The Million-Dollar Marriage

“Not Joan. Someone I just met. Well...” Almost met, he corrected to himself. He didn’t even know her name. “Can’t expect me to pick her up in my truck, can you?”

“Can if that’s all you’ve got,” Pedro said, moving just in time to prevent the kid in the high chair from dumping his dinner. “Watch it, buddy! It goes in your mouth, like this!”

“Aw, come on, Pedro,” Tony said again, glancing at his watch. Almost five. And he still had to shower and shave. “Tell you what. I’ll come over and break up the ground when you’re ready to put in your vegetables.” Pedro hated gardening more than he loved his ’67 Mustang. That should do it.

Pedro was not about to give in easily. “If you’d get yourself a decent job, instead of monkeying around with flowers, you could buy your own ride. What kind of a living do you expect to make out of posies, for Pete’s sake!”

“At least it’s my own business. Which, I again remind you, has great potential. I’ll be sitting back giving orders and collecting dividends, and you’ll still be holding on to a jackhammer for fifteen bucks an hour.”

“Twenty bucks. Which is why I’ve got a house and two cars, while you—”

“Did you bring me a present, Tony?” Patsy interrupted. She had heard this argument many times before.

“As a matter of fact, I did, honey.” Tony tossed a bag of chocolates on the table. “Be sure to share it with your brothers.”

“Not till after dinner,” Rosalie said, confiscating the candy. “Who is this girl, Tony? Where did you meet her?”

“Around,” was Tony’s vague answer. “Come on, Pedro. I don’t have time to argue. Where are the keys?”

Mel searched through her closet, trying to find something to wear. Armani suits and Calvin Klein dresses didn’t exactly go with a burger stop or a pizza parlor. Maybe a simple wool dress. No. Pants, to climb into that beat-up truck he’d been driving. She pulled out a pair of brown wool pants and a matching sweater.

She had told Cook she did not want dinner, and had been glad to see her retire to her room before five. She wouldn’t see her leave.

She was waiting in the kitchen when a vintage, shiny black Mustang motored down the drive. Not the truck she had expected.

It was him.

She slipped on her jacket and hurried out.

CHAPTER TWO

HE LOOKS different, too, she thought, as he got out and came around to open the door for her. Rather debonair, and more like a movie star than ever in tan slacks and a cardigan sweater.

“Hello again,” he said, his eyes lighting with appreciation.

“Hello,” was all the usually talkative Melody could muster. Why, she wondered, did she feel so giddy and light-headed?

“I thought we’d go to Beno’s,” he said as he shifted gears and started down the driveway. “It’s not too far. Do you like Italian food?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” He smiled at her before turning into the street. “Now that that’s settled and we’ve howdied, how about introducing ourselves? I’m Tony Costello and you are...?”

“Melody Sands.” Darn! Now he would know who she was.

He didn’t seem to make the connection. “Melody. Like a beautiful tune, huh?”

“A dumb name.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Melody,” he mused. “I kinda like it.”

“I don’t. I prefer just plain Mel.”

“Okay. Mel. Have you always lived in Wilmington?”

“Mostly. At least, this is home.”

“And I’ve never seen you before.” He shook his head. “This must be my lucky day. How long have you been working for... Who lives there anyway?”

Was he putting her on? “Don’t you know? You were working there.”

“For Peter Dugan. He just asked me to do the rose beds at 18 Clayborn Drive.”

“Oh.” So he doesn’t know who I am, she thought, pleased. She was... well, unencumbered. An ordinary girl on an ordinary date with an ordinary guy.

“I ought to pay him,” he said.

“Who?”

“Pete.”

“Why?”

He had pulled to a stop at a light, and turned to her. “I met you, didn’t I?”

“Oh.” She was mesmerized by the look in his dark eyes. Not laughing, but serious. As if seeing her as someone special.

“Guess I owe the cook, too. Best coffee I’ve ever tasted.”

“Oh?”

“Maybe because you brought it. Do you know you have the brightest blue eyes and the most gorgeous mop of red hair I’ve ever seen? Tell me, is it for real?”

“You tell me,” she said, at last finding her voice. “Do you flirt so outrageously with all the women you meet?”

“Only the pretty ones.” There was that grin again.

“And then?”

“Then what?” he asked, as he merged onto the freeway.

“What do you do with the crowd? Do you select the most beautiful one or do you take turns?”

“Ah, come on. I was kidding. I’m not some fancy ladies’ man. Really.”

He looked so embarrassed she couldn’t help teasing him. “Then you’d better be careful, passing out all that baloney. We poor females are vulnerable creatures.”

“Bull. You’re about as vulnerable as a stone wall. And what I said wasn’t baloney. You know you’re a number ten.”