The next day, Dena was cleaning the house, not her favorite occupation. Bonnie was spending the weekend in Charlotte with her new friend, and Britt had taken the Monteverdi out for a spin.
Just when she was mopping the kitchen floor, the doorbell rang. Odd. The few visitors they had were always announced by the guard at the gate.
Without putting her mop down, Dena went to the door and opened it. There, on her doorstep, stood Mark Blue, one of the great names among all the great British rock and roll stars. Tall and lanky with unruly black hair and piercing blue eyes. Shirt unbuttoned to reveal a mass of chest hair. A cigarette hung from his lips, and his roguishly handsome face peered at her through a blue haze. She blinked twice and stared without speaking.
“Allo, miss, is this Britt Jordan’s place?” he inquired.
“Well, is ‘e here, then?”
Finally finding her voice, she stuttered, “Uh, no. He’ll—uh—he’ll be back shortly, though.”
There was a silence as he continued to stand before her. Finally, he said, “Do you think I might come inside or am I to wai’ on the doorstep?”
She shook her head quickly. “Of course. I’m so sorry.” Stepping aside, she gestured for him to come in.
He took one step inside the doorway and peered at her curiously. “Miss, are you sure he remembered I was coming?”
Dena glanced at her left hand holding the mop. She had taken off her wedding band before beginning her chores. There she stood—no makeup, her hair tied up with an orange scarf, wearing the slouchiest outfit imaginable. For all she knew, she had dirt smeared on her face.
In a country drawl, she answered, “Oh, that Mr. Britt, he don’t never tell me nothin.’ You just come right on in and have a set-down here. Will you be staying all night?”
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