1

"The wedding's off!"

Sherry Carter punctuated the remark by slamming the door of the red Toyota in which she had just skidded to a stop at the top of the gravel driveway.

Cora Felton, relaxing in a lawn chair, looked up from her Agatha Christie novel and nodded sagely. "Good tactic. I called several of my weddings off before going through with them." She took a drag on her cigarette. Her brow furrowed, as if the nicotine had given her sudden powers of concentration. "At least two or three. Melvin, I called off more than once. I suppose that should have told me something."

Sherry was in no mood for her aunt's rambling reminiscences. "Cora, we're talking about me."

"Of course, dear. I heard you. You're not going to marry Aaron. I quite agree. Aaron's a worthless cad, and you're better off without him. Particularly after what he's done. What has he done, by the way?"

"Don't humor me. I hate it when you humor me."

"What can I do that you don't hate?"

"Oh, who gives a damn!"

Sherry stormed into the house.

Cora sighed, heaved herself out of the chair. It was late morning, and Cora was clad in her Wicked Witch of the West dress. Her favorite loose, comfortable, lounge-around-home smock, it bore cigarette burns, liquor stains from her less than sober past, plus the telltale signs of some none-too-accurately ingested, scrumptiously caloric treats, covering all the essential food groups, such as hot fudge, marshmallow, whipped cream, guacamole, onion dip, ice cream, butter, and maple syrup, in any and all combinations.

Sherry had given up trying to get her ...