her squirming nestled her closer.
âMrs.â?â The doctor blew into the room, ruffling papers on his clipboard.
âSanders.â Chantel slid from my arms.
He signaled us into a consultation room. âCeciliaâs doing fine. No significant protein in her urine. We changed her blood pressure medicine and added a corticosteroid. Her pressureâs downâ140/90. Edemaâs reduced.
âYou gave her a what?â Seemed like an odd treatment.
âEdema. Means swelling.â Chantel winked. âNot enema.â
The doctor tugged his ear. As he crinkled his forehead, his bushy eyebrows resembled a wooly bear. He continued. âWeâll have to induce if her pressure doesnât stay down.â
âBut sheâs not even eight months.â
âLetâs not assume the worst. Weâve had good results on this medication.â
âSheâll be okay?â Chantel clasped her hands in front of her chest like a beggar.
How pretty my wife looked. My throat thickened. How could desire overwhelm me when fear consumed her?
âBed rest should keep the pressure down along with the swelling in her ankles. Sheâs at thirty-one weeks. If we can delay delivery until thirty-seven weeks, she should be okay.â
âBed rest?â I did the math. âFive weeks? More than a month of lying around?â I checked myself. My alarm alarmed me. In my defense, Iâve already spent a month and a half with Sissy. Healthy, her moods and demands drove me insane. In bed? Bored?
I swallowed hard and refocused on the doc.
â... well to treatment. I see no reason she couldnât go full term. Weâll keep her here a dayâmaybe two if we have to adjust medications. You can see her now. Sheâs in the ER until we can find her a room. He stepped aside.
Chantel swept past, a running back in all her glory.
I saw the offensive play heading my way. Chantel never returned home from marching band until late. Once school began, her schedule would include regular music. Sheâd dawdle at school every night âtil November. Late November this year. Her band had made the cut and would march in Macyâs Thanksgiving Day Parade.
The Eagles, even with winning three state football championships, never spent so much time in practice. Two hours. Three max. But marching band? Didnât the Eaglets exist for the team? Werenât we the stars? Not the tuba players.
During the regular school year, I came home by six. Iâd be spending three hours alone with Cecilia until Chantel returned from one practice or another. My marriage couldnât survive all this Sissy-drama.
My worry isnât as mean as it sounds.
When I stopped ruminating like an old cow, I stood alone in the waiting room. I hurried back to the treatment area where Chantel hovered over her daughter.
Six long hours later, time spent mostly waiting for an available room in the regular hospital, my stomach grumbled.
Rubbing her bloodshot eyes, Chantel looked up. âWe should go, Charlie. Let Sissy sleep.â
She didnât have to suggest leaving a second time. My stomach argued with me as I drove our Wrangler down St. Lukeâs long driveway. âWant ice cream?â We might only have been married a week, but I knew how to tempt my bride.
âItâs after midnight.â
âFreddy-Louâs is open twenty-four-seven. They make killer hot fudge sundaes.â
âNot for you.â Chantel swatted my gut. âYouâll eat a full banana split, not a microscopic sundaeâafter you devoured French fries and burgers. I didnât marry Tweedledee.â She laughed.
At the stoplight, I studied her as her laughter turned to guffaws. Tears glinted in the lights of the headlights shining from a car behind us. She swiped her cheek.
Our light turned green as her horselaughs turned to sobs. I reached for her hand. The car behind us blared its horn.
I pulled into a convenience store and fumbled for her. My seatbelt restrained me. âAre you okay?â
âWill she live? How about her baby?â
âHave faith, babe. Sissy will be fine.â
She nodded, then burrowed back against her seat, her head settled on the headrest, and her hand grasped mine. Tension oozed out of the car. âI need espresso-almond-chip. A double scoop.â
Midnight had passed, but sweet things wouldnât end with ice cream.
Five minutes later, I pulled into our favorite ice cream shop on 25A. Scooting out of the car, I raced around the front. Iâd be a gentleman and make up for all my grousing while waiting for Sissy to be brought to her room. And, I guess, for my general crabbiness as the evening wore on.
The passenger door pulled too easily with my tug.
Chantel tumbled and hit the pavement.
A snicker bubbled up. Trouble would follow the humor I found in her nose-dive.
âUhhhh.â
Donât quote me on her words, but she moaned something like uhhhh. I lifted her and helped settle her back into the seat. I propped my knee on the running board. âAre you okay?â In the dim parking lot, I made out the slow shake of her head.
Chantel clutched her hand to her chest, cradled her arm with her other hand. She looked up at me with wide eyes.
âLet me see.â I took her arm.
âYeow!â
No mistaking her yowl.
âCan you wiggle your fingers?â
âI am.â She moaned.
No fingers moved.
What do I do?
The honeymoon was over before it began. Itâs nothing they didnât expect. Chantel and Charlie have, after all, been around the block of life a few times. Carol McClain presents a hilarious take on marriage in her book, Honeymoonâs Over.
Most books about newlyweds begin with the couple in love. The youngsters believe they can take on the world and their love will get them through the rough spots. Chantel and Charlie, however, know better and it shows. The story begins with her grievances about her partner. From Chantelâs dialogue, the reader sees the condition of the marriage before it truly begins.
McClainâs story is certainly meant for laughs. The author also presents elements of thought. The couple being in their 50s challenges the narrative of young love. Marriage is oftentimes viewed as something for individuals in their 20s and 30s. Those who are older than 40 and single are sometimes seen as individuals who missed their opportunity to experience love. McClain presents the idea of it never being too late for love in her story about individuals seen by society as âover the hill.â
Although love is for everyone, the way it is experienced in marriage is much different than two people in their 20s. Chatel and Charlie are not looking to build a life together. They already have lives. They have children. They have responsibilities. These responsibilities threaten to tear apart what appears to be hanging by a thread from the start. McClain essentially brings in other characters to weave together a realistic story about what a true blended family looks like in her story.
Some say love is for suckers. Others believe marriage could be for anyone. Chantel and Charlie are not pursuing a fantasy in which everything works out. They are searching for a balance that leads to their happily ever after. Carol McClain presents the notion of a couple giving married life a try in her book, Honeymoonâs Over.