Remington and Laura napped the afternoon away. He rose shortly after five, carefully extracting himself from around his wife's still sleeping form. Bernice Hawke, nee Fox, was in town with her husband, Jason, and Laura and Bernice had plans for hitting the town that evening. Given Laura's… wobbly… state when she'd come home from such a night in New York City, he wanted to make certain she had a solid meal on her stomach before she departed.

After splashing some water on his face and changing into a pair of khakis and a black polo, he adjourned to the kitchen. In short order he had the parmesan roasted garlic baby potatoes and roasted parmesan asparagus in the oven. Setting the timer for forty-five minutes, he pulled the lamb chops from the refrigerator. Rubbing the lamb chops down with a lemon juice, oregano and minced garlic cloves, he placed them on a plate and returned them to the refrigerator to marinate while he whipped up the yogurt mint sauce that would top the lamp chops once they were lightly browned in olive oil. The lamb chops would be ready from refrigerator-to-pan-to-table in only fifteen minutes, plenty of time to wake Laura and shove her towards the shower.

When he reached the living room, he stood watching her for a long minute. This was something he'd never imagined about her a year ago: the woman could nap all afternoon when allowed. For three years, he marveled at how little she needed to sleep, often working until nearly midnight, yet back in the office, fully rested by seven-thirty the next day. It was only when they'd begun spending the weekends together that he'd learned she'd often used those days to 'recharge her batteries' so to speak. Oh, she still rose early, but she had no qualms about stopping the day on a dime to relax with one of those romance novels she was perpetually reading or to watch one of those old television series she enjoyed so much, but in either regard, she often dozed off, not waking again until the late afternoon or early evening.

The last ten days had taken their toll on her as well as him, although she'd never admit it. Nothing tired her more quickly than boredom, and she'd been up to her ears in it. With no suspects to chase, no legwork to pursue, she'd been bound to her desk, buried in quarter end reports, tax matters, and in drawing up new security contracts. By day four, her moods had shifted so rapidly they were often difficult to predict. It hadn't helped that he was so overwhelmed by all the responsibilities plopped on his desk, that he'd not engaged her in any of their typical bantering or even managed to engage her in a walloping argument that would, in the end, burn off some of that adrenaline dying to be released.

My Mrs. Steele will never be an easy woman, will always require handling with care, will always challenge me, keep me on my toes… Thank God, he thought to himself with a quiet chuckle.

Leaning over he brushed the back of his fingers across her cheek. Her long lashes fluttered up from her cheeks, and she rolled to her back, stretching.

"What time is it?"

"Closing in on six o'clock. You've time to shower before dinner's ready." She smiled and held a hand out to him. Taking it, he assisted her up, then touched his lips to hers. "It defies the mind, I know, but you may actually be ready on time for a change," he needled playfully. She tossed him a sour look on principle.

"Glass houses, Mr. Steele," she quipped, wrapping her arms around his waist. "How many times has the shoe been on the other foot and it was I waiting on you to finish getting ready?" His mouth opened and closed several times, before he responded.

"I'll neither admit to nor deny the charges as they stand, Mrs. Steele." She flashed him a smug little smile before brushing her lips against his cheek and stepping away from him towards the bedroom.

"Which doesn't make you any less guilty," she answered over her shoulder. His laughter followed her into the bedroom.

At three minutes before seven, the doorbell to the flat buzzed. Remington finished drying his hands on the dishtowel he had in hand, then slung it over shoulder. Opening the door, he peeked around the edge of it, before standing fully upright, a smile lighting his face.

"Ah, Mrs. Wolf, come in, come in."

"Hawke. It's Hawke," Bernice fairly growled.

"Whatever you say, Mrs. Wolf," he answered blithely, chuckling softly at the daggers her eyes were shooting at him. "Can I get you something to drink while you wait?"

"Let me guess: Laura's not ready yet," she laughed. Laura's perpetual tardiness when it came to personal matters was well-known amongst friends.

"Close, close," Remington hedged. It was one thing to needle his wife about her tardiness, quite another to align with others on the matter. "Laura," he called back towards the bedroom as Bernice looked around the living room, "Mrs. Wolfe has arrived."

"I'll be right out," she called back from the bathroom where she was currently muttering a string of creative curses under her breath at her uncooperative hair. After damning the hair dresser that had talked her into the bangs she'd hated the minute they were cut, she set about trying to conquer the unruly things once more.

"Wow…. Just… Wow," Bernice breathed.

Remington turned to see what had caught Bernice's attention. A smile lit his face when he realized she was admiring the wedding photo hung near their bedroom door. While Laura tended to favor of the photograph of the two of them caught in profile, hands held, eyes locked on one another as they said their vows, the picture Bernice was currently admiring was by far and away his favorite. The picture captured them on the dance floor, Laura's face in profile as she smiled up at him; his face at three-three quarters as he smiled down at her, while the back of his fingers traced a line down her nearly bare back. Her completely unguarded expression, eye sparkling, dimple flashing, a soft flush covering her skin and those glorious freckles sprinkled across her shoulders showing in all their glory. It was a moment he'd never forget, captured for eternity through a camera's eye. He'd already commissioned a studio to blow the portrait up then frame it, so it could be rehomed permanently over the fireplace in their new house.

"She's stunning, isn't she?" he asked, admiring her image now himself.

"She is," Bernice agreed absently, still studying the picture. She stole a peek at the man standing a step or two behind her, then returned her attention to the photograph. When she'd watched Remington and Laura dancing on the terrace of their suite at the Four Seasons in New York City, she'd been held spellbound by the obvious affection the two shared for one another. When she'd watched them dance at her wedding reception, she'd made the bet with Murphy that Laura and Remington would be married within the year, as it was all too apparent to anyone who paid attention that they were both in deep. But this? Their love for each other simply radiated from the picture, in how they looked at one another, their interlocked hands, and… oh, wow, she thought again… in how his hand skimmed so gently down her back.

There was some satisfaction in knowing she'd been right during the intervening years from when she'd left the Agency until New York, as well. Laura had confided in her frequently over the years in matters regarding her relationship with Remington. The man had hurt her deeply, a few times: First with Anna, then in Cannes, then even later when he packed up and left. While Bernice had encouraged Laura, almost from the very beginning, to hop into the sack with the man and have her teeth rattled, it had taken her little while to realize that, like Laura, their mystery man had fallen head-over-heels for the true owner of the Agency.

Unlike Murphy, who was determined to see Remington as a ne'er-do-well who would only break Laura's heart, Bernice had started to pay attention after Creighton Phillips had come on the scene. She'd missed neither the flashes of jealousy on Remington's face at Laura's mere mention of the man nor the fact that immediately afterward, Remington's steady stream of bimbos stopped coming through the revolving door of his office. She'd taken note that the man constantly looked for reasons to keep close to Laura's side. She'd observed the subtle shift of the dynamics between the two of them, after they'd posed as man and wife during that divorce case, in how Laura had become more protective of him, in how he wasn't quite so frantic around her any longer. And after that creep Jeffries had shown on the scene. Ooh-la-la, she was left fanning herself on more than one occasion at the looks the passed between the two of them.

The morning when she'd arrived at the office only to find Sherry and Murphy, then Laura and Remington exiting the offices for the day, she was convinced that Laura was finally going to go get those teeth rattled, based on the looks passed between the two of them, the innuendo. Until, that is, Laura had tromped into the office a few hours later, all but spitting fire. Walking past Bernice's desk without so much as a hello, she'd slammed her office door with verve behind her. A couple hours had passed before Bernice, carrying two cups of coffee, dared to breech Laura's inner sanctum, only to find Laura, head in her hands, staring morosely down at her desk.

"Alright, give," Bernice had demanded. After a shake of her head, Laura propped her chin in her hands and sighed deeply.

"I couldn't close the deal," she moaned.

"You're kidding me, right? Whyyyyy?" Laura dropped her face into her hands again.

"I don't know, I don't know, I don't know. We were kissing and it was great." She snorted softly. "God the man knows how to kiss and he tastes so good. It was fine. No, it was wonderful. And then…" her voice trailed off in another sigh of frustration.

"And then? Then what?" Laura pushed herself to her feet, began pacing.

"Then he moved to my neck," her fingers trailed the side of her neck where his lips, his tongue, his teeth had been only hours before. She could still feel him there. "It felt good. So good. It's been so long and it was him and…" she trailed off again, a blush creeping across her skin.

"Laura, and what?" Laura spun on her heel and faced Bernice, throwing her hands up in the air.

"I froze. I… just… froze. I jumped up, said something, I'm not sure what and left. That's 'and what'!" She flopped back down in her chair and covered her face with her hands again. "Oh my God. How am I going to face him? I all but promise him we're going to go to bed together, get him all primed and ready to go and then I bail. What's wrong with me, Bernice?" she nearly wailed the question.

Bernice stared at her, shaking her head, mouth hanging partly open. Once she gathered her own wits, she answered, "I have no idea. You have that prime specimen of man at your fingertips…"

"He's not a slab of meat, Bernice," Laura snapped. Her eyes widened in shock at her own response and she held up a hand in apology. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bite your head off. I'm just so—"

"Oh, my God," Bernice interrupted. "I knew you liked him. But it's more than that. You're in love with the man, aren't you?" Laura peeked at her between her fingers, then covered her face again.

"I'm not in love with him," she denied weakly. "But I could be, very easily." She dropped her hands to look at her friend. "You don't know him like I do. He's… He's… He's…" she stumbled over the words.

"He's what? He's gorgeous and, I can't believe I'm going to say this, could charm the pants off of any woman? A great kisser, apparently, too. Seems to me it's a recipe for some really hot sex."

"No. I mean yes. But it's more than that." She stood to pace some more. "He's kind. He has such a good heart. He's… gentle… loving even. There's times when we're alone together and he looks at me that I know we can never be just a quick romp in the sack. It wouldn't be just that for either of us…" she shook her head again, the words lost to her.

"All the more reason to just go for it, Laura. I've seen the way he looks at you. The man's head-ov—" Laura held a hand up towards her so abruptly, that Bernice forced herself to stop speaking.

"All the more reason not to 'just go for it.' I've been here before, Bernice, and what did I have left to show for it? A white belt, a t-shirt, and a whole bunch of broken promises. Not to mention a whole chest full of memories of how I'm too much and not enough."

"Just because that Jeffries character was a creep doesn't mean every man is," Bernice pointed out.

"No, not all are," Laura answered sadly, sitting back down again. She let her desolate brown eyes settle on her friend. "He'd never, I don't know – mess with my head? – like Wilson did. But he's also the same man that's never stayed in one place for more than a few months. Any day now, he could pack up and just disappear into the night. Then there I'll be. Left. Again. And if we cross that line, when he does leave, I don't know that I'll be able to pick up all the pieces that are left this time around."

When Jason had entered her life and almost from the start began urging her to move to New York with him, she'd hesitated. Not because of him, but because of the woman in the next room who was still muttering to herself. In the two years she'd been with the Agency, she'd become very protective of the younger woman. As strong as she was, there was a part of her that was extremely fragile that she protected with a ferocity that drove away nearly anyone that tried to draw close to her. She'd worried, at first, about leaving Laura alone with Murphy and their mystery man – Murphy who was always trying to surround Laura in a safety net of his own, preventing her from facing her demons, and the man that might walk away at any moment, leaving her broken. It was only when she realized that Laura was using both herself and Murphy as a buffer between she and Remington, and, that the man standing behind her right now would sooner wear off the rack clothing than hurt Laura, that she'd made up her mind.

She'd left. And over the years, she'd become Laura's personal 'Dear Abby' and somehow, in the process, Remington's biggest champion. As the years passed, she'd reminded Laura constantly, 'Look, it's been a year… two years… three years… four years… and he's still here. You've drawn him close only to shove him away, and he stayed. You've flirted with other men, and he's stayed. Hell, you left him for Westfield, and even though he left, he came back the second you made it clear you wanted him near. Face it, Laura, the man's not going anywhere. Go for it.'

She turned and smiled at the man that had been the focus of so many conversations between she and Laura. "That must have been some wedding," she commented, while moving towards the entry way table to pick up the picture of them at the altar there.

"It was," he agreed, simply.

"I have to say, Mr. Steele—"

"Remington," he corrected. Bernice's eyebrows raised and her lips twitched with laughter.

"And here I thought you went by 'Remy'." She laughed opening when Remington closed his eyes and openly grimaced at the appellation. "Maybe I should call you by that instead."

"Not if you wish for me to answer."

"All the better."

"It was my understanding you preferred… Skeeziks, isn't it?" He had the satisfaction of watching Bernice's jaw drop.

"Laura told you?" She briefly considered telling every man at whatever bar they ended up in that Laura was a recently separated woman, desperately seeking a one-night stand. Remington laughed at her reaction.

"Actually, you did. Your message on the answering machine…" She wrinkled her nose.

"Damn, I didn't realize I'd done that," she mumbled under her breath.

"A secret was it?" Bernice laughed at the idea.

"More like I was afraid if you knew I'd dubbed you with a nickname, that you'd be under the misguided notion that it was an expression of affection."

"Ah, I see. Never fear, Mrs. Wolf, I've never doubted your affection for me."

"I never said that—"

"It's always been abundantly clear, as a matter of fact."

"It has not," she denied.

"The way you'd follow me about, making sure my every need was met—"

"Laura!" she yelled.

"Always so fast each morning with a warm greeting—"

"Laura! You'd better get out here, before I kill him," she called again.

"The way you offered to boil me some water when first we met—"

"I mean it, Laura. You're going to be a widow on the count of three. One—"

"Your comments about my attire—"

"Two-"

"Mr. Steele, you'd better behave yourself," Laura laughed as she came into the room. "I believe I was just saying this afternoon that I'm rather fond of marriage."

"Mrs. Wolf was just elaborating on her great affection for me," Remington smirked.

"I'm going to kill him, Laura," Bernice growled.

"I'd really hate to have to find myself a new husband so quickly," she deadpanned. Remington's head snapped in her direction.

"You're not playing fair, Mrs. Steele," he groused, as pictures of Laura with any number of potential new spouses meandered through his head.

"I never do, Mr. Steele," she pointed out, as she threaded her earing through the hole in her lobe. "Would you mind zipping me up?" she asked, turning her back to him. His fingers slid the zipper up by rote. Bussing her on the shoulder, he stepped back to take a look at her. His eyes skimmed appreciatively over her slim form, and the sleeveless, red number that hugged her gentle curves before ending sharply at mid-thigh, highlighting the legs he adored. He took in the opaque, white silk stocking, that he knew, without peeking, ended only shortly higher than the dress, and traveled downwards to the pair of red stiletto heels adorning her feet. He gave a low whistle.

"You look absolutely stunning," he complimented. Then scowled. "Perhaps overly so." His eyes quickly skimmed her length again then stalled on her feet. "Where's your boot, Laura?"

"In the closet where it's going to stay," she answered lightly, while handing him her white London Fog jacket. He raised a brow at it. "It's still drizzling and the low is in the 40's tonight," she reminded him, before turning to Bernice. "Sorry I'm running behind. It's these bangs the hair dresser talked me into. Their finally growing out, but never want to do anything." Remington hadn't moved, still holding her coat. "My coat?"

"Not until you put the boot on. You heard what the doctor said." She frowned at him for good measure, even though she'd anticipated them having exactly this argument.

"Remington, we can stand here and argue about this. I can go in and put that boot on. Then when I get to the car, I'll simply take it off, toss it in the back seat and put on the heels I have already waiting in the Rabbit for me." She gave him a smug little smile, that earned her a glare. "Or, you can recognize that there is no way in hell I'm going dancing in that boot and help me with my coat."

Bernice watched with amusement as Remington considered his options. He realized that even if he went down to the Rabbit and seized the shoes that were allegedly stashed there, she'd simply stop and buy a new pair of heels, no matter how much she loathed shopping. If, however, she was bluffing, and he suspected she was… Bloody hell, she'll still just go out and buy another pair of shoes. He huffed a disgruntled little grunt and held the coat out for her. Lifting her hair out from under the collar once she had it on, he bussed her on the neck. Turning around, she ran her hands up his chest and over his shoulders before wrapping her arms around his neck. His arms circled her waist.

"Now, 'Kiss me. Kiss me as if it were the last time'," she requested softly.

"That I can do," he said, leaning in and giving her a steamy little kiss that left her eyes dazed and her body wanting more, far more.

Behind them, Bernice sighed. "Ingrid Bergman to Humphrey Bogart, Casablanca, Warner Bros., 1942," Bernice recited, a bit breathily.

"Very good, Mrs. Wolf," Remington told her approvingly.

"Hawke," she bit out, then sighed deeply. "Oh, never mind."

"I knew you'd come 'round to my way of thinking eventually," he told her, pressing his luck.

"Laura," Bernice growled in warning.

Laughing, Laura drew a single finger down her husband's torso from neck to waist, drawing his attention back to her. "Have fun at your poker game tonight." Over dinner she'd convinced him he needed some well-earned downtime of his own and he'd finally agreed to stop by Monroe's for the bi-weekly poker game.

"Mmm," he hummed, "I imagine taking all their hard earned money should keep me occupied for a little while, but I should still make it home before yourself." She smiled, having no doubt that he'd make certain he was just that, on the chance that she arrived home in a condition similar to the one after Bernice's bachelorette party. Giving him a jaunty little wave goodbye, she followed Bernice out into the hallway and to the elevator. Once the doors slid shut behind them, Bernice burst out laughing.

"I've got to give you credit, Laura. No one can handle the man quite like you," she told her approvingly.

"Years of practice," she laughed, "and he'll still come out on top here and there."

"That bit with the shoes though? Do you really have a spare pair in the car?"

"No," she admitted with a grin. "I would have if I'd thought of it, though."

"Do you think he knew that?" Laura nodded her head, giggling with mirth.

"Suspected, at the very least." Bernice looked at her, confused.

"Then why didn't he call you on it?" Laura wagged her brows at her friend.

"Because he knew I'd just go out and buy a new pair of shoes."

Their laughter followed them out of the elevator, through the lobby of the Rossmore and out the door.

Laura and Bernice left the dance floor, wobbling somewhat and laughing a lot. Returning to their table, Bernice held up a hand to indicate another round of drinks. A half dozen Sex on the Beaches coupled with several jello shots had both women relaxed and more than tipsy.

"Alright, give," Bernice panted, still trying to catch her breath from her exertion on the dance floor. "After four years of listening to you worry about whether you should or shouldn't, I want the details and I want them now," she demanded.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Laura answered, trying to affect a prim countenance, then snorting when she couldn't hold the laughter back.

"Uh uh," Bernice wagged a finger at her, "I want it all. When did it finally happen? How did you end up getting married in Europe? How did he propose?" She paused and made a funny little face, remember this was Laura, 'Miss Independent Woman', she was speaking to. "Or did you propose? I want to know all about those ridiculously gorgeous rings you have on your fingers. Did he rattle your teeth?" Laura giggled at the last, while contemplating if she wished to share their private life and if so how much of it. The hell with it, she concluded. As Bernice said, she's earned it.

"Well, it happened, at our castle in Ireland—"

"Huh? I know I've had maybe a little too much to drink, but I thought you said your castle in Ireland."

"I did. So it—"

"No, no. Go back. How do you have a castle in Ireland?"

"While we were in London on a case, a solicitor contacted Remington to inform him that the Earl of Claridge had bequeathed him Ashford Castle." Bernice simply stared at her, slack jawed. "In Ireland." Bernice shook her head, trying to clear it.

"Why would he do that?" she asked, befuddled.

"Why would he do what?" Laura's own liquor depressed mind struggled to follow.

"Why would an Earl give Skeeziks a castle?"

"Oh, that. The Earl thought Remington was his son for a short period of time, and in his will said he always felt he had a strong bond with Remington. So he left him a castle."

"A real castle?" Bernice was trying to digest this piece of news.

"Mmmmm, very much so," Laura confirmed, then waited to continue until the waiter delivering their drinks disappeared. Knocking back the shot, she carried on. "So it—"

"Wait, wait. Tell me Skeeziks isn't, like, royalty," Bernice moaned. Laura tilted her head in thought.

"I don't know, honestly. I know in Ireland we're now referred to as the Lord and Lady Steele," she shrugged.

"Laura, if he tries to get me to call him Lord Steele, I swear, I'll brain him," Bernice warned.

"Just be sure to curtsy before you do." Laura giggled again at Bernice's horrified expression. "I'm just kidding – about the curtsying, not the Lord and Lady part," she clarified. "Now if you don't stop interrupting, we won't get to the good stuff."

"Oooooh, the good stuff. Let's get to the good stuff."

"So, it happened at our castle—"

"Did he rattle your teeth?" Bernice asked eagerly. Laura laughed again and shook her head in exasperation.

"Rattling teeth wouldn't even begin to describe it," she answered, looking up through her lashes coyly at her friend.

"Then what would?" Laura pursed her lips and thought about it.

"He sees my body as a smorgasbord to be feasted upon…" Crinkling her nose, she shook her head. "No, that's not right. He's sees my body as a blank canvas, and every square inch of it needs a stroke of color…" She shook her again. "No, that's not right either." Her face lit up. "Let's just say, he treats making love as a great concerto and unless I… crescendo… multiple times throughout a performance, he feels he failed to perform a masterpiece worthy of recognition." Bernice groaned.

"I think I might hate you a little right now. At least toss me a bone and tell me not every time," she pleaded. Laura smirked at her, making her groan in envy again. "Then I guess his… instrument… is fit for the job?" Laura threw back her head and laughed, even as she turned five shades of pink.

"I'm not going to discuss Remington's significant assets with you. He'd be mortified," Laura told her primly, then blushed even deeper realizing she'd done just that. Bernice groaned again.

"I am definitely hating you right now," she sulked, while raising her hand for another round of shots. "Before our friendship is shredded beyond repair… the proposal. Who? How? Where?"

"Who: Him. Where: at a restaurant in Cannes while we were staying at our villa in Theoule-sur-Mer. How: On the dance floor," she summarized. She watched as Bernice became slack jawed again.

"I know I shouldn't ask, but I'm going to anyway. Your villa in… where?"

"Theoule-sur-Mer, in the south of France." Bernice began to nod her understanding then shook her head instead.

"In the south of France. But your villa?"

"Mmmm hmmm. Remington inherited it from Daniel when he died." Bernice frowned.

"Whose Daniel?"

"Daniel Chalmers. Don't you remember? The sting we pulled off shortly before you left? Hoskins? The gambling boat? Colonel Reginald Frobish? Dating my mother?" At the last, Bernice's eyes lit up in recognition.

"Oh yeah, the old guy that taught Skeeziks to be a cheat and a sneak." Laura nodded her acknowledgement. "Why would he leave Skeeziks anything?" Laura flicked her wrist.

"Because Daniel was Remington's father."

"Ohhhhhhhhhhhh," Bernice nodded understanding, then shook her head again. "Wait. Huh? What? The old guy is his father? Why didn't I know that?"

"Because Remington didn't even know until right before Daniel died."

"How could he not know?" Laura rolled her eyes, growing frustrated.

"Remington never knew who his parents were, only that his mother died in childbirth and his father disappeared. He spent his childhood being passed between families, until he ran away when he was ten."

"I see. Well, no I don't, but I don't think my mind can handle that story right now." Bernice straightened in her seat, suddenly very animated. "So, if the old guy was his father, it means you know what Skeezik's real name is. What is it?"

"Remington Chalmers Steele." Bernice harrumphed and rubbed her face with her hands.

"Laura, I've had too much to drink to try to trick you into telling me. So give, what's his real name?"

"Remington Chalmers Steele." Bernice groaned loudly now.

"Lauraaaaaaa…" Laura could only shrug his shoulders.

"He never knew his real name. It was changed with every new family he lived with. When we found his birth certificate in Ireland it didn't have a name on it either, and since Daniel died before he could tell him…" she trailed off, gathering her thoughts. "He's seen himself as Remington Steele for years, it's who he is. It's the only name he's ever tried to make solely his own. His birth certificate was amended to show exactly that." Bernice's eyes nearly crossed at all the information Laura had just given her. With another shake of her head to clear it, she turned the direction of the conversation again.

"Okay, so proposal: him, restaurant, on dance floor. Ring one?" Bernice asked tapping Laura's engagement ring.

"Remington had it made for me some time last fall. That's all I know. He says if I know any more than that, I might get the upper hand," she laughed.

"You're going let him get away with that?" Laura snorted softly.

"Of course not. I'll get it out of him one of these days."

"Wedding. Where?"

"Oia, Greece, at his family's home."

"His mother's side or Chalmer's side?"

"Neither." Laura giggled again at Bernice's look of dismay.

"I shouldn't ask… I shouldn't ask… I shouldn't ask. Oh, hell. Then how are they family?"

"Marcos found Remington stowed away on his ship when Remington was around eleven years old. Marcos and Elena took him in, raised him like one of their own children, until Remington ran away when he was twelve."

"If they were good to him, why did he run?"

"The family ran into some misfortune and he believed he'd be a burden to them." Bernice just shook her head, then tapped Laura's wedding band.

"And that gorgeous wedding band. Did Skeeziks have it made for you too?"

"No, it's a family heirloom, passed down in Marcos's family for hundreds of years, to be given only to a couple that share a 'great love'." Bernice sighed again.

"Back to hating you, Laura..." she warned.

"I could really make you hate me," she laughed. "They're both engraved."

"Oh, God," Bernice lamented. "Should I ask?"

"They both read the same: 'Agapi Mou, Zoi Mou.'"

"Let me guess: Greek?"

"Mmmm hmmmm."

"And what does it mean?" Laura bit her lip, staring down at her ring and fingering it.

"'My love, my life.'" Bernice all but growled this time.

"Hating you. Definitely hating you. Jason will be lucky if he doesn't hear my thoughts on my plain jane, unengraved, boring wedding ring now." Laura simply smirked at her. "Now, for the most important question, although I think I saw the answer back at your apartment: Are you happy, Laura?"

"I never imagined I could be this happy, Bernice. Honestly. There are still nights where I dream this was nothing more than just that: a dream. When I wake up, I feel like… like… someone or something has taken the most important part of me away." She sighed. "I know, I'm being sappy. But honestly, I never knew I could love anyone as much as I do him and even more than that, I never thought anyone would love me as completely as he does."

Bernice squeezed her hand, then then held up her glass in a toast.

"It's about damned time." Laura burst out in to laughter.

"Yes, it is," she agreed, tapping her glass to Bernice's. "Now, after I give Fred a call, how about we take one more turn on that dance floor before we leave?"

"Fred?"

"Our chauffer. I'm in nooooooooooo condition to drive and neither are you," Laura giggled.

"Well, I've ended evenings like this in worse ways than being driven home in a chauffeured limousine," Bernice drawled. "That's one thing to say about marriage: no more walks of shame."

Laura burst out laughing again, then grabbing Bernice by the hand, drug her towards the payphone near the women's room to call Fred.