Chapter Eight
To Margie, there was something quite magical about New Year's Eve; in fact, it was her favorite holiday. She told everyone it was the camaraderie of the day, the general aura of hope that pervaded an entire room at the stroke of midnight, and the fact that she could get away with listening to her oh-so-trendy-ten-years-ago pop music and be considered retro, but, in all actuality, she loved December 31st for the simple fact that if you didn't get pissed, most people assumed there was something wrong with you. Despite owning a bar and despite going on a slight bender during Christmas (not her fault), the mother of three usually drank responsibly – a glass of wine at dinner, a drink out with friends, a beer or two when she played cards, but New Year's Eve was the only day of the year when it was expected of her to get drunk, and the freedom was oddly liberating, especially since, with Sarah at home with the kids, she didn't have to worry about getting home in time and in a coherent enough condition to tuck her children into bed. Yes, she paid for her college frat party behavior the next day, but, to Margie, the headache, the queasiness, and the general vertigo was a fair price to pay.
With a random collection of Madonna, always in Vogue, Christina, Britney, Jessica, and Mandy blaring through Wired's sound system, - Madge was keeping odd company that night on the mix she had prepared, mingling with girls who, in the twenty-first century, had turned into ambitious, want-to-be movie stars or bald, umbrella wielding, serial marrying baby machines – the thirty-something year old brunette was well on her way to partying like a rock star…or at least a celebutant. However, unlike her younger counterparts, she had a designated driver (her poor, harassed husband), the figure of a real woman, and underwear on, all good things in her book. Just as she was about to take a sip of her rum and coke, perusing the celebration she had thrown, a bash that would undoubtedly kill her first quarter profits due to liquor consumption alone, she felt a soft, almost hesitant tap on her shoulder. Due to the angle, she knew who it was without even looking.
"You again," she pronounced, slurring slightly and turning around to glare at the young boy. "What do you want? Did you lose Sam and Chestnut?"
"Do you mean Seth and Chester?"
"Who cares," Margie shrugged, winking just once to assure her young friend that she really wasn't upset with him before continuing with the hassling. "You should go back to Mexico and play with your new chums. Obviously, I'm not that important to you."
"They were nice," Joaquin shared with her, "but I think they're better off as a dynamic duo. I think I was making Chester feel insecure, and Seth needs someone who lets him solely stand in the spotlight. My penchant for actually talking made him feel insecure and competitive. By the time we left Cabo, he pretty much talked nonstop just to make sure no one else got a word in edge wise."
"Say what you want, but I think if I ever expanded my café/bar into a chain, my first potential development would be into his hotel. Call me crazy," she mused thoughtfully with a twinkle in her eye, "but I think we'd get along well, despite the fact that I have a tendency towards diva behavior. From the little that you've told me about him, I have a feeling it's probably our mutual ability to drive your father to distraction. But that's enough about the ambiguously gay duo," the wife and mother announced. "I want to hear about everything."
"Everything?"
"Don't play dense with me, J," she chastised him. "Start with the proposal and work your way through to 'and then that's when we walked through the door five minutes ago.'"
"Well," he smirked, pleased with himself and the reaction he knew his information would garner from his older friend, "we basically blackmailed her into marrying my Dad."
"Blackmail, that is ingenious! I love it," Margie exclaimed, offering the eight year old a high five which he accepted. "Just don't tell Rob about it – he'd be jealous of the fact that he didn't think of it himself."
Curious, the blue eyed child asked, "how did he get you to marry him?"
"He…annoyed and pestered me until I gave in and relented."
"Romantic."
The café/bar owner nodded in agreement. "I thought so, but, anyway, unfortunately, this isn't about me. What exactly were you blackmailing her with?"
"She basically said that you were too old for a skateboard, and we made her realize that the only way we wouldn't tell you is if she married my Dad."
"Old, my ass," Margie growled, looking around the room for the teacher and finding her with her new husband as they shared a conversation with acquaintances. For some reason though, they didn't appear to be a couple, merely friends at the most. "She's on my shit list for that," the brunette declared, taking another generous gulp of her mixed drink. "Did she agree right away?"
"Actually, no, she was going to risk it. In fact," Joaquin added with an innocent giggle, "she actually ran away from us in the store, and we had to follow her around, hinting at the idea of marriage and bullying her into saying yes."
"So I take it the stalker behavior worked then?"
"Not really. When we left the mall, she was still pretty adamant that they wouldn't be getting married, but, by the time I woke up the next morning, she had changed her mind." He lifted his shoulders in a gesture that betrayed his lack of understanding. "I'm not really sure what made her agree."
Hopping off her stool, she quickly spoke. "And that ends your portion of the tale for the evening, thank you little Atwood. Now," the thirty-something directed him, reaching across the bar to hand him a party hat, a party horn, a bag of confetti, and breath mints "take these in case I don't see you again before midnight."
"Why do I need breath mints?"
"Because you're never too young to kick off the New Year with a bang, and, if you're going to have your first kiss tonight, kid, you should at least make sure the girl enjoys it. However, that is all the wisdom I am going to impart to you this evening. Go find your step-monster and make her play pool with you. I need to talk to your Dad."
J walked off happily, listening to her instructions and getting Ryan for her. By the time he reached her side, still drink free, she had already mixed herself another rum and coke and had gotten him a jell-o shot. Without a proper greeting, she demanded, "trouble in paradise already? Are we regretting our decision to run off and get married without consulting me first?"
"What are you talking about?"
"You and your wife," she motioned in Marissa's direction. "I haven't even seen the two of you brush against each other yet."
"We're keeping it a secret," Ryan responded, sheepishly rubbing the side of his face and refusing to meet her gaze.
"Why the hell would you do that?"
"Well, for one," he answered, "her job."
"Horseshit," Margie exclaimed. "That's a load of bull and you know it."
"Are you always this articulate when you're drunk?"
"I'm not drunk yet," she pouted, slurping from her tumbler of alcohol. "I'm merely mellow at this point. But, seriously, who cares what those stick-up-their-asses blowhards on the school board think. They can't tell Marissa who she can and can't be involved with."
"Of course they can't," the blonde agreed with her, "but they can make her life miserable, and it could negatively affect J, especially since she's giving him private lessons. It's five months," he reasoned. "We can handle it. I'd rather talk about you." Nodding towards her hands, he laughed. "You know, AA is not an exclusive club that you try to get into."
"Very funny. What, are we practicing our routine for the Last Comic Standing auditions now?" Rolling her eyes, Margie used the beer in her left hand to point towards the jell-o shot she had prepared for him. "That's not mine; it's for you."
"Thanks but no thanks."
"Your loss," the bar owner announced, leaning down and picking up the plastic cup with her teeth before sucking out the alcohol enriched fruity snack and slurping it out.
"Impressive," Ryan teased her. "You take jell-o shots like a sorority girl, and you've also learned the value of a shooter when you're drinking hard liquor. Your drinking technique has improved since last year."
"Shooter?"
"The beer," he responded.
"Oh this," she held up the bottle and took a sip. "It's not mine. I'm just holding it for Rob."
"But you just drank some."
"Holding fees," Margie remarked as if it was the most obvious answer in the world. "However, despite the fact that I find our conversation discussing my route to Betty Ford to be enthralling, I want to hear more about this proposal/wedding/honeymoon. I cut J off just as he was telling me that your newly issued wife initially refused your proposal but changed her mind during the night. I didn't need any more eight year old euphemisms for sex, so spill."
Taking a seat beside her at the bar, he reached over the top and grabbed a bottle of water, ignoring his older friend's disapproving glare. "It's nothing as sordid as that dirty mind of yours is coming up with. It was actually Joaquin who made her change her mind."
"But, yet, he's unaware of this fact?" Her incredulous tone belied the fact that she didn't believe his statement.
"On our way home, he fell asleep and ended up cuddling into her side, and I think it made Marissa feel not only wanted but needed in his life as well as mine. It made her realize that my son loves her as more than just his teacher or his friend."
"She's the mother to him that Theresa never was," the brunette agreed, suddenly sounding much more sober than she actually was. "That's really quite disgustingly touching. I think I'm going to hurl."
"No," Ryan teased her, "that would be the alcohol poisoning kicking in."
"Psh, you wish, Atwood," she returned, chuckling, "because if I was sick, I wouldn't be able to demand details about the wedding."
"There's really not that much to share."
"Then make something up," Margie snapped. "I've been waiting for a week to hear about this, so I'm expecting to be reduced to tears, laughter, and nausea."
"It was pretty simple actually," the landscaper confessed. "We got our marriage certificate before we flew out, so, technically we were already married, but, when we got down to Mexico, we had a civil ceremony that was performed by a judge."
"Tell me about the clothes?"
"I wore khakis and a dress shirt."
"No, not you," she dismissed, annoyed. "What did your wife wear?"
"A dress," Ryan replied easily.
"You are such a man," the mother of three glowered at her younger friend. "How many times do I have to say it? Give me details!"
Instead, he pulled out his wallet. "Why don't you just look at the picture and see for yourself."
"You're a dipshit," Margie exclaimed, smacking him upside the head. "Why didn't you just show me that to begin with?"
The blonde shrugged. "You didn't ask for to see it."
"And how was I supposed to know that you were carrying around your wedding picture in your wallet like a little, henpecked bitch."
"You know, I'm not sure if I like drunk Margie."
"What are you talking about," she furrowed her brow at him. "She's absofuckinglutely fabulous."
"Anything else you need to know?"
"This was really was a simple affair, wasn't it," she asked rhetorically, handing him back the photo. "Did you have flowers?"
"Marissa carried a bouquet," he replied, "but don't ask me what kind of flowers they were."
"First dance?"
He shrugged in dismissal. "We didn't have a reception. Seth, the hotel owner, offered to sing a song about shins for us, but, as soon as he said he felt more comfortable with his higher range, we turned him down."
This time the older woman giggled for several moments, only stopping to take a drink of her rum and coke before cackling some more. "Do you mean a song by The Shins?"
"How the hell am I supposed to know," Ryan asked of her. "And, anyway, what kind of band name is that?"
"Sorry it's not as cool as Journey," the thirty-something wife and mother taunted him. "Please tell me you at least had cake. Marie Antoinette died for your right to eat cake."
"Your view on world history is frightening skewed. As for cake though," the golf course manager sighed, "we had something Seth called 'Wedding Pudding.'" When she went to inquire more about the dessert, he stopped her." Don't ask, because, trust me, you don't want to know."
Whining, Margie pressed, "can I at least hear about your honeymoon, and, please, don't tell me that there really isn't much to say about it either?"
"We're not talking about my sex life."
She protested and showed her displeasure by huffing dramatically. "Why not?"
"Because you always end up talking about your own, and, frankly, that disturbs me."
"But my sex life is more interesting than yours," the mother of three contended, "especially since, for a while there, yours didn't exist outside of a few tissues and a bottle of lotion."
Warningly, the blonde started, "Margie…"
"Fine," she kicked at his barstool, insinuating that he needed to leave her alone, "if you won't talk to me, I'll just ask Marissa. She, unlike you, is not a prude. Go make sure your son hasn't found the Cuban cigars I have hidden in the back for later and send your wife to me."
"What, are you not even getting up from that seat all night?"
"I happen to like this chair, thank you very much," she declared cantankerously. "Besides, it's close to the bar, and it affords me a complete view of the room. If you have a problem with it, don't let the door hit you where the good lord split you."
"You seriously did not say that, did you?"
Without replying, Margie simply turned her back to him and made herself another drink, opting for a fuzzy naval instead of a rum and coke. By the time she was finished, Ryan had disappeared into the crowd, and she perused her party, watching her friends as they enjoyed themselves, and chair danced until the young teacher she had befriended six months before joined her. Thankfully, because both her levels of patience and sobriety were low, it didn't take long for the blonde to join her.
"Hey, Ryan said you wanted to see me. What did you need?"
"You run off, elope, and that's all you have to say to me," the mother of three questioned her younger friend, astonished by the newlywed's nonchalance.
"It's not that big of a deal," Marissa argued. "Plus, it's not like you just found out tonight. J said he wrote you a letter the first day we were in Cabo. In fact, I helped him mail it so that it got to you before Christmas."
"Why wasn't I invited?"
"Because it's not eloping," the twenty-four year old pointed out, "if you plan ahead and invite guests. Besides, I love you, but there was no way you were going to be within a hundred miles of me while I was on my honeymoon. I hate to break it to you, but you're not so good with boundaries."
"Limitations are for amateur proletarians," the brunette announced, leaning forward when she spoke in an attempt to look her friend in the eye. She and the booze couldn't do it. "I don't restrict myself that way."
"How can you use words such as proletarian when you can't even focus your eyes?"
"It has taken me years of practice and dedication to become a sophisticated drunk. Not everyone can pull it off. However," Margie drawled on, smiling devilishly, "I think we should backtrack here slightly. Did you say something about a honeymoon?"
"Yeah…so?"
"That's what I want to hear about," she declared. For the first time that night, she put her drinks down, folded her hands primly in her lap, and sat eagerly waiting for Marissa to speak. "And don't leave out any of the details. I'm talking like play-by-play instructions from a porn director."
"See, that's what I mean," the third grade teacher pointed out. "That's kind of creepy."
"I was just kidding! If you're going to be such a prude about it," the mother of three rolled her eyes, "I'll settle for the soft porn version."
Sighing, Marissa relented…somewhat. "Our honeymoon was amazing, if you must know," she confessed. "Although the hotel J chose was slightly…odd…"
"Eccentric," the older woman suggested by interrupting.
"Alright, eccentric then," the blonde agreed, "but it was nice, because it wasn't busy, and the owner was great about hanging out with Joaquin and giving Ryan and I opportunities to be alone together."
"I heard," the café/bar owner admitted, wiggling her eyebrows. "What was it again, napping and testing out the springs on the mattresses?"
"Where did you hear that?"
Margie smirked, pleased with herself after hearing the younger woman's snappish tone. "It doesn't matter." Getting the conversation back on track, she wiggled her eyebrows, pressing for more information. "So, how many times?"
"You're just going to have to use your imagination, because I'm not telling you. This conversation is over," Marissa declared, standing up and moving away from the tipsy businesswoman.
"Wait, wait," the mother of three stopped her. "Have you seen my husband anywhere? We need to compare notes. I told him I'd fill him in on all the details I could wrangle out of you, Ryan, and Joaquin."
"I think he said something about going into the back where the strippers, coke, and cock fighting were."
"Oh, please, nice try," Margie laughed, waving her hand to rebuke her friend's teasing comments. "The first two things I could understand – after all, it is New Year's Eve – but you've got to remember that I'm an animal activist. You should have come up with something I'd actually believe."
"Have another drink," the teacher instructed. "I think you need it. You're starting to sound a little unpolished again.
"I'll drink to you and Mrs. Cooper," the older woman declared, raising her still half full glass and winking. "Salute!"
Even if his wife had refused to count the number of times they had made love since getting married, Ryan wasn't shy, and he knew exactly what round they were currently on – lucky number nineteen. After dropping J off at Margie's (Rob had graciously offered to keep the little boy so that the newlyweds could continue their honeymoon for at least one more night, they had returned to Marissa's, the house they had decided upon making their home, to spend another glorious evening in bed, and, if he had anything to say about it, they would be doing little sleeping. Unlike some men, the knowledge that he was married only seemed to increase the young father's desire for his wife, and, although Ryan was unsure why he was so lucky to feel that way, he was going to enjoy his newfound sense of sexual and emotional satisfaction for as long as it lasted.
Much to Margie's dismay, they had left the party before midnight, opting to be at home to share their first kiss of the New Year and away from prying eyes. Normally, he enjoyed the annual bashes, but, as he watched the black silk of his wife's dress flutter rhythmically to the hardwood floor of their bedroom, he was perfectly content, in that moment, to never go to another party again for the rest of his life.
She stood there before him beautifully innocent despite her barely there and utterly hypnotic lingerie. With a simple, unadorned, lace up black corset and matching thong, garter belt, dark hose, and heels that sent erotic, indecent fantasies immediately to his mind and all his blood south to his already aroused form, she was, simply stated, his every desire actualized. A small, almost shy smile illuminated her gorgeous face, and Ryan knew that, despite his many declarations of love and sheer inability to remove his eyes from her face and body whenever they were in the same room, she was still tentative when it came to taking control while they were making love and seemed almost doubtful of her effect upon him. The good thing was that they would be able to eradicate her uncertainties with constant attention and practice.
"Come here," he whispered huskily to her, crooking his finger and inviting her to join him by their bed. After erotically removing her shoes, she moved eagerly as if drawn to him. "Do you know how hard it was for me not to touch you tonight," Ryan confessed, reaching his own hands up to unbutton his shirt, never once breaking their intense eye contact. "Not being able to tell the world that you're mine and that I'm yours is going to kill me."
"It won't kill you," his wife corrected him with an adorably cheeky smile. "It might hurt and it cause you pain, but, as soon as we're alone, I promise to make it feel all better."
"And how are you going to that?"
"Like this," Marissa responded, pushing his dress shirt off his broad shoulders and, without watching or waiting for it to fall, immediately lowered her mouth to drop wet, hot, intoxicating kisses upon his sculpted chest. While she continued to rain her assault upon his blissfully overwhelmed senses, he finished undressing himself, letting his pants and boxer-briefs descend to the floor.
Her lips felt amazing on his skin, but he wanted her closer. Without any warning, he stepped backwards, separating them briefly to collapse onto the bed, snaking an arm around her tiny waist and twirling her around to sit on his lap, her back firmly pressed up against his abdomen. "Much better," he declared, smiling at the sound of her gasp that filled the room as soon as she felt how much she had stirred him. Letting his own lips find the exposed skin of her neck, he sucked on the delicate flesh, marking her as his own. At the same time, his hands wandered to the laces of her lingerie, untying them so slowly, she never noticed what he was doing.
"I want to hold you like this while I make love you to," he confessed, dropping the unbound material of her corset to the floor. Marissa merely nodded in acceptance, acknowledgement, acquiescence. "Lift your left leg for me, baby," he persuaded her, running his fingers lightly down her side, passed her hips, and to the point where they met the silk of her stockings. When she complied, he slid the sheer material down her silky smooth, lithe leg, glorying in the feeling of her skin underneath his calloused digits. He could get drunk off simply touching her. "Now the right," Ryan practically pleaded, needing her to be naked as soon as possible.
Once her hose were removed, she remained in nothing but her fragile thong and garter belts, and, with just a slight bit of coaxing, his hips pushing up into hers, she lifted her round, firm derrière off his lap and allowed him to strip off her last vestige of her modesty, baring herself to him both physically and emotionally. As she came back down to sit upon him, he positioned himself to enter her, and, in a fluid, seamless motion, they were joined as one. She felt like ecstasy.
Their vulnerable, naked forms moved as one with a gracefulness only the most intimate of lovers can achieve, rocking their bodies in unison and climbing ever higher as each wave of rapture crashing over them progressed. With his arms wrapped around her, Ryan cradled her right breast in his left hand, caressing it, massaging it, possessing it, and let the fingers of his right slip between her parted, glistening legs to touch her very essence and to manipulate her bead of passion. His lips, once again, found their way to her velvety skin as they danced across her jaw, down her shoulders, and over her regal neck and back.
"If I could, I would stay in this moment forever," Ryan confessed, nudging his wife's ear and licking the pulse point below it. "Just you and me always connected this intimately for the rest of our lives."
He could feel the change his words invoked in her supple, well loved body. She became relaxed, melted into him, and, finally, gave into the passion they were sharing with one another and found her release, triggering his as they fell off a precipice of pleasure together. Physically exhausted and, suddenly, finding that he needed to hold his wife even closer, Ryan gently slowed the pace of their still moving bodies until they both simply stilled and embraced the other. Still connected, he pulled her down to lay beside him on their bed, wrapping his arms around her torso and his legs through hers.
After several leisurely and quiet moments, their breathing settled into a normal pace, and he nuzzled her neck delicately, placing a single kiss on her nape. "I've been thinking about something a lot lately," he confessed, his voice still deep and rough with the final reminder of the devastating orgasm he had just experienced.
"Hm," Marissa sighed, perfectly content and already drifting off to sleep.
"What do you think about children?"
Before Ryan could take back his question or explain, he felt her become rigid in his arms, separate their bodies, and pull away from him. "You have a healthy son, a namesake. You should be happy with that."
Ignoring the warning signals firing at rapid pace inside his mind, he pressed. "But don't you want to experience having a baby together as a couple?"
"I don't want children," his wife announced, her tone firm, unyielding, and suddenly hollow. "End of discussion. Now, if you'll excuse me, there's some work I need to do."
"Marissa," he argued, sitting up and moving to chase after her, "wait, we need to talk about this. You can't just walk away."
But she did, and, despondently, Ryan climbed out of bed, put his clothes back on, and, without a word to the woman he had made his bride eight days earlier, left.
As he walked up to and entered Wired an hour, eleven minutes, and exactly forty-three seconds after his wife had turned away form him and decreed with finality that they would not have any children, Ryan knew that it was well past midnight and that most of the party-goers had gone home. Those who remained were Margie, her husband, and their closest friends and family members. Even though he knew his good friend would not be in sound enough mind or body to offer him advice, for some reason, he found himself going to the café/bar anyway, simply wanting the company of kind, warm people who had seen him through some of the hardest times in his life.
"We're clossss….closssseee, we're not open," he heard Margie announce as he pushed open the door and entered the neighborhood establishment. When he didn't leave immediately, she turned around. "Oh," the older woman was surprised. "It's you. I thought you went home to shag your wife."
"Shag?"
"What can I say," the brunette shrugged in admission, "I like guys with accents, so I watch a lot of British movies. You still haven't told me what you're doing here."
The mother of three who was astonishingly still on her feet and functioning sat at her trusty bar mixing even more drinks to take into the back where there was an intense and hilarious poker game occurring. Because he had become a father at such a young age, Ryan had never experienced the true sense of underage partying or college drunkenness, but even he recognized several of the drinks she was making. There were daiquiris, martinis, margaritas, screw drivers, Long Island iced teas, cosmopolitans, sex on the beach, and various bottles of beer, hard liquor, and champagne. There was no way he would be able to stay there and play cards with them without getting drunk; he could tell that Margie simply wouldn't allow it.
Taking a deep breath, Ryan spoke slowly. "Marissa and I, we…had a difference of opinions."
"You fought?"
"Not really." The landscaper wrinkled his brow in uncertainty. "It was…I just said something, she disagreed with me, and then she walked away. End of story."
Stopping with her bartending duties, Margie met his gaze. "What was this all about though?"
Ryan shrugged, shoved his hands in his trouser pockets, and mumbled. "She doesn't want to have any children together."
"And I take it by your sad kicked puppy dog routine, you do?" His silence was the only answer the older woman needed. "You know, this might a crazy idea, but don't you think this should have been something you talked about BEFORE you got married?"
"I just assumed…," he paused, realizing what he had just said, "and, before you saying anything, I know – you, me, ass."
"No thank you," Margie quipped, impressing him that she could still make jokes despite being completely sloshed.
"Do you have any advice for me?"
"Advice on how to make your wife talk to you or how to get your wife to want to have children," she questioned him.
"The latter," the blonde requested. "She'll talk to me again. It's not as if she's mad – just scared, I think."
"So you want me to give you a guide on how you can convince Marissa to let you knock her up? I'm sorry," the mother of three apologized, "but I can't do that. Just like guys have a code, so do women, and that goes against every rule in ours. However, I'll tell you this much, you should talk to my husband."
"How can Rob help me with this?"
"He knows the secrets," the businesswoman confessed. "In fact, he invented something called Margie's Model to Motherhood. Help me carry these pitchers of drinks to the back," she negotiated with him, "and I'll convince Rob to let me play a round or two of his cards while he talks to you."
The doubt Ryan was feeling was evident in his voice as he asked, "are you sure about this?"
The brunette laughed. "What do you have to lose at this point?"
Five minutes later, he found himself standing in a dark, smoke filled corner of the back room of Wired talking in hushed, private tones with Rob Miller, a man Ryan had known for years, had always liked and gotten along with, but had never been relatively close to.
"At least Marissa wasn't afraid of marriage, too," the older man chuckled, casting a quick glance at his wife who was, amazingly, winning her hand of poker with his cards. "Margie absolutely refused my proposals three times, but, after the final rejection, I took matters into my own hands."
"What did you do?"
"I got her pregnant," he confessed proudly. "I knew she'd marry me if we were going to have a baby together."
"Yeah, but Marissa and I are already married," Ryan argued. "How is this going to help me?"
"Do you think that Margie wanted to get pregnant," Rob continued. "If she didn't want to marry me, she flat out snubbed me whenever I brought up kids at that point, so I did what any desperate man would do. I poked holes in our condoms."
The younger man blinked rapidly several times in an attempt to take in the information. "You what?"
"I poked holes in our condoms," Rob repeated. "And look at us now – happily married with three kids."
"I couldn't do that to Marissa."
"Suit yourself, but it would work."
"Yeah, and I would end up divorced," the blonde contended.
"I don't know, man," Rob maintained. "All I know is that the model is full proof. If you need any more help, let me know, but, for now," he motioned towards the poker table, "let's have some fun and take your mind off it. Margie," he called out to his wife, "pour Ryan a drink."
As he sat down at the table with a dozen adults he knew to varying degrees, the newlywed found himself thinking long and hard about the advice Rob had given him. Margie's Model to Motherhood – it would work, but could he do that to his wife?
