The next morning, he walked back into the house and up the steps, arms still folded. He leaned against the door frame and watched as Dena bent across the dresser in the guest room, putting on earrings. She was wearing a suit jacket and slip.
“We have to talk,” he said.
“I should say so.”
“If it turns out that we really aren’t married, we can take care of this today at your local courthouse.”
“Nuh-uh. I want a real wedding this time. Southern-style,” she said.
He turned on his heel and walked out, then came back, arms still folded. “Okay. How long will that take?”
“Yes.” Her voice was calm and firm.
“You can’t be serious,” Britt sputtered. “Two weeks? This is just not going to work at all.”
She sat down on the edge of the bed and began to pull on a pair of stockings very slowly. She didn’t say anything.
“Dena, we can’t sleep apart for two weeks,” he argued. “We’ve already spent a rather dry week in that hotel room with Bonnie, remember?”
She raised one eyebrow, still pulling her stockings on, taking her time.
“Dena, we are married. You are my wife. How can you possibly think that things have changed between us because of that letter?”
She raised one leg and smoothed her hand down her calf. “What I think is that you shouldn’t be standing there watching me dress.”
She stood up and slipped her skirt on. He stayed rooted to the spot, arms still folded.
“Dena.” He kept his voice very low, very stubborn.
She picked up the letter from the dresser and brushed past him in the doorway. When she was two steps away from him, she tore the letter in two over her head. “Gotcha!” she said and took off running across the balcony from the guest room toward the master bedroom.
He caught up with her halfway there and wrestled her to the floor. “What brought this on?” he demanded.
She lay on her back on the floor and laughed heartily, her laughter filling every crevice of the house with warmth. “You should have seen your face when I said you’d have to wait two weeks,” she sputtered.
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