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Her Next Husband

By: BigK10



There are three things I must say about this story before you read it. Firstly, there is a character in it that closely parallels a celebrity (I slightly changed the name). I want to make it clear that my character and the celebrity are NOT the same person—even in my twisted mind. This story is not about the above mentioned celebrity, but I had to include someone similar to him, as he is an integral part of the story.

Secondly, this is not a "burn the bitch" story as my others, so if that's what you want, you may be disappointed.

Thirdly, this is based on a dream I had, and the celebrity was in the dream. And yes, my wife used to refer to the celebrity as "my next husband," until I put a stop to it. This was supposed to be a shorert story (per my dream/nightmare) but my characters took on a life of their own and my fingers just kept on typing. I hope you enjoy it and I apologize if it rambles on too long...





My wife, Dolly, and I were just an average middle-aged couple, living in a medium sized town in Southern Indiana. Our children, Rhett and Scarlet, had gone to college, and married, settled nearby, but no grandkids yet. Even though we'd both put on a few extra pounds over the years, we were still relatively attractive, considering our ages; we're in our mid fifties. We had happily celebrated our twenty eighth anniversary two months before it happened. 

I'll get to that soon enough, but first I need to tell you a little about a celebrity crush my wife has had for years. Shortly after we married back in the eighties, a long haired crooner, about seven years older than us, rose to popularity belting out syrupy ballads made along the same (successfully proven, but quickly boring) formula—financially, he became very successful, but artistically frustrated. His name was Bradley Morogan, but thanks to a "misprint" on his breakthrough album, he was known as Bradley Morgan. Dolly was completely in heat for the romance novel stud image his public relations entourage projected.

Of course, as the resident music hound, it became my duty to purchase his latest album as soon as it was available. On a whim, I bought one of his older albums and liked what he done with some bluesy riffs and some great songs. Dolly didn't care for them at all, preferring the pop romantic drivel that played her heart strings like an angel on a harp. 

Knowing full well that she'd never have a chance to meet her idol, let alone have a "chance for romance" with him, she joked that Bradley would be her next husband. I laughed with her...the first couple hundred times she said it—both in public and private. She never noticed that I quit laughing long after the joke got old, and on my nerves. She just kept right on professing her wistful romantic desire for him.

After a few years, she made one too many, "When I marry my next husband, Bradley Morgan..." comments in front of our friends, I let her know that I no longer appreciated her telling everyone that "old joke."

"Dolly, it's time for you to give that crap a rest. I know that you've told me a hundred times that you're just kidding, but after you've repeatedly told everyone you know (not in so many words) that he's 'Mr. Right,' and I'm just 'Mr. Right-now,' it has become very annoying to me. It's also a put-down to me in front of your friends and family that I'm very tired of hearing. Saying it a few times is a joke, but over the years, you've probably referred to him—and me—that way thousands of times, and it's way past time to stop. I understand that our life isn't one of vast fortune and fame, but we drive decent cars and live in a nice house. If you must have a fantasy life with him, please stop sharing it with everyone—especially in front of me. It's become humiliating."

"Oh, you can't be serious! I'm just joking around! I know the closest I'll ever come to meeting him—let alone marrying him—was the concert you took me to last year. It's just my way of..."

"Telling everyone that the life we have is not good enough for you," I interrupted. "Listen, I understand that everyone has their real life and their dreams of how life could've been, but no one talks about it as often as you do. Let me ask you a question: How often do your friends tell you that they'd just love to be married to another person, specified by name?"

"Hardly ever..."

"That's the same with me and my friends. Also, do you EVER hear me talk about another woman about whom I fantasize?"

"Well, I can't think of any off the top of my head..."

"That's because I don't have a 'fantasy woman.' My fantasy woman is you, assuming that you can quit talking about Bradley Morgan fifteen times a day! I know it's an exaggeration, but when something like that gets under your skin like this does, it sure seems like you bring him up that often. Do you see what I'm trying to get at, here?"

"It sounds like you're getting jealous of Bradley. You know that you're my main man, don't you? I'd never leave you for him—even if I did get the chance. I love you, Curt, and no one else comes close."

"I may be a little jealous, but if that were all this was about; I'd have brought this up years ago. Let me put it to you like this; what if I mentioned that I really liked some woman, and made comments about how she was better than you—several times a day. Just to randomly pick an example..." I paused for a moment to make her think I was selecting someone off the top of my head, I continued, "...say, Betty Roth, and remark that she has a great pair of..." I'd prepared for this conversation ahead of time. Betty was the neighborhood sleaze—pure and simple. At thirty-seven, she was seven or eight years older than we were at the time, but dressed like someone in her twenties. She had the body for it, and she spent a lot of her ex-husband's alimony to keep that body well tanned and in perfect shape. Having a flirty nature, she was a sore subject in many homes in our neighborhood.

"In case you haven't noticed, that 'great pair' you mention are store bought boobs. You have a lot of nerve to compare me to that floozy! I should cut you off for a month or two, just for..."

"You are making my case for me! Do you see how it feels to be compared to someone that you cannot ever hope to compete with on the same level? I can never hope to have the money, fame or image consultants that Bradley Morgan has, but I still get unfavorably compared to him quite often. Do you see where I'm coming from?"

"Yes...I guess so. I'm sorry, Curt; I'll try to stop it."

"Thank you; that's all I ask."

Of course, you can't fully stop a fully imbedded habit like that cold turkey, but to her credit, she did slow it down to a few times a week, then a couple of times a month. 

When you get big and famous enough, especially when you make women swoon, jealous husbands begin to make jokes about you. So it was with the late night comedians and Bradley Morgan. I laughed a little extra hard when they got a good zinger in on good old Bradley "don't call me Brad" Morgan. This began to irritate Dolly, and it got under my skin a bit when she made it clear that she didn't find those jokes at all funny. Okay, so maybe I was a bit jealous; do you blame me?

Well, the references to her 'next husband' finally started to fade, and so did his career in the late nineties. Our family matured and the next thing we knew, we were in our mid fifties, in an empty nest. I knew that she still had a thing for Bradley, as she bought his autobiography when it came out. Seeing that she had read a total of five books during our years together, it was obvious that she still did like him a lot, but at least she didn't wave it in my face anymore.

One Wednesday evening, we were sitting in our ten year old ranch style home, which my Dad, my son and I had built. Being seventy, Dad mostly supervised, but his years of experience as a home contractor were invaluable. We would never have a mansion, but we did okay for ourselves. The doorbell rang and we both looked at each other with the unasked question, "Were you expecting someone?"

I got up and walked from the family room, through the living room, flipped on the porch light, and opened the door. I saw three men in nice suits, and a professionally dressed woman about thirty. I cautiously opened the storm door, but blocked the entrance to our home with my body.

"Does a Dolly Dylan live here?" inquired the woman.

In spite of my instinct to do the contrary, I replied, "Yes, I'm her husband; what do want with her?"

"We prefer to discuss that with her. Is she home now?"

Dolly stepped up behind me at this time, so she redirected her question, "Are you Dolly Dylan?"

"Yes, why do you ask?"

"Well, Dolly, you are one lucky gal! You are the winner of The Dream Date with Bradley Morgan contest!" She thrust herself past me and the three 'suits' followed, shoving me roughly aside in the process.

"You're kidding! I never win anything! This is so awesome! So, when does this happen? What will happen?"

"We are going to whisk you away to have a complete makeover done by Hollywood's top makeover team. Then we go shopping on Rodeo drive to get you some new clothes, because you are going to a movie premiere on the arm of Bradley Morgan himself!" The two women screamed like two excited teenage girls and even jumped up and down a couple of times.

"I can't believe this! This is so incredible! When do we start?"

"Right now. You're coming with us. We're leaving here tonight."

"Okay, just give me a few minutes to pack."

"Don't bother with that. We'll have all new things for you. It's all part of the makeover. If you have any prescriptions, get them and let's go!"

Dolly almost ran into the kitchen where she grabbed her blood pressure medicine and her cell phone. I noticed that one of the suits was filming the whole thing with his camera phone, probably for publicity use later.

While she was in the other room, I asked, "So, where is she going and where is she staying, and when is she coming back? I need to know these things..." I was cut off by Dolly coming back into the room and grabbing a jacket as she almost ran from the house, forgetting about our traditional goodbye kiss, muttering something about finally meeting my next husband.

As she opened up the storm door to leave, she exclaimed, "Wow—a stretch limo!" 

The woman replied, "We're taking her to Hollywood for her makeover and her date for the movie premiere, on Friday night. Be sure to watch Entertainment Tonight—you might get to see your wife on TV! She should be home late Saturday or Sunday, depending on what flight we can arrange. Don't worry, we'll take good care of her. I'm sure that she'll call you to keep you updated, when she gets a minute. Thanks for being such a good sport. See ya!" With that, they were gone out the door as quickly as they arrived. 

"Good sport—my ass!" I replied sarcastically to no one. I was standing there all alone in my living room, wondering what the hell had just happened. I kept going over it, replaying it in my mind, trying to make sense of it. My best guess was that Bradley was trying to revive his sagging career by making some "lucky" female fan the winner in a hokey "dream date" contest. My wife had evidently entered this fiasco without mentioning it to me, but why would she? I don't mention every contest I enter to her, but if I won, the prizes would've benefited her as well.

I closed the front door and locked it. Then it hit me that she left without even saying goodbye. I went to my cell phone and called her, but it went to voicemail after three rings. Three rings meant that she had hit the "ignore" button when I called. So, I sent her a text, "GOODBYE to you, too!" After an hour with no reply, I figured that I had my reply.

Then I began to think that she was going to miss work, so I better call her boss to let her know what was going on. As we socialized with several members of her work on occasion, I had Bev's home phone number.

"Sorry to interrupt your evening, Bev," I began when she answered, "but Dolly won't be in to work tomorrow or Friday."

"Is she sick?" she inquired anxiously.

"No, it's much worse than that; she won some stupid dream date contest and will be in Hollywood with that old has-been Bradley Morgan. Her 'event coordinator' said that she should be back late Saturday or Sunday, so she should be into work on Monday to tell you all about it."

"Wow! You're kidding!" She was thoroughly excited.

"Nope, but I wish I was..." I was much less than excited.

"That's incredible! She is so lucky! lucky! lucky! I remember when she found out about that contest. She must've entered it once a day for the whole month you could enter. She'd have entered more, but that's all they'd allow. She told us that if she won, she'd give the camera a wink as she walked down the red carpet, and it would be for us! I can't believe she won! Hey, I actually know a real celebrity! I can't wait to tell all the girls at work! Goodbye Curt!" And she was off the line, but probably right back on it with another one of "the girls." I was left hanging for the second time tonight.

I sent Dolly another text, "If you care, I called Bev and told her you wouldn't be in to work tomorrow or Friday. SHE is happy for you. Me...not so much."

I always have a hard time falling asleep when Dolly isn't in bed with me, and I knew it was going to be damn near impossible tonight. Now, I usually don't drink very much, but I figured that tonight would be a good exception. 

The next morning I was awakened by the phone ringing before my alarm was due to ring. It was Scarlett, "Daddy, is it true? Did Mom win that contest? I just caught part of the morning news, but it sure looked like Mom. What's going on?"

"Whoa! Give me a moment to wake up. Yes, she won some sort of contest and they swooped in last night and took your Mom away for a makeover and a "dream date" with that loser Bradley Morgan, who's desperately trying to revive his spiraling career. It would've been nice if we'd had some warning about this, but they ambushed us last night and she left without even saying goodbye..."

I quit talking because I could hear her excitedly telling her husband that it WAS Mom on the morning local news, doing a quick interview on her way out of town. It seems that the PR team was going full throttle. After thirty seconds or so of Scarlett "whoo-hooing" to whoever was there, ignoring me once again...I hung up. She called back a few minutes later.

"Dad, did you hang up on me? Aren't you happy for Mom? Is something the matter that you're not telling me?"

"Let's see...kind of because you were busy celebrating, no, and yes."

"Okay, sorry. Now, spill! What's going on?"

I told her how they arrived in a whirlwind, giving me almost no information, and when I tried to get a handle on what was going on, I was brushed off with a "She'll be back on Saturday or Sunday." She left without so much as a 'goodbye' or a 'kiss my ass.' When I called and texted Mom, I was promptly ignored. When I called Mom's boss to call her off, she did a frigging happy dance, and practically hung up on me to call the other girls with the news. Then when you did your celebration and I couldn't get a response from you...I felt justified in hanging up.

"I'm sorry, Dad; I had no idea. I'll try to call Mom and see what's going on. She'll always talk to me; I'll get her to call you." We talked for a couple of minutes and I started to feel better. She concluded the call with another promise to call Mom and have her call me.

An hour later, I was arriving at work and got a text from Scarlett, "Haven't been able to get through to Mom yet, but it is two hours earlier out there. I'll keep trying. Be strong. Love, Scarlett."

I replied, "Thanks: I'll keep trying, too. Crazy whirlwind chick said to watch E.T. tonight—might see Mom on TV. Love you, too."

I tried calling and texting several times during the day. The first few times, it rang two or three times, once again indicating that the phone was on, but the call was being "ignored" using the button. So, at lunch I sent a text, "QUIT IGNORING MY CALLS! PLEASE REPLY AT ONCE!"

After that, the phone must've been shut off because the calls went straight to voicemail. That's just rude.

Work was hell because as soon as word got out that my wife had won the "Dream Date," everyone kept dropping by to tell me how lucky Dolly and I were. It stopped after I snapped on a woman who gushed and went on and on about how lucky I should feel, because I told her in no uncertain terms just how "lucky" I did feel. Everyone gave me a wide berth for the rest of the day.

I called Scarlett on my way home, and asked, "Did you have any luck getting hold of Mom today?"

"No, my calls and texts were ignored. Rhett had the same luck, too."

"I got the same for my efforts. I hope she's okay."

"I'm sure that she's fine. Didn't you say that woman promised to take good care of her?"

"Yeah, but I'm not sure whether I should be worried or pissed, or if I should be more pissed at 'Bradley Moron's' entourage, or your Mom!" I figured if he could alter his last name, I could, too.

"Now Dad, I'm sure there is a totally reasonable explanation for this. Just be patient. Mom will call."

"If she doesn't call soon, she may not need to call!"

"Daa-aa-ad!"

"I'm sorry, Sweetie. I'm just really frustrated."

"It'll be okay. She'll call soon."

"I know. See you later, Scarlett. Love you."

"Love you, too. Bye Dad."

Just so it wouldn't be a total loss, I went out to supper to Long John Silver's. Dolly hated it; more specifically she hated the smell of the malt vinegar that I used on their fries. I really loaded the fries up with it and enjoyed myself guilt free for a change. Home was just as empty when I got there as when I left it.

I was restless and just rattling around when I had a thought. That "has been" surely had a Facebook page. It's probably where she entered the damn contest in the first place. Maybe I could get a message to them to have her call home.

I signed on to my Facebook page, and checked Dolly's page for new posts. Finding none, I searched for Bradley Morgan and quickly found his "official page," and I noted that they had a picture of my wife being surprised in our living room. Realizing that this was the right place, I made a post where everyone could see it. "Please call this to the attention of the crew that stole my wife under the pretense of the Dream Date contest. I am her husband. As she is unwilling or unable to answer my calls and texts (as well as those from her children and friends), please tell her that she needs to call home and speak with her quickly forgotten husband and family. Thank you!"

I did not anticipate the many angry messages that I got from Bradley's rabid fans. They couldn't understand why I didn't feel completely honored by this, and just accept my situation as the 'second man' in my wife's life. A lot of them took me to task for not supporting my wife in her hour of glory. All of them expressed genuine awe of her winning and offered to replace her, if it would "help my situation." It was like dealing with an army of angry teenage girls, using the vocabulary of pissed off redneck grannies—with "an attitude."

Friday morning, I got up and tried to call her again, but it went straight to voicemail. I was on my way to work when my cell rang, but the number was from another area code. I was thinking that maybe she had to call from someone else's phone, so I optimistically answered it.

A woman's voice greeted me and asked, "Are you the husband of the woman who won the Dream Date Contest?"

Thinking it was someone from the contest, I answered, "Why, yes I am. May I speak to my wife?"

"Hell, NO! I'm not calling for your wife...well, maybe I am in a way. I think you need to support your wife and let her have a couple of glorious days in the company of a magnificent man like Bradley..."


Her Next Husband



"WHAT? Why are you calling me? To harass me for trying to call my wife to see if she's okay, or having fun? I can't get hold of her, you stupid twit! I've tried many times since shortly after she left—without even her telling me goodbye, I might add! I made that post on Facebook because the dumbasses in charge of this fiasco didn't leave me any way of contacting her. If your husband took off for a "dream date" with some bimbo actress and ignored your calls and texts—what would you do? Think about that for two seconds before you put me on trial and convict me of being an unsupportive schmuck, who can't stand being without his wife for thirty minutes! She has also ignored my children's calls and texts. Now, what do you have to say for yourself?"

"Oh, I...think I...I understand. I'm sorry." Click—she hung up on me. 

The worst part was that I got forty or fifty calls like that on Friday during the day. I felt that I had to take the calls, because they might have been from Dolly, but none of them were. After the third call interrupted our Friday afternoon department status meeting, my boss (patient and understanding as he had been all day), told me to go home. 

The first thing I did when I got home was to get on Facebook and read more scathing replies to my original post. One of the rabid fans had somehow got hold of my cell number and posted it, telling everyone to call me and let me know how unsupportive, needy and immature that I was. I flagged that message as inappropriate and Facebook took it down, but the damage was done.

So, I was angry, and still lonely. If I had been thinking rationally, I probably wouldn't have done it, but as I said—I was angry. I put another post on his highness's page.

"ATTENTION TO ALL THE JUDGEMENTAL CRONES AND BITCHES WHO HAVE BEEN HARRASSING ME ON THE PHONE AND ON THIS PAGE: PLEASE LEAVE ME ALONE UNTIL YOU HAVE THE WHOLE STORY! THIS IS HOW MY LIFE AND WIFE WERE UPROOTED WITH NO NOTICE OR WARNING! I'M JUST TRYING TO TALK TO MY WAYWARD WIFE!

"Point number 1: Bradley Morgan's contest committee arrived unannounced at my home on Wednesday evening, shoved their way into my home, and informed my wife that she'd won this damn contest. I'm sure that many of you would've given almost anything up to (and possibly including) your first born child to take her place (as would have my wife, if you had won), but that is not the point. They arrived with no warning and told her that she had to leave right now (I can only assume that they had to leave quickly if they were to make the next flight back to Holly-weird, home to many stars of today, tomorrow, and yesterday, like Bradley Morgan). All she had time to do was grab her cell phone and her prescription—she couldn't even pack as little as a make-up bag. 

"Point number two: My wife was in such an excited state of mind, that she neglected to give me our traditional goodbye kiss, or for that matter to tell me 'goodbye,' 'kiss my ass,' or even 'see you in a few days.' After almost thirty great years together, the only words I heard from her mouth as she left the door were something about 'finally getting to meet my next husband.'

"Point number three: The only information that I got about her itinerary was that she was going for a complete makeover and then to a movie premiere on Friday night. They told me to watch E.T., and if I was lucky, I might see my wife on the show. They said that she MIGHT come back late Saturday, or sometime Sunday. Then, they were such a hurry to leave my humble abode; they practically trampled me again as they left.

"Point number four: I tried calling my wife on her cell, less than five minutes later. My first several calls were INGORED. The phone was on, but someone was hitting the IGNORE button; I can tell that by the number of rings before it went to voicemail. I sent several texts, and got no reply. I called my daughter and son, and they got the same cold shoulder that I did. Then, someone turned her phone off.

"Point number five: She's been gone almost forty-eight hours now, and you'd think a loving, caring wife and mother would've taken five freaking minutes to call and let us know that she's okay and having a wonderful time, and maybe even boast a little bit about what she's doing and who she's seen, but she has NOT! We've heard nothing—not even a text!

"Point number six: When I get the bright idea to try and have the people that whisked her away, get her a message to call home; I get dozens of scathing replies that I'M not being supportive of her in 'her hour of glory.' Just another slap in the face for me—but don't worry—I'm getting used to them.

"Point number seven: The first clue that I have that this was actually a legit contest was the picture of my wife, standing in my living room, that's posted on this Facebook page. For all I knew until I saw it, this could've been some attempt to kidnap her and take her away to parts unknown to do 'God knows what' to her. Yes—I'm worried about her and I miss her! Obviously, however, she doesn't miss me...

"So, I haven't had the chance to be supportive of my recently missing wife. I don't know if Mr. Bradley Morgan's crew has kept her so busy doing Holly-weird things that she forgot about us poor simple folk back home, or if she's decided to run off and start a new life. Then, the jealous and misinformed fans decide to add to the hell that has become my life...

"To you, I pose this question: If it happened that your spouse won a dream date contest with some sexy Holly-weird star, and they stole him away without warning, how would you feel? Would you do what I did? How would you feel if the star's fans posted your private cell number and told everyone to call you and tell you what a jerk you are? (By the way, to the bitch that illegally got and posted my private unlisted cell number: I reported your post to Facebook, and they are considering your penalties. Thanks so much for running up my cell phone bill.)

"So, you bunch of jealous misinformed judgmental bitches can GO TO HELL!

"To the arrogant inconsiderate bastards running this contest: You can tell her to call home by midnight tonight, or I'll take it that she's chosen to forget our family and I'll start the divorce as soon as possible so as not to delay the start of her new life! And best of luck with 'your next husband!'

"Good night!"

I felt so much better after I'd vented out all my hurt and frustration that I fell asleep for about an hour. The calls to my cell actually stopped. I awoke mostly because my stomach was growling; I was still tired from lack of good sleep. I flipped on the boob tube while I fixed myself something to eat. Then I realized that I should try to see Dolly on E.T. and flipped the channel.

As I was sitting down with my TV dinner fresh from the microwave, they announced a story of Bradley Morgan arriving at the premiere with an unknown woman. Speculation was running wild as to who she was, especially since his wife was conspicuously absent. She was hanging on his arm like a moonstruck teenage girl with her first crush. I swear I saw drool form on the corner of her mouth. I have to admit that she looked like a million bucks in that designer gown and those borrowed jewels. 

One of the "reporters" got a microphone and got close to Bradley and Dolly. He asked Dolly, "I'm from E.T. and we haven't seen you before. May I ask your name?"

"I'm Dolly Davis, how nice of you to ask." My chin dropped; Davis was her maiden name. I was so busy seeing red, that I didn't hear the rest of the conversation.

How would you feel if your spouse of almost thirty years was acting like that? You'd feel just like I did; by the look in her eyes I knew if "Mr. Bradley Moron" would make even a half-assed pass at her, she'd have jumped his bones like a hungry piranha on a steak. A chunk of my heart fell into the pit of my stomach and I wasn't hungry anymore. However, I did feel the thirst for a good Scotch, which I satisfied many times over the next few hours.

It was eleven thirty when she called, and she was pissed. I'd barely gotten out my "Hello," when she laid into me.

"How dare you threaten me like that in a public place! I can't believe you'd humiliate me like that!" She went on and on for about two minutes, until someone interrupted her. "Oh, okay. I gotta go." Click—she was gone. Still no 'goodbye.'

I called Scarlett, and told her of the call, so she wouldn't worry, but she'd seen E.T. and was worried about something else, like I was. She said that she'd call Rhett and fill him in, but that she hadn't heard anything form her mother, either.

A few more Scotches and I woke up Saturday morning to my doorbell ringing quickly and repeatedly.

Looking through the peephole, I didn't recognize him, so I figured him to be a pushy salesman. I answered the door accordingly, "Who the hell are you and what is the meaning of ringing my doorbell like that so early on my day off?" I gruffly assaulted him—verbally.

"I'm from the National Enquirer, and I got wind that your wife won the Dream Date Contest, and that you've been trying to get a message to her unsuccessfully. I'd like to get your side of the story." He tried to put his foot in my door so I couldn't close it.

I stamped on his foot and quickly slammed the door, yelling at him, "Get a real job, you circling vulture, and leave me alone!" Just when I thought this nightmare couldn't get any worse, the paparazzi started showing up. He was the first of twenty or so of the so-called "reporters" that began to clutter up the boulevard in front of my home that morning. There were even a couple of them in the backyard. I felt trapped in my own house. 

Then, my landline phone started ringing off the hook. TV reporters and others were calling me. I had become some sort of instant celebrity because of my posts. One of the callers told me to check my Facebook page. 

My message had gotten out to all the women who suddenly sympathized with me after the shoddy treatment I'd received from my wife and Bradley Morgan's staff. I had almost fifteen thousand friend requests, and almost that many private messages. I read a few of them, which included offers to replace my wayward wife, some permanently, and some were just until she got back. 

"This is absolutely crazy!" I shouted to no one.

I called Rhett, and told him what was going on. He didn't believe me until he went to my page. 

"Look, Dad; I know what Mom is doing isn't right, but don't go taking these women up on their offers. Some of them are outright lunatics, and there's no way to tell which ones are or aren't."

"Don't worry—I have no intentions of replacing your Mother, just yet anyway. I needed to warn you so you don't come over and get in the middle of all this mess. We better cancel our golf game this afternoon."

"Yeah, that's for sure. Thanks for the heads up. If you need anything, just let us know."

"I feel like a damn prisoner here, but I don't want any company if it means dragging you or your sister into this. I'll call her in a few minutes." We chatted about a couple of other things before ending the call. The call to Scarlett went pretty much the same.

Needless to say that I couldn't do any of the yard work I'd planned, but the thought of chasing those nosey bastards around with my riding lawnmower did amuse me. I began to look at some of the women's Facebook pages and some of them were very attractive. Then I went to Bradley Morgan's page and found out that some of his fans were taking him to task for his shoddy treatment of me and my family. 

As hard as they were on him, they were ten times as hard on Dolly. "What kind of parent ignores calls from their children?" was one of the kindest things they said about her. Some of their comments would make a sailor blush. They also made me feel better about what was going on and how I was handling it.

I checked Dolly's Facebook page, and the women had filled it up with posts much worse than they hit me with initially. Some had simple messages: "Call him, you stupid b*tch! If you don't want him anymore, I'm sure he can find someone who does," and "WHAT? You can't take five minutes a day out to call your husband? I wish my husband was still alive; I'd give anything just to tell him that I love him, and to hear it back, one more time," and my favorite, "If you won't call him—I will! Good men are hard to find!" 

Other messages were threats and insults like you wouldn't believe; I didn't think women capable of such venom towards someone they'd envied so much, so recently. Yesterday these women wanted to be in her borrowed designer shoes, now they wanted to replace her in her bed. Such is the fickle finger of fame.

Then I got a Facebook message from a few talk shows, first was Maury, then Jerry Springer. When the Ellen show hit me up, I replied. Even though openly I said that Ellen was a "chick talk show," I enjoyed watching her occasionally as one of my "guilty pleasures." Hey, she is funny.

We soon had a dialogue going and I gave them my cell number. They offered to fly me out to Holly-weird and do an interview with me, if I refused all other interviews until their show aired, they promised not to "ambush me" on national TV, but to let their viewers see both sides of the story. I asked if this meant that Dolly would be on that same episode. They said that they haven't spoken to her yet. I told them that I agreed if they wouldn't put her on the same day as me; and they agreed.

I called my boss at home and told him that I was going to take a few days off until this mess (and I told him how bad it had gotten) calmed down. He agreed it was for the best. I didn't want to bring the paparazzi to work, and he didn't want them there, either.

It suddenly struck me that I had a number on my caller I.D. from which Dolly called me last night to chew me out. My guess was that it belonged to one of the entourage, as she surely wouldn't have been back at the hotel as early as nine thirty (their time) after a premiere party. Not that it mattered; I was going to call back anyway.

When I called, a young man answered, and I asked to speak with Dolly Dylan. 

"Who? I think you have the wrong number."

"I'm looking for my wife. She called me from this number last night."

"Oh, you want the dream date girl. She was in the lobby of the hotel where I was staying and she borrowed my phone. I'm afraid that I can't help you much there, friend."

"Do you think she was staying at the same hotel you did?"

"I think so."

"Would you tell me the name of the hotel, please? She left home in such a hurry that no one told me where she was staying, or much of anything, for that matter."

"Sure, I'm staying at the Ritz on Rodeo. Hey, aren't you the ignored husband that everyone is talking about? You're creating quite a stir around here."

"That's me, but that wasn't my intention to make such a mess of things; all I wanted was to talk to my wife."

"Did she ever call you?"

"Yeah, she chewed me out for a minute, and then hung up on me, using your phone."

"Dude, that's just wrong. Sorry to hear that. I didn't know who she was or that was you she was calling; she just said she didn't have her phone with her, and urgently needed to make a call."

"I wonder why she didn't borrow one from one of Bradley's entourage."

"That's easy, Dude. They were all busy talking to people, trying to, as they put it 'do damage control caused by that hillbilly asshole.' Those were their words, not mine."

"Wow, I guess I have stirred up a hornets' nest. I can honestly say that all it would've taken to prevent this would've been one phone call from my wife, or even one from the contest crew would've been nice. They left me hanging out to dry here. Well, thanks for your help; I'll call the hotel."

"Hey, glad to help. Good luck, Dude."

I got the number of the hotel from the internet phone book and rang them up quickly. I asked for Dolly Dylan's room.

"We have no Dolly Dylan staying with us."

"That's odd, she was there last night and I'm sure that my information is correct. Maybe she has checked out and is on her way back home." Then a thought struck me. "It's possible that she's registered under her maiden name, Dolly Davis. Would you check on that, please?"

"Ahhh, yes. Ms. Davis checked out an hour ago. I know because I checked her out myself. We were glad to see her go, with all the media attention she was getting; that's not our style here, you know. As I recall, she couldn't get a flight out until late Sunday, so she was going to stay with him. Isn't Mr. Morgan so generous to open his home to her like that?"

"Thank you for your help, but 'generous' is not the word I'd use right now. Have a good day."

Well, if that's not the frosting on the cake; now she was going to be sleeping right down the hall from him...or maybe she'd be doing something else with him, in the same bedroom, given the chance. 

I called Rhett, and told him that I had an escape plan, and asked him to pick me up just past midnight at a park two blocks from my place. When darkness settled over the town, most of the vultures took off to lay claim to the few hotel rooms available locally. By midnight, there were only a few left, and they'd settled in to their strategically positioned cars and vans

I opened a window on the side of the house and lowered myself and a small suitcase from it. The overhanging nearby trees left this area of the yard in total darkness as I closed the window and snuck across the backs of my neighbors' homes to the park where Rhett was waiting.

"Did anyone see you?" he asked as I got in the car.

"I don't think so...nobody has followed me so far. Let's take the long way around just to see."

We drove to the far side of town and saw no cars behind us, or anywhere around us for that matter. Hey, this is a small rural town, and even Saturday nights aren't all that active. 

"Okay, it looks clear; now take me to the airport in Terre Haute. I'm flying out there."

"But Dad, she should be coming back tomorrow—or she may be on her way back now. You could miss her..."

"I found out what hotel she was staying at—notice I said 'was.' They told me that she is spending the night at the home of that big jackass himself, Bradley Morgan. That was the last straw. If she can't spare more than one minute in three whole days for me—for us—except to chew me out for trying to speak with her, and then 'shacks up' with him—that's all I can take."

"Don't go jumping to conclusions, Dad. Just because she's staying with him, doesn't mean that she would..."

I gave him the look. "Did you see the two of them on the red carpet? Did you see the look in her eyes? She was so far gone that if he gave her a tour of his home, and innocently said, 'This is my bedroom,' she'd be naked and under the covers in three seconds flat—and you know it. I know she's your Mom and you don't like to think of her as a sexual person, but she is still a woman—a very attractive woman, who Mr. Bradley Moron knows he could have by simply crooking his little finger at her."

"Yeah, I guess, but still there's no evidence that anything has or will happen."

"Have you forgotten how she's referred to him so many times over the years."

"Okay, but the whole 'my next husband' thing was just a joke. She said it was."

"It was a joke the first few thousand times she said it. Then it was an old tired joke. Then it became a separate fantasy life for her, and this is her one shot to make it all come true—if even just for one night. Tell me that you wouldn't be tempted if you were staying in say—Megan Fox's home for a night."

"I get your point, Dad, but I still say Mom wouldn't do that."

"I hope you're right, Rhett. It's all I have left." The rest of the ride was in silence.

I got to the airport on time and my ticket from Ellen was waiting for me. Two connections and ten hours later, I was in Holly-weird, and I saw that they sent a limo for me. 




Her Next Husband



Being a small town guy, I started chatting with the driver. I even asked if I could ride up front with him as I could talk to him easier. WE became friends quickly and after a bit, I asked him if he knew where Bradley Morgan's house was. Of course he did and it wasn't far out of the way, so I asked if we could swing by there for a minute. Fifteen minutes later, we paused in front of a white three story mansion with a huge front yard and a ten foot wrought iron fence surrounding it. I got out.

I walked over to the intercom and on an impulse I pressed the button and asked, "Is Dolly Davis or Dylan in there?" I heard the driver chuckle at my lack of Holly-weird etiquette.

Shortly a woman's voice answered, "Just a moment."

"Don't bother her majesty, just ask her if she's still my wife, or Bradley Morgan's newest fuck-toy. And tell her that I'm at the Hilton, IF she wants to reach me—and unlike her, MY cell phone is ON!"

Not waiting for an answer, I got back in the limo and asked Roland, the driver to take me to my hotel. He was laughing so hard as we pulled away that he almost hit another car.

When we arrived at the hotel where Ellen's staff had arranged a room for me, I offered Roland a tip.

"Thank you Mr. Curt, but you made me laugh like I haven't laughed since I was a kid. I feel so much better because I've been fighting a lot of things in my life, like my own wife's cancer—she is beating it by the way. It's a much better thing you did for me than a tip. Thank you again, and good luck with your wife."

"Thank you for a great ride, and I hope your wife is better soon."

Shortly after I'd checked in, I collapsed onto the luxurious bed and slept the rest of Sunday, since I hadn't been sleeping well, and missed a whole night's worth of sleep flying out there. When I woke, there was still no call to my cell phone from Dolly or Bradley's people.

Bright and early Monday morning, a member of Ellen's staff arrived and escorted me over to the studio and prepped me as to what to expect, what to do, and what not to do. Ellen herself came in to meet me and put me to ease, so the on-air interview would go better. I told her that I'd accepted her offer because her show was my 'guilty pleasure,' and I'd been a fan of her comedy for many years.

I was the last guest of the day and Ellen began by asking how long we were married, how we met, etc. Then she asked me to tell my story. I tried to tell it exactly as it happened, trying not to embellish it any. 

Ellen asked, "Did you ever get to speak with your wife."

"Yes, at eleven thirty our time, she borrowed some guy's phone in the hotel lobby and called me; chewed me out for embarrassing her publicly on Facebook, and hung up on me—again without a simple 'goodbye' or 'I love you.' The audience lightly booed her.

"Has Bradley Morgan or his staff called you?"

"I have not been contacted by them in any way. I hear they've been busy doing 'damage control,' which is probably why my wife had to borrow a stranger's phone instead of using one or their phones."

"Who told you this?"

"The nice fellow whose phone she borrowed. I called him back later using my caller I.D. He also told me what hotel she was in when she called me. I got the number of the hotel, and called them to see if I could speak with her."

"At first they told me that she wasn't there, but then I asked if she'd used her maiden name, which she had. It must have made her feel young and 'available' again. They were also kind enough to tell me that she'd just checked out and would be spending the rest of her time in L.A. in the luxurious home of Bradley Morgan himself, whom she has called 'her next husband' for many years, much to my dismay."

The audience was aghast. Ellen was slightly shaken by this, "That must've been quite a big blow to you. First she ignores you and your family, then she spends the night in his home. What's next on her list, picking out a china pattern?" She tried to lighten the mood successfully. 

"So, what's next for you and your wife?"

"I don't know, but it's obvious she has no respect for me and I certainly can't trust her at her word. I guess it'll depend on what happened last night at Bradley's house and even if she wants to come home."

"Well, if worse comes to worse, you're a good looking man. I'm sure there'd be more than a few interested ladies out there." Squeals and cat calls went up from the audience. It was time for a commercial and she segued off to it professionally, thanking me for sharing my story. 

Once the cameras were off, Ellen said, "I'm so sorry about how you've been treated by some of us West-coasters. Please, accept my offer to stay here a few days on me—heck, make it a week. Call it a mini-vacation, if you will. It seems like the least I could do."

"Thank you, but no. I need to get back to my kids and my life. You were so nice to fly me out here and put me up at that nice hotel. Hopefully now that I've done this interview with you, those tabloid vultures will mostly leave me alone. I belong at home."

"Okay, if that's the way you want it, but we aren't all bad. Look, we usually tape a week ahead of time, but because of the timeliness of your story, we'll put this on tomorrow. So, watch tomorrow and you'll get to see yourself on TV." 

"Thank you, Ellen. You've made me feel welcome here, but it's just not my lifestyle. You're truly a rose in a sea of thorns." She then gave a staffer instruction to arrange my flight back home. Three hours later, I was in the air and on my way. By ten that night, I was back home thanks to a ride from Scarlett. There were no more vultures circling my home. 

Tuesday morning, I was awakened by someone banging on the front door and ringing the bell repeatedly. I dragged my tired rear to the front door, thinking, "If this is another damn reporter..."

I looked out the peephole and saw the back of a woman's head as she scanned the neighborhood from my front porch. The she turned back to beat on the door again and I saw it was...Dolly. The moment of truth had arrived.

"What's the matter, did Bradley get tired of you already?" I yelled through the door.

"That's not funny, Curt! Let me in!"

"If you couldn't bother to call home once in four days, you don't have a home. Go away!"

"Look, I'm sorry about that, but I was so busy."

"I thought I knew you, but now I hardly recognize you and your behavior. You made your choice—and it wasn't me. Go away!"

"Please, Curt, let me in. This is my home, too. I demand that you let me in!"

"So, you think that you can leave us, without so much as a 'goodbye' or telling us anything about where you were going, what you'd be doing, when you'd be back, but only a mention of 'finally meeting your next husband.' Then, you ignore my calls and texts. Then you ignore your kids' calls and texts for FOUR FREAKING DAYS! The only reason you took one lousy minute to call home is that I threatened to cause trouble for poor old Bradley Moron! 

"I would venture a guess that the only reason you're here now is that your 'Prince Charmless' is a typical Holly-weird jerk who does his very best to distance himself from you, since you're part of the PR nightmare that I created. Otherwise, you'd probably still be in his home, sipping your morning champagne with a grapefruit as the two of you had breakfast in his bed! 

"So when he finally booted your skanky ass back to Indiana, you come back here, arrogantly thinking that I'd be happy to have your sorry old cheating ass back in my house, and you have the big brass balls to actually DEMAND to be let back in! I have two words for you: FUCK OFF!" 

"Curt...pleeeease!" she began to cry. She sat down on the fancy new suitcase they filled with the new clothes and makeup they'd given her, and tears began to run down her expertly done cheeks.

I called Scarlett, since she didn't go in to work as early as Rhett. "Sorry to bother you this early, but I'd like you to come get your mother. She's on the front porch DEMANDING to be let in, and I won't have her back in this house. Would you please come get her?"

"She's back?"

"Yes."

"She's on the front porch?"

"Yes, again."

"Why won't you let her in?"

"Would you let your husband in, if he'd done what your Mom did the last four days?"

"I get it; I'll be right there."

"Thanks."

Ten minutes later, Scarlett arrived and convinced Dolly to go home with her, because, as Scarlett said, "If she were me, she wouldn't let her in, either." Then I called Rhett and told him that his Mom was back and at Scarlett's house. As soon as I got off the phone, I drove to the hardware store and bought new locks. I was putting them on when Rhett drove up.

"Dad, is all this really necessary? I mean, locking Mom out...changing the locks..."

"Just ask yourself, what would I do if it were MY WIFE that had run off like that, and refused to call home, except to complain that I was embarrassing her. If I let her just waltz back in here like she did nothing wrong, with that big swelled head they gave her in Holly-weird, she would be out of control. 

"Between her girlfriends swooning over her and her stories of who she saw and talked to, and maybe the local paper interviewing her...and what if...I say WHAT IF she actually did crawl between old Bradley's sheets? She couldn't keep her mouth shut about that for long. She'd soon arrogantly brag about it to her best friends. Then it would spread all over town. She'd be the middle-aged hottie that slept with Mr. Bradley Morgan, the (former) mega-star and the envy of all middle-aged women for a hundred miles, but I'd be the poor bastard that got his leftovers when he was done with her. I'm no 'Mr. Macho,' and you know that, but I can not and will not live like that.

"If she'd kept in touch, sharing all the wonderful things that happened when she was there, and letting us know that she was alright and having a great time, it would be a lot easier to believe that the whole thing was innocent and that nothing happened. She CHOSE to shut us out; that makes me wonder what she was doing that she was so ashamed of that she had to hide it. I've known you mother for a long time, and she loves to share every detail of her (usually mind-numbingly boring) day with me, but she can't even call to tell me where she's staying? Then—just to add insult to injury, she used her maiden name all the time she was there. No, there's something rotten in Denmark. If it smells like crap, and looks like crap; it usually is a bunch of crap, and this reeks of crap."

"Mom says that her phone went dead shortly after they left. They hadn't made it to the plane yet. That explains why our calls didn't go through."

"Three things are wrong with that. First, Mom had me put it on the charger when we got home from work, because it was almost dead. It had been on the charger for over three hours when they 'abducted' her. Secondly, are there no iphone chargers in Holly-weird? Thirdly, why didn't she borrow a phone from one of the contest crew? I'm sure they all had one. Or she could've called from the hotel room—they all have phones, and she knows that. Oh yeah, and I'm sure it was her hitting the 'ignore call' button when we called, too. As much as I'd like to believe her, it's pure crap."

"I'm sorry that you feel that way, Dad."

"Look, I'd like to believe that maybe her phone wasn't on the charger right and it did go dead, and that the contest cronies were all self-centered bastards who wouldn't share their phones, and that by a weird coincidence the hotels' phone service was down. When she called, she wasn't the woman I'd fallen in love with and married; she was unrepentant and angry that I'd blemished her fantasy weekend, and maybe her best chance to rope in 'her next husband,' which I have every indication that she was trying to do last weekend. I will not be 'plan B' when her plans with old Bradley didn't pan out."

"I think I understand; is there anything you'd like me to tell her?"

"If my last name isn't good enough for her Holly-weird trip, she can keep using her maiden name here at home, too. Oh yeah, and don't miss The Ellen Show today."

"What do you mean by that?"

"I got my 'fifteen minutes of fame.' She got hers; it's only fair. I'm the last guest, by the way. Why did you think I went out there?"

"I thought you were going to see Mom in person, and try to get through to her...to bring her home."

"So, you thought Mr. Bradley Morgan is going to open his ten foot tall wrought iron gates with barbs on top to the first guy who says, 'My wife is in there and I demand to see her'? He ain't stupid; that's inviting trouble right into your own living room."

"So, you tried?"

"I was able to leave her a message with a servant on the intercom. That's all." I smirked inside, thinking of the message I'd left.

"That's rough, Dad. I'll give her the message."

"Thanks for understanding, Rhett. I don't want you and Scarlett to feel like you have to choose sides in this mess. Whatever the outcome, when all is said and done, she will still be your mom and I'll be your dad. There are just too many hard feelings right now and too many things that I don't know—and I'll never know for sure. When we've both calmed down, we need to talk it all out and maybe get some counseling to see if there's enough left to patch something back together. Tell her that, too. I'm just not ready right now."

"Hang tough, Dad. Love ya, man." He gave me a hug and went back to his place, or probably Scarlett's where Dolly was. I wished I was a fly on the wall when she saw me on the show that afternoon.

Scarlett told me later that she fought them and didn't want to watch Ellen. She just wanted to be left alone, but they practically dragged her into the family room when she hears my voice and saw me, she fainted. They played the recording of it back for her later. She just kept muttering, "I can't believe he did this to me..."

At three thirty that afternoon, I had a visitor from the local TV station, which carried Ellen. It seems that Ellen's people tipped off the locals that I was going to be a guest on her show, and since it was a hot topic on the coast, they wanted to boost their own ratings. By putting me on the news, more people would watch Ellen, and those who saw me on Ellen, would get more info on the local news: it's a win-win.

Through the peephole I saw a young woman, professionally dressed, so I thought I'd see what she wanted. When I opened the door, a man with a TV camera stepped in from the side of the porch and began filming. She raised her microphone up and asked, "Mr. Dylan, I'm from WFDET news, and we'd like to ask a couple of questions."

"No comment. I've said all that I'm going to say on Ellen. Good day!" I closed the door.

The kids both called to check on me, and Scarlett asked how I could've done that to my wife—airing out our private problems on national TV. 

I replied, "Our story had already taken on a life of its own on Facebook and the internet rumor mill. I wanted to get it out there to the public without all the exaggerations and half-truths, so people could see it for what it is and make up their own mind. I did my best not to give in to embellishing it, to make me look better. Do you think I succeeded, or do you think I trashed her?"

"No, Daddy, I don't think you trashed her unfairly. You could've been a little more...well...understanding of her situation."

"Don't forget that I had no way of knowing what her 'situation' was at the time because she still wouldn't talk to me."

"She says that she tried to call you several times, but couldn't get through."

"I'll show you the call log on my phones. It'll show you a bunch of calls that did get through to me, but it won't show you how they trashed and threatened me for not 'being supportive of her in her hour of glory.' That was before I put the second post on Facebook. There were well over forty calls on Friday—so many that I could hardly get any work done, but I had to answer them all because they COULD'VE been your Mom. None of them were. I didn't miss any of the angry women cussing me out. It's just another lie. Tell her that she had better quit lying if she wants to have any chance of reconciling.

"The rest of the time, my phone was charged and ready for her to call, but nothing came until I threatened her on Friday night. Ask her why she's lying like a cheap rug. Tell her that her lies are working against her."

"Okay, Daddy. Are you eating right? I don't want you getting sick because of this mess."

"I'm doing fine, Princess. I just have a lot of conflicting emotions and stuff in my head right now. I'll work it out."

"Okay, You take care of yourself. Love you, Daddy!"

"Love you, too. Talk to you later, Scarlett."

Everything was quiet until the next afternoon, when something totally unexpected happened. Once again, it started when my doorbell rang. I looked on the porch and saw a woman that I recognized as my new arch nemesis; the woman leading the contest crew that 'stole' my wife away.

"Dolly isn't here," I yelled through the door. "You took her away once, now you can keep her! Go away!"

"I'm not the one here to see you, Mr. Davis. I was sent to see if you were home. Can we come in?"

"Hell no! And I'm NOT Mr. DAVIS!"

"Oh, I'm sorry...I mean Mr. Dylan," she replied.

A familiar man's voice replied, "Are you sure, we've come a long way to see you, and I'd sure appreciate a chance to straighten out a few things. I'd like to do it face to face—man to man." Yeah, the old bastard himself, Bradley Morgan, came to see me.

I opened the front door, but kept my hand on the screen door. He reached for it, but I held it tight. "I don't let wife stealing bastards into my home." 

His face started to redden, but he calmed down and said, "I'd really like it if we could sit down and chat. We need to clear the air about a few things."

I changed my voice to sound like Jed Clampett, "If you insist, we can sit for a spell on the front porch. I'd invite you for a dip in the cement pond, but it's full of Elly May's critters."

"What are you talking about?"

"When my stupid wife finally called me, I overheard one of your pack of arrogant asses tell someone that he was doing 'damage control caused by that stupid Indiana hillbilly asshole.' Just because we don't live in the glistening city of gold you call Los Angeles, doesn't mean we're a bunch of Jethro Bodines out here in rural America." I simplified the situation, leaving my 'phone buddy' out of the story.

"Okay, my first apology for my staff's rude and unprofessional behavior will be for that remark." He glanced back at his entourage. "I'm truly sorry about that; I don't know if you read my book, but I come from a town not much larger than this. I know for a fact that just because you don't live in a city, you're not a hillbilly. Are you sure we can't come in?"

"I tell you what, let's have a seat on the front porch, and keep this all out in the open. If something happens, my neighbors will be a witness—for me or against me as the need shall be."

"Fine, I accept your kind hospitality."

We sat in the two chairs on the North end of the porch; the ones that Dolly and I used many times over the years to watch a peaceful sunset. Two of his staff sat nearby, but didn't pull their chairs in closer.

After we'd settled in, he began, "I'd like to apologize for a major judgment error that one of my PR people made. She was supposed to contact you a week ahead, and give you and your wife a detailed itinerary, and an invitation for you to come as well. At the last minute, they decided that it would be more romantic if they just swooped in and took her away for a makeover and romantic weekend with dinner out and then to attend a movie premiere and the after party. By the way, I was informed that you both were to attend the after party, but your wife's contest entry had a check mark box that—if checked—indicated that she had a spouse and he—in this case, you—would've been automatically included. I'm told that it was not checked on any of the entries she sent in.




Her Next Husband



"I'm not sure why she chose not to remain in contact with you, but that part was totally on her. Several times, my staff asked her if she wanted to call home or a friend, to let them know she was okay, and what she was doing. It would've been good word-of-mouth PR for us, so we encouraged it. She said that she'd 'take care of it later.' We foolishly believed her.

"As to her spending the night at my house, the hotel asked her to leave due to the negative publicity and the influx of the paparazzi. We discussed moving her to another hotel, but feared that it would happen again. Finally, they talked me into letting her use one of my spare bedrooms. Let me assure you that nothing happened during her stay. Cindy, my wife was home that night and she can verify that. If you want to talk with her, I'll give you her cell number—provided you don't give it out to anyone else. 

"I have many misunderstandings to apologize for, and I want to convey my deepest apologies for all of that. My staff had to listen to my ranting on the plane all the way here, and I'm not sure that was adequate punishment, although I can be pretty rough on them. I'm still not sure if one of them will still have a job next week."

He shot an angry glance at the woman who'd invaded my living room last week. Her head lowered in guilt or shame—I'm not sure which. 

I sat there silently for a moment, and watched them squirm. I looked deep into his eyes and judged him well. "Well, I'm going to trust you on this one, since I have no reason not to. I'm not going to call your wife, and I'll accept your apologies, if you'll accept mine for calling you a wife stealing bastard."

His face relaxed, "That seems very fair to me." We shook hands and one of his staff took a picture of us doing it. He looked at me and saw the angry look on my face.

"Delete that picture, right now!" he demanded. His assistant scrambled to quickly obey that order.

"You know, it's only fair that since you personally came all this way, just to apologize and straighten out this mess, that your PR people can prove that it happened. I just don't like being caught off guard. Let's get a couple of good pictures of the two of us." I even had them take a few with my camera phone.

She handed me back my phone and I pretended to look at the pictures. Actually, I turned on the voice recorder. 

"Brad, there is something you should know that might help explain why I reacted the way I did. Dolly's been a huge fan of yours since your first big album came out. She even joked that you would be her 'next husband.' If she'd done it a few times and stopped, it would've been okay, but several thousand times later, I think it took on a fantasy life of its own in her mind. When she left here last week, she didn't say goodbye to me, but I heard her muttering something about 'finally meeting her next husband.'"

"Man, she's one sick puppy. I'd never have tolerated that kind of disrespect, if I were you. You must really love her to put up with that!"

"Yeah, I've got almost thirty years down on what I thought was a life sentence that started with 'I do.' She puts up with my crap, and I with her crap. It's a give and take, but I'm not sure that I have any more to give."

"I hate to hear that, Curt. You're a good man, and I hope you can put it back together. That's a lot of years to just chuck out the window. By the way, was that you that left a message with my staff?"

"Yes, I did. I usually don't like to mince words, that way I don't get misunderstood. Sometimes, I do come on too strong."

"We were having breakfast when you left that message. The maid, Cathy, walked in and reluctantly said she had a message for Dolly, but warned us that it wasn't nice. Cindy had a mouthful of juice and lost it all over your wife. I thought Dolly was going to die of embarrassment! Then Cindy dragged me in the other room and demanded that I get Dolly out of our home—right friggin' now! I couldn't laugh then, but it was funny as hell!"

"I wish I could've seen that!"

"Curt, there's one more thing you should know. We announced to the media that Dolly Dylan won the contest. WE are the ones that used her maiden name on the hotel room. Celebrities register under assumed names all the time, that way we don't have obnoxious fans and the paparazzi calling our rooms at all hours of the day and night, but if someone needs to get through to us, they still can—if they know the right name. My staff just did that out of habit, and a few of them just knew her as 'Dolly Davis,' or "Ms. Davis,' so she may have just went along with them, and used her former name. Under times of great stress or excitement, people have done stranger things."

"I understand...thanks for telling me that."

We chatted as just two guys for about an hour, and then a curious neighbor drifted over and recognized my guest. Claude ran back home to get his wife, and Bradley said that this was about to turn into a circus rather quickly. I told him that I understood and I thanked him for coming all this way to try and save my marriage, and mostly to apologize like an honorable man. 

Then I asked him why he didn't do any of the bluesy stuff like what was on his earlier albums anymore. I also mentioned that I really like the "unplugged" version of Dock of the Bay I saw him do on a late night show many years ago—just him and his guitar. I told him that I had a couple of his older albums, where they "still spelled his name right."

He laughed, "You know, that's not a bad idea. That was the music of my soul, not the commercial crap they've had me doing for years. I have to go, but it was great meeting you, Curt. Good luck with Dolly." And with a quick wave, his group was back in the limo and heading off into the sunset—towards the airport in Terre Haute (which is west of here) would be my guess.

My neighbors, Claude and Jenny, who were a few years older than Dolly and I, arrived just in time to see the limo take off. "I told you that you were taking too long. Now you missed him," Claude chastised.

Jenny looked at me, "Was he really here? Did you know he was coming?"

"He sure was, and no I didn't know," I replied. "He had the class to come all the way here to set the record straight on a few things and apologize for the crass thoughtlessness of his staff. He didn't use his celebrity status, as I made it clear right off the bat that I didn't like him. He brought me around, though. He's alright in my book."

"Wow, the Bradley Morgan, right here in our little town," Jenny said dreamily.

Claude popped in, "We saw you on Ellen. Is that what really happened? Did Dolly ignore you all like that?"

"Yes, she did."

"Man—that ain't right! I feel for you, Curt," Claude sympathized.

"Is Dolly back yet?" inquired Jenny.

"She got back this morning. I think she's staying with Scarlett."

"Is she afraid to come home," Jenny tactfully asked.

"No, she was here, demanding to be let in, since she left without a key," I replied. "I refused to let her in."

"Good for you!" Claude cheered. "You can't let a spouse—or anyone—disrespect you like that and then come into your home. There's no limit to the crap they'll try to get away with, when they obviously don't care about how you feel. In a good relationship, you have to have mutual respect."

"But, at some point, you're going to take her back, right?" Jenny asked hopefully.

"Only time will tell. First, she has to quit lying to me. Every time I get a message from her, she's lying to cover something up. Second, she'll have to take responsibility for her actions. We'll see where it goes from there."

"But you two are such a good couple! It would be a shame for you to break up."

"I agree, but there are some things you just can't live with, and have any self-respect left. Do you know what I mean?"

They looked at each other, "Yeah, we do. We'll support you no matter what you do, and please remember if you need someone to talk to, that we're right next door."

"Thanks, you two. I'm doing fine. It's time to go in before the mosquitoes start to bite. Goodnight!"

"Goodnight, Curt,..and good luck!" 

I felt better that night as I laid my weary head on my familiar pillow. I still wasn't used to sleeping alone.

I took to doing some household chores that I'd been putting off. I worked inside and outside without anyone bothering me. Thursday, about mid-morning, a van pulled up in front of my house and I saw it before they saw me, as I was cleaning out the gutters on the roof. It was a news van from a local TV station; the dead giveaway was the writing on the van.

Since I had some new developments in my story, I told them that I'd grant them an interview. I cleaned up a bit, and we sat on the porch and sipped lemonade while we chatted. 

"Yes, the rumors are true, Bradley Morgan took time out of his schedule and came here to see me, man-to-man, and set things right. I'd never been a big fan of his, but he had the class and sincerity to sit right there, in the chair where you are now, and apologize to me for the way his PR staff treated me. We talked for almost two hours before he had to leave. He's a class act that hasn't been sullied by Holly-weird, land of the wannabe's." They showed a picture of Bradley and me I sent them from my camera phone.

"Did you get any explanation as to why your wife ignored you, as you stated on the Ellen Show?" my interviewer asked.

"No, but I did get more insight into this dream date contest. It was all on the up-and-up. Heck, if my wife had checked a box on the many entry forms she'd filled out, the box indicating she was married, I would've been invited to go with her! I guess she didn't want that as I would just be in her way. Also, we were supposed to be contacted a week ahead, so we could make plans and such, but one of his staffers thought it would be so much 'more romantic' (I made quote mark finger motions) if they just showed up like the Publisher's clearing House people do. It backfired on them, mostly because they were misinformed by Dolly."

"Is Dolly back in town? Have you talked to your wife?"

"Yes, and yes. It's not going very well though. I keep catching her telling me lies." 

"Well, that will never do. What else did you talk about with Bradley Morgan?"

"We talked about some fishing spots in this area, and I invited him back to go fishing with me. I don't look for that to happen, though. He's a very busy man, and this is a long way for him to come."

"Well, there you have it, folks. A big name celebrity, namely Bradley Morgan, came to our neck of the woods, for a quick visit to take responsibility for some of the big mess that his Dream Date contest has become. When push came to shove, he manned-up and took the heat himself. As Curt Dylan said, 'He's a class act.' Bill Yoder reporting for WFDET news."

That was what my kids and wife saw on the evening news that night. I'm sure that their jaws hung down a bit with a couple of revelations that I made public, but I wanted everyone, including Rhett and Scarlett, to know how I was treated by my so-called "loving wife of twenty-eight years." She started this mess; it was becoming more and more clear what she had in mind for her trip out west, and her plans sure didn't include me in her future—IF it had worked out like she wanted.

CNN picked the report up, and it went national, though slightly edited. I later got a thank you card from Bradley Morgan, for the praise I'd given him on the air and a reminder that he just might take me up on the fishing offer, but he'd phone "at least a week ahead." A "smiley face" and an "LOL" followed the last remark. And it was signed, "Brad."

Scarlett and Rhett both took me to task for airing my dirty laundry on the local news, but they also chewed out Dolly for her newly revealed misdeeds, as well. I agreed that I wouldn't do any more interviews, as I didn't have anything new to say, anyway. 

All was quiet for the next couple days. I had the yard looking great and even fixed a few things around the house that I'd been putting off. Saturday night, Scarlett called and asked if I'd be in church the next morning. I said that I had planned to be there, especially since I'd missed last week when I was in California. She said that Mom would sit with her, and her husband Sam, and if I wanted to, I could sit with them also.

"I don't think church is the place for a reunion of this kind. I don't want to disrupt the service, so I'll sit with Rhett and Betty," (who usually sit with her parents) I informed her. 

"I understand..." she replied. There was a pregnant pause afterwards.

"Scarlett, was there something else you wanted to say?"

"Yes...Dad...when are you going to talk with Mom? She is going bonkers over here. All she does is cry and talk to herself. I can't make any sense of most of what she says. I'm beginning to be afraid for her."

"Bring her over tomorrow afternoon around two. I've calmed down enough that I have some perspective on things. Tell her after church, though; I don't want her getting any ideas or causing a scene."

"YOU, Mr. Publicity-hound, are worried about causing a scene?"

"I chose an appropriate venue for that; church is not an appropriate place for that sort of thing."

"I suppose that you're right. See you in the morning."

"Love you, Scarlett."

"Love you, too, Dad."

Just like that, the showdown was set.

We both behaved ourselves in church and afterwards the next morning. After being invited to share Sunday lunch at Betty's parents, which I accepted, I headed home to prepare for... for what, I wasn't sure. They don't make manuals for this sort of thing.

I had a pitcher of lemonade and two glasses sitting on the front porch, on the wooden table between Dolly and my favorite "sunset watching" chairs. If Scarlett and Sam wanted to stay, they could sit inside, pretend to watch TV, and eavesdrop like family is mostly expected to do. 

Shortly before two, the three of them arrived in Sam's Buick, and saw me sitting there on the porch. As they approached, after seeing the pitcher and glasses, Scarlett asked, "Dad, wouldn't you rather do this inside the house?"

"Actually no, I wouldn't. You two are welcome to go inside, watch some TV and have a drink, if you want to stay. If not, I'll call you when she's ready to go back."

Dolly spoke up, "Curt, I was really hoping that we could get this worked out this afternoon, and I could stay at home tonight."

"Whereas I won't rule that possibility out, I sincerely doubt that we'll be able to work through all the crap to the point where you'd spend the night here, in one afternoon. As to coming inside, our problems started out in a very public way, and maybe that's the best way to try and end them. Also, I hope it'll keep the conversation more civil, as we're outside for all to see and hear us. Dolly, why don't you have a seat right there—where Brad sat when he was here?" I rubbed it in her nose that he was here when she wasn't.

She cocked her head when I referred to him as "Brad." She'd heard that only his closest friends were allowed to call him that, as his PR people thought it made him sound too common. Most people in Hollywood weren't allowed to call him that because they didn't want to start any habits.

Scarlett and Sam went inside with instructions to make themselves at home. As Dolly began to sit, she was thinking how cool it was to sit where "he" had sat and smiled, but it quickly went away when she noticed that I saw it.

"I don't know about you, but I have two things that you need to do before we can even let you spend a night in the guest room." She looked to me for more explanation. "First and foremost, you will need to quit lying to me. Every word that comes out of your mouth—no matter how bad it makes you look—had better be the unabashed truth. If you so much as tell one little white lie, this meeting is over and you'll need to leave. Even a damning truth is better than a small white lie at this point. Since Brad was here and we talked for over two hours, there isn't a lot that I don't know. Do you understand this?"

"Yes, Curt, I understand and I want to..."

I cut her off. "You'll have plenty of chances to talk; let me finish. The second part is that you have to fully take responsibility for everything thing you've done since last Wednesday night, and be able to explain what was going through your head at the time you did it. If I think that you're—what is it that those Holly-weirdoes call it—'putting spin on it,' this meeting is over. So the simple truth will serve you best today, clear?"

"Yes, Curt."

"Now, you can go ahead with whatever you want to say to me."

"Okay, Curt, I want to say that I'm sorry for ignoring you like I did. I was wrong and it was very rude of me to treat you like that. Looking back, I can't believe that I did it. I want to say that I'm deeply sorry and that I want to come back home. I want things to be like they were between us."

"I'm afraid that's not possible for things to be the same, as your actions have clearly stated for everyone to see that Bradley Morgan is your preferred number one man, and I'm only the backup plan. You have publicly and privately disrespected me to the point where an apology isn't enough."

"Curt, I love you very much, and it took this time apart for me to see just how much. What must I do to prove that I don't love him, just you?"

"Words are cheap, and I no longer trust those coming form your mouth, as I know for a fact that you've lied to me several times since this all hit the fan." I pulled a picture of Bradley and Dolly on the red carpet, showing how lustfully and starry-eyed she looked at him. "When was the last time you looked at me like this? The look on your face just invites him into your bed. Can you deny that...truthfully?"

"Oh, crap! I didn't know it was that obvious! I didn't think about it; I was just caught up in all the glitz and glamour. I had just met him for the first time in the limo on the way to the premiere, and I was still in total awe of him."

"So, if after the premiere, he'd said, 'Let's blow off this celebrity filled posh party, go back to your hotel and slide you out of that designer dress and make love like there's no tomorrow; how would you have answered him?"

"I...I...I'd have probably agreed..."

"Dolly, remember—no spins or half-truths."

"Okay, I'd have jumped at the chance." She had the good grace to at least lower her head in shame at her admission. "But he's married and he knew I was, too."

"And how did he know that? You aren't wearing your wedding rings in this picture, are you?"

"No."

"Did the makeover crew tell you to leave them off?"

"No."

"Then tell me why weren't you wearing them?"

"Are you going to make me say it again?"

"That's part of taking ownership of your actions, so yes."

"You're right; I thought seducing him would be easier if he thought I was single."

"So, your main goal for the weekend was to seduce Bradley Morgan, with hopes of making him—as you so often put it—'your next husband?' And come hell or high water—NO ONE, NOT EVEN YOUR FAMILY—was going to get in the way of your plans, right?"

"When you say it like that, it sounds pretty bad, but...that's pretty close to the truth."

"So, you deliberately excluded me from your trip by not checking the 'I'll bring my husband/fiancée' box on every contest entry form you sent in?"

"How did you...yes, I did." Her shoulders sagged and her head lowered once again. 

"I told you that Brad and I talked for a couple of hours, didn't I? He told me a lot of things. So far, you've done well, but it's not over yet. So, how did I fit into your plans if you made it into his bed, but he threw you over afterwards like an old cheap blanket?"

"I'd just tell you what I wanted you to know about my trip, and give you a great week or so of sex, telling you that all that time around Bradley made me so horny, with no way to get relief."




Her Next Husband



"That's pretty cold and calculated, don't you think? So, you kept us in the dark, making us wonder if you were okay, or abducted, or only God knows what, so that you wouldn't be tripped up in your lies, in the 'unlikely event' that he'd fuck you and send you on your way? And you didn't let us know where you were staying so we couldn't call you and interrupt the 'wonderful sex' you were so sure that you'd have?"

"Yes...I suppose so." He head hung low again, unable to meet my eyes.

"So, if the worst thing happened and you tried to fuck his brains out, and he dumped you like the cheap slut you would've been behaving like, that you'd just shower yourself off and come home to me, and always have the memory of such a great sexual encounter with the 'Great Bradley Morgan,' and I'd get his used and soiled leftovers. Does that sum it up?"

"Yes, but you make it sound so cheap and..."

"Because it was a very cheap thing to do! I'm just bringing it out into the open where the light of day shows your plan for what it was. If you think I'm making you sound like a cheap slut on a once-in-a-lifetime mission, suppose you explain it to me so that it doesn't sound so sleazy. Go ahead...try!"

"I suppose that my plan started innocently enough. If I won, you wouldn't even want to come as you've never cared for the 'Holly-weird' lifestyle, and you'd have to stay in the background for the PR shots, anyway. Then, I thought I couldn't possibly seduce him, being the big star that he is. That night he and Cindy were on TV, and you commented how much better looking and younger I was than she. It actually made me feel like I had a chance with him, especially after a Hollywood class makeover."

"So, you're partially blaming me for this crap? ...over a compliment, no less!" 

"No, no...please don't take it that way! It was the boost of confidence that I got from that compliment—the view of her vs. me through the eyes of a man—that pushed me over the edge. I think I'd have given a try anyway, but your compliment just started me sooner. After that hurdle was crossed, it was a struggle about what would happen if things went wrong, but I never expected the Facebook event to take on a life of its own."

"So, you thought I'd just sit here silently at home, and not worry about you, or wonder if this was a legit contest? You know me to be more of a man of action that; I'm no wimp. You were just swept out of here like a leaf by a tornado and started ignoring my calls and texts right off the bat. What was up with that?"

"Your first call came in during the limo ride, when they were telling me all the details of what would be happening to me over the next few days. I did ignore it because I didn't want to miss a word of what they were saying. After a while, I got tired of ignoring your calls and texts—and a little guilty too, considering what I had planned—and shut off the phone. I'm sorry, Curt. I really am truly sorry."

"Are you sorry for what you did, or sorry that your plan didn't succeed, or sorry that you got caught?"

"To be truthful, I'm sorry for all three, but I'm mostly sorry that I hurt you so much that you'd kick me out of my own home. A home that we made over the last thirty years together, where we raised our two wonderful kids and have so many memories..."


"Okay, cut the emotional crap. Now, what was with all the lies when I finally did talk to you?"

"I thought that you wouldn't know any better, and since 'nothing happened' out there anyway, a few white lies would smooth things over better and quicker. It would also hurt you less..."

"How considerate of you..." I commented sarcastically, "but what it did show was just how much respect for me that you've lost. You actually thought that I'd believe that your phone died after it had been on the charger for over three hours? ...that I'd believe that you couldn't borrow a phone or charger from someone in the entourage? ...that the hotel's phones weren't working for the whole time you were there? I'm nowhere near that stupid. So, you thought I was not only a wimp, but a stupid wimp?"

"I guess that I did; it seemed that all the passion from our younger days had faded and you'd just keep yourself busy without me for a few days. I'm sorry. Now I know without a doubt that you are neither. I'll never take you for granted like that again—never."

I took a long thoughtful draw off of my lemonade and let the silence build to an uncomfortable level. "Why should I believe you when you said that 'nothing happened'? Obviously, Bradley said the same thing and even offered me to call his wife to verify it, but a lot of those Holly-weirdoes are into threesomes and orgies. I don't think a threesome with Cindy would've fit well into your grand plan, but I think you probably would have done it anyway, if nothing more than to get your time in the sack with your idol. So, why should I believe you?"

Her face showed shock at the possibility (of the threesome) that she hadn't considered, and then replied, "I haven't lied to you today; not even one word has been less than the complete truth! I'm baring my sole to you, Curt! I'm opening myself up totally and showing you all the ugly, nasty, thoughts and ideas that have been running through my head since I first heard about that damn contest. I'm totally ashamed of myself, my thoughts, and my actions. Don't you ever have those kinds of thoughts?"

"Yes, but I quickly remind myself how much I love you and our life together. I remind myself that acting on those thoughts, or even letting them linger too long, puts all that at risk. I would be lying if I said that I didn't have them, but I put things into perspective; the risk isn't anywhere near worth the possible benefit. THAT'S how much I valued our relationship. It was a big kick in the ass when I figured out that you didn't value it and me anywhere near as much."

"I'm so sorry that I hurt you that much, Curt. I guess I really didn't think this through as much as I thought I did."

"That's another issue I've wondered about; how long have you been planning all this?"

"Well, the contest entry period was from April first through the thirtieth. They took six weeks to pick a winner, and we're now in the middle of June, so about ten weeks."

"So, you put ten weeks of planning into this farce. For ten weeks, you thought of how you'd lie to me and manipulate me so you could run off for a weekend and fuck another man—if you'd won. Do you realize that the only things you've planned for that long were our and our kids' weddings? Don't you think it ironic that the only thing you planned longer than the possible destruction of our marriage, was the start of it?"

"I hadn't really thought of it like that..."


"Do you realize what started me calling you so soon, was the remark you made when you left?"

"What did I say?"


"It was partially what you didn't say—'goodbye.' You said nothing to me in your big rush to get out the door. No 'goodbye,' no 'kiss my ass,' no 'call you when I get to the hotel,' no kiss, no nothing! You flat out ignored me right off the bat. Then, I heard you mutter on the way out that you were 'finally going to meet your next husband!' That got me going, as it has for years, and you know it does!"

"Oh, crap! I had no idea I'd said that aloud! I'm so sorry, Curt, that must've hurt. You know I've tried not to say that anymore..."

"And for the most part, you did a good job of keeping your fantasy life to yourself. How do you feel now that your fantasy is gone and dead? You know Bradley won't have a thing to do with you anymore, right?"

"Yes, that's why I was so surprised when I'd heard that he came here personally. I feel a little empty inside now that it's gone, but I feel a lot more empty thinking that we may not...might..." She broke down and cried for several minutes. 

I sipped my lemonade and listened to the birds sing, while she gathered herself together. Part of me was torn and wanted to lend her comfort, but it was too soon for me to do that. I sat in silence.

"I'm sorry, Curt; I promised myself that I wouldn't do that. I thought I was all cried out after this last week. I guess I was wrong again."

"I want you to hear something. I recorded my conversation with Brad, and I have a part of it that I want you to listen to. I want you to know how he feels about what you've done." I pulled my phone from my pocket and opened the app I'd used. I pressed the button for the part that I wanted and had set up.

"Brad, there is something you should know that might help explain why I reacted the way I did. Dolly's been a huge fan of yours since your first big album came out. She joked that you would be 'her next husband.' If she'd done it a few times and stopped, it would've been okay, but several thousand times later, I think it took on a fantasy life of its own in her mind. When she left here last week, she didn't say goodbye to me, but I heard her muttering something about 'finally meeting her next husband.'"

"Man, she's one sick puppy. I'd never have tolerated that kind of disrespect, if I were you. You must really love her to put up with that!"

Her hands flew up to her mouth. There was her fantasy man calling her a disrespectful and a sick puppy, and saying that he'd never have put up with her crap. The rest of her fantasy life died right there, and she wept for another few minutes.

When she regained her composure, I began, "Is there anything you want to tell me?"

"I want to tell you that I love you very much, even though I haven't shown it lately. Maybe I took you for granted because you've always treated me so well, and assumed that you would always treat me like that. Almost losing you has reminded me so succinctly just how much I do love you—and only you. My feelings for Bradley were just those of a schoolgirl's romantic crush, not love—especially not the enduring kind of love that we have. I love you Curt and I'll do anything I have to do, to prove it to you. 

"I want to tell you that I'm deeply sorry for everything. I sorry for disrespecting you, for planning this thing, for letting myself get carried away in a stupid fantasy over the years, for lying, for ignoring you, for underestimating you, and for so much more I can't even think of it all right now! 

"So, I'm sorry, I love you—and only you—so very much, and I'll do anything I have to do."

"Would you walk naked through town, with 'I didn't fuck Bradley Morgan' written in large letters on your chest and stomach, and 'but I really wanted to,' on your back?"

"Oh, crap, would you really make me do that?"

"I have a marker right here." I pulled a large black magic marker from my shirt pocket and placed it on the table. We stared at each other for thirty seconds.

"If I do that for you, can I at least move back into the guest room of my own house?"

"Probably..."

"Is there anything else you can think of..."

"Not at the moment."

"Crap! If it's all I've got, then I'll take you up on it." She reluctantly stood up and started unbuttoning her blouse. I let her get to the point where she was taking it off her shoulders.

"Stop! That's enough. I'm impressed that you'd go that far. I know how modest you've always been about being naked."

Dolly quickly covered herself back up and sat down, buttoning herself up as she moved. Her face showed massive relief. 

"I think we've made some good progress today, but I want you to go back to Scarlett's place and think about this question for a few days. Then we'll get together again, when you're ready."

"Okay, sure...anything. What's the question?"

"I want you to take you time and answer this as honestly as you can. It's a two part question: if you were me, and I you, would you have done the same things I did, or what would you have done differently? And under what circumstances would you take me back? Remember, you are me, a man totally disrespected publicly by the love of his life and a guy who had your fantasy waved in his face for years before this crap went down. I will remind you one last time how important honesty is right now, and I'll also remind you that after thirty years together, I seem to know you better than you know me. So, think about it and choose your reply well. Let me know when you're ready to answer."

"Curt, I can answer that one right now. Scarlett told me to put myself in your place the other day, and I've had a lot of time to think about that. I have to honestly say that I'd never believe that 'nothing happened,' even if you had some sort of proof to the contrary. I'd have kicked your butt to the curb without giving you a chance to defend yourself or explain anything. I came to the conclusion that you're a much better person than I am, and I must change to be a better person, whether you take me back or not.

"I'm certainly not proud of myself for being like that, demanding yet unforgiving, and then being a total hypocrite when the table is turned. I can honestly say that my pride would not have allowed me to let you back into our home, and I know that I've wounded your pride deeply. All I can count on is your deep sense of right and wrong, and your ability to forgive. I already told you that I know I have to change my ways, and I fully intend to do that. I'd like your help to be a better person, Curt, please..."

"Well, that certainly was honest! Let me think on that for a while. Meanwhile, you should gather a few things and take them back to Scarlett's place. I'll stay here on the porch and ponder a bit, while you're inside."

"Curt, thank you. I now have some hope that we can work this out. I'll do as you say, but please, don't take too long. I've never been overly patient, you know." We both smirked at the truth in that understatement. 

Thirty minutes later, she came out with a suitcase, Scarlett and Sam. Scarlett gave me a hug and a kiss before leaving. "Thanks for not being too hard on her, Dad, but don't take too long in making your decision. I love Mom, but she's not the best house guest right now!"

"I understand. Love you, Scarlett."

"Love you, too, Dad," she replied as she left. 

Sam added his, "See ya later."

Dolly was the last one off the porch, "Curt, please remember that I love you and I'll do anything I can to make this right. Please, let me back into your life. I love you so much."

"I'll be in contact."

Monday afternoon, Scarlett called me at work, "Hi, Daddy, have you come to a decision about Mom yet?"

"No, but I will tell you that our meeting yesterday went better than I'd hoped it would."

"So, when can she come home?"

"I'm working on that. Assuming that I take her back, she has offered to change, and I'm going to hold her to that. I just need to work out a few things." 

"That sounds promising, Dad. Just because she did some crazy stupid thing doesn't mean that you need to do crazy stuff, too. You need to know that she is taking this very hard. She is being so hard on herself about this mess. The longer you drag it out, the more I'm afraid she'll do something drastic."

"Something 'drastic'...like what?"

"I don't know, Dad. But if this goes on much longer, I'm afraid she may hurt herself. She talks to herself and blames herself for all the pain and suffering she gave us for those few days. It's not good to keep her in this limbo. Please, let her know something soon."

"Okay, I'll call her by tomorrow night."

"Thanks...that'll make the waiting game a lot easier to deal with." We chatted for a few more minutes before ending the call. Now, I had a deadline to deal with, and some major soul searching to do.

In some ways, it seemed like forever until I got off work the next day, but there was a certain dread that goes along with having a unique plan like mine. As I was leaving work, I called Scarlett and told her to drop off Dolly at my house after supper...say around seven. Tell her that if she was serious about changing and "doing anything to make it right," that she could bring her things along. I had conditions and they were not easy ones, but I thought they were fair. If she agreed to all of them, she could move into the guest room for now. If she didn't agree, I would bring her back.

"Thank you, Daddy! I'm sure that she'll agree to anything reasonable. I know you won't regret this! Mom is already a changed person! You'll see! I just knew..."

"Calm down, Scarlett! I'm opening a door, not my arms...not yet, anyway. We'll have to see if her words are followed up by her actions. It won't be easy for either of us."

"I know it won't, but this is the biggest step. I have to go now and tell Mom. She'll be so excited! We'll have her there at seven. Thanks again, Dad."

"You're welcome, Sweetie. Love you, bye."

"Love you, too, Dad, bye!"

I had the front door open and the screen door closed in anticipation of her arrival. I was sitting in the living room where I could see their car as they dropped her off, Sam carrying her bags to the porch. When they approached the door, they still hadn't seen me.

"Hello Sam, Dolly—come on in." I said flatly. "Sam, please set her things over there, just inside the door. Perfect....thanks."

"I just know you two will work this out," Sam said hopefully. "You two have been together for so long the world just wouldn't be the same without you being together. You were meant to be together."

"Thanks, Sam; I appreciate all you've been through this last week. I believe we can take it from here," I instructed.

"Okay, but I just know you'll get it back together. See you later!"

Dolly looked sheepish as she stood there in our living room, where this had started only ten days prior. She was dressed casual, but feminine, in a simple blue dress. She wasn't trying to be sexy, but she did want to show a bit of leg to remind me that she was indeed a woman.

"Dolly first thing is this. Don't be alarmed and let me explain before you have a fit. I want you to sign some legal papers, that I hope I never have to use—divorce papers." Her face showed every bit of the shock I'd expected to see. 

"They are in the kitchen, as is a notary, who will witness them. They are not dated, and I will only date them and file them IF you break any of the promises that you make tonight. The terms of the divorce are fair—the house will be sold and everything split evenly. The only quirk in them is that you will be required to not be present at one family holiday per year—a holiday which rotates every year.

"Before you sign them, it's only fair that you should know what promises you must make tonight. Before I get to that, I have a few more questions for you. Come sit down." I picked up a clipboard that I had nearby.

"Yesterday I realized that there are two types of affairs. Obviously there is the physical affair where the two offending people make out and have sex. The other is an emotional affair, which is where one spouse—you in this case—have an ongoing emotional attachment to someone else, to the point where it takes something away from the relationship with the other spouse. In some ways, you have been having an emotional affair with Bradley Morgan for over twenty years." 

"How has it taken away from our relationship? It was just a silly daydream of mine?"

"If it had stayed a 'silly daydream,' it would've been fine. I refer to the disrespect of the thousands of the 'my next husband' references. I know, you claim it was only a joke, and it started that way, but after a while; it took one a life of its own. Do you know how may times you unknowingly called out 'Bradley' when we made love?"

He hand went up to her mouth as if to stop it from happening again.

"Fourteen times; it's easy for me to remember that as they were etched into my mind. The first time was shortly after Scarlett was born; the most recent was a month ago. They had happened more often since that damned contest started; I guess you were getting yourself 'warmed up' for him."