Chapter Four

Angela and Tony sat in silence on the cab ride to the train station, and continued in silence at the ticket window. Thought that was more out of exhaustion and lingering noise-sensitive headaches than any real discomfort. They clung to each other by the hand as they waited in line and then boarded their train, fearful of losing each other in the shuffle of the busy station.

As their train sat on the tracks, preparing to depart, the conductor happened to make his way through business class. The bespectacled, pleasant-faced man in his stately grey cap and vest smiled and waved at his passengers, stopping to doff his cap at a group of children. Then, his eyes fell on Tony and Angela, and his smile disappeared. "Oh no, not you two again!" the conductor spat at them with a look of revulsion.

"Have we met, sir?" a bewildered Angela asked.

"You were on my route from Fairfield to Niagara night before last-I'm not surprised you don't remember! You two didn't have eyes, ears, or other parts for anyone but each other." He didn't seem to find their antics anywhere near as adorable as the hotel receptionist had. "At least you had the decency to climb out of your fiancé's lap when I asked you to. Though you didn't have the decency to do so the first time around, when the attendant asked you to." He turned to Tony, lips curled in disgust. "And as for you, I finally had to dump a glass of ice water over your head to get you to show a little restraint! You know, I expect that sort of behavior from a couple of horny teenagers—I don't enjoy it, but sadly I've learned to expect it. But from two mature adults of your age, I'd hope for some basic decorum! So help me, if you put me through another trip like that one, I'm dumping you in the wilderness where you can find your own way home or get eaten by a pack of wolves, as you like!"

Her cheeks on fire with shame, Angela opened her mouth to apologize. But before she could actually do so, Tony insinuated himself between her and the conductor. "Ay-oh, pal! I don't care who you are—the conductor, the CEO, or the goddamn president of the United States. You don't talk to my wife that way." Tony jabbed the guy in the chest with his index finger.

The conductor faltered. "Your wife, now, you say?" His bespectacled face regained a little of its former jolliness. "Last time, you were bragging about her being your fiancée. So, you two were on your honeymoon, then?"

"Yeah," Tony admitted, a bit sheepishly. "Not much of one, but still..."

The conductor nodded knowingly. "I hear you. My wife and I couldn't spare much time for a honeymoon after we got hitched, either. We spent a weekend at a cabin in the Catskills, then it was back to business as usual. Working overtime to pay off the wedding." He actually cracked a smile at the memory. "It's hard, finding time to spend alone, when you're just starting out together, isn't it?"

"Especially with two kids at home," said Angela, not realizing she'd said the words aloud until they were already out of her mouth.

"I can imagine. The wife and I stopped at one, and trying to get a few minutes to ourselves still feels impossible." He gave Tony a friendly pat on the back. "I guess I can see how it might have been easy to lose your head, especially with a lady as beautiful as this one." He tipped his cap to Angela. "Sorry, ma'am. I meant no disrespect, truly. I'm just trying to do my job. There are kids on board, and it's my responsibility to keep things around here respectable."

"Thanks, pal. That's big of you." Tony eyed the man's pot belly like he was thinking of turning the compliment into a pun. Angela was relieved when he didn't go through with it. "And we're very sorry for making a scene before. We'll behave ourselves this time around, I promise."

Angela tried not to be disappointed by Tony's promise. "Yes. My apologies as well. We didn't mean to be disruptive."

"All right. Apology accepted. And congratulations." The conductor shook both their hands and continued up the aisle.

Tony settled into the aisle seat, leaving her the window seat, his sturdy frame blocking her from the view of the other passengers who had been eavesdropping on the conductor's tirade. She wasn't sure whether it had been a conscious gesture, but whether it had been or not, Angela took great relief in cowering behind him. She placed her aching head on his shoulder, and she let her eyes fall blissfully shut, knowing she could trust him to wake her when they got close to home so that she wouldn't be groggy when they disembarked. He'd done it on their vacation to Mexico and every family car trip, knowing what a heavy sleeper she was. God, this man is a better husband unintentionally than my last one was with years of concerted effort, was her last bittersweet thought before she nodded off.

Tony found himself immeasurably relieved when Angela slumped against his shoulder and her breathing evened out, indicating she'd fallen asleep. She was a heavy sleeper, and always disoriented when she first woke up. If he was lucky, maybe she'd be too groggy to remember his outburst to the conductor when she finished with her nap. He knew he'd been out of line, jumping in the guy's face and yelling out to the entire car that she was his wife, but, well, it was technically the truth. For the moment, at least, she was his, he was hers, and her honor was his to defend.

That was something he'd fantasized about having for a long time. He knew she was a tough babe and could look out for herself, but there had been more than a few times over the course of their friendship that he'd found himself wishing it were his place to step in and help. Hell, it had started the night they'd met, when he'd tried to defend her from that scummy boss of hers, who'd been mauling her on the kitchen floor. Marone a mi, for such a bigshot, Grant had been woefully lacking in good manners. Would it have killed him to find his girl a proper bed? There had been a perfectly cozy one right upstairs. He might have at least been considerate enough to ravish her on a floor that was carpeted!

Then there had been their first date. Well, her date with that jerk Mitch, that he'd commandeered for a short, enjoyable time. That guy had had a lot of nerve, showing up hours late and still expecting to be fed and entertained, as if nothing had happened. Mitch hadn't been nearly contrite enough about the whole affair, and Tony had wanted to give the guy a piece of his mind. But it hadn't been his place to do so. It had been his place to smile politely and serve dinner, and so that was what he'd done. Though it had been something of a comfort when he'd noticed Angela wasn't having anywhere near as fun with her date as she'd had with her housekeeper.

The next time had come during her dinner party for the new head honcho at Wallace and McQuade. That punk Jim Peterson had been completely shameless, spreading his disgusting, ridiculous lies about such a fine woman. And in her own home, no less. Even though Tony had known he was crossing a line he shouldn't, and that he was putting his job at risk, he hadn't been able to contain his rage. Hurling that scrawny bastard into the thorny hedge had been one of the most satisfying moments of his life, despite everything that had come after.

Ugh. And his first meeting with Michael. The guy had been Mitch, multiplied by a thousand. Waltzing into the house after a year with no contact, and expecting to pick up where he'd left off. Like his family were no more than objects that existed solely to welcome him home when he felt like having some company, and then bid him goodbye again when he got sick of looking at them. Angela wasn't a slab of bacon to be placed on ice, and neither was Jonathan. Tony had done his best to be polite to the guy, but he'd wanted nothing more than to toss him into the same damned hedge where he'd thrown Peterson. He'd been weirdly disappointed when Michael had graciously reached out and rehired him before leaving Oak Hills Drive for good, robbing Tony of the chance to tell him off without looking like a complete lunatic.

Worst of all had been the hullabaloo surrounding Tony's campaign for president of the Parents' Association. He'd longed to scream in the faces of every last one of those dirty-minded gossips that Angela Bower didn't need to have some gigolo on retainer to service her sexually. Merciful God above, had any of them bothered to look at her? The woman was drop-dead gorgeous. If she needed a man, she could easily have one for free at any bar in town.

And the less said about Jake the Snake, the better. If only he'd had the right to put his foot down and tell that greasy slimeball to step off when he'd showed up at their door, Angela could have been spared the hell that was her date with said reptile. And Tony could have been spared the humiliation of being caught trying to run to her rescue like a jealous husband. At least he'd been able to save her from the cockroach that had turned up after she'd handled Jake. Small consolation, but it had been a consolation, nonetheless.

Tony wasn't a complete fool. Despite Angela's nighttime hallucinations a few months back, he knew he wasn't any kind of man she'd pick out for herself in the light of day. He was a joke as a provider. He couldn't give her financial security, gifts or grand gestures, or any of the fancy things she deserved. He sure as hell couldn't give her a name to be proud of, and he didn't come with any kind of prestige. And she most certainly couldn't brag about him to any of her upscale friends and colleagues.

But he did have big muscles and an even bigger mouth. He could, and would, keep her safe. For however long it took that high-priced lawyer to weasel her out of the mess they'd gotten themselves into, she was his to protect. And his to love. He wasn't dumb enough to admit it to her, but heaven help him, he was dumb enough to admit it to himself. And to secretly enjoy every last, all-too-short, minute of this sham.

It was after ten by the time their cab picked them up at the train station back home, and almost eleven by the time they reached the front door. They had spent the entire drive from the station reassuring one another that the kids would surely be asleep and Mona off with some guy at such a late hour, now that they had been notified that their loved ones were safe and on their way home. When they exited the cab, Tony and Angela let out simultaneous groans at the sight of lights on in every room of their home.

"What are we going to do?" Angela squeaked, clutching his arm tightly.

"Angela, you're hurting me," Tony protested, wincing as her long, manicured nails dug into the muscles of his forearm. He was starting to understand how he'd wound up covered in claw marks.

"Sorry." She dropped his arm, as if she hadn't realized she was hanging on him.

Tony found himself disappointed. He hadn't wanted her to let go—just to quit stabbing him. Though he'd been the one in danger of losing blood, he felt oddly guilty. She looked so small and frightened, standing there in the driveway, fidgeting nervously. Seeing his temporary wife so afraid felt like an accusation. Mine to protect, he reminded himself as he slipped an arm around her. It was a friendly enough gesture. Not overly familiar, nothing that could cause complications down the road, once the annulment papers were signed, but it seemed to soothe her nerves. She quit fidgeting, anyway. "To answer your question, we're going to do the only thing we can. We're going to walk into our home, get chewed out, and then get on with our lives."

"And never go to a frat party again," Angela added, her voice steely with resolve.

"Yes. Call me a geek, but from now on I'm back to spending my nights in the library or on the couch watching Bonanza with you."

Angela found a sincere smile for him, at that. "I'm with you on that. If you're going to be a geek, at least you're in good company."

"The best." United, they made their way up the driveway, shoulder-to-shoulder, and walked through the front door.

Mona, Jonathan and Samantha were seated around the coffee table, a Scrabble board spread out between them and three mugs of steaming hot coffee set out in front of them. "Mother, really!" Angela admonished. "You gave the kids coffee? They're going to be up all night!"

"Good. With the hours their parents have been keeping these past few days, I think staying up all night has become a necessity." Mona's voice was unusually cold.

Samantha was more forgiving, jumping up and throwing her arms around them both, in tears. Ironically, that only made Tony feel worse, and he could tell from the moisture welling up in Angela's eyes that she felt the same way. "Thank goodness you're okay! I thought I was an orphan for a while, there."

"Better orphaned than having to live with my father and his latest bimbo," snorted Jonathan. "What the holy hell happened to you guys?"

"Ay-oh, watch your language, mister." He allowed Sam and Angela to continue crying on each other's shoulders, while he wagged a finger at his temporary stepson. "I know you're upset, and I don't blame you for being mad at us after the scare we gave you, but I won't have you disrespecting your mom."

The twelve-year-old held Tony's gaze stubbornly for a long moment before finally caving. "I'm sorry, Tony. I just…I just…"

Jonathan's voice started to quaver again, and Tony completely lost his capacity for righteous indignation. Tony gathered the boy he'd come to think of as his own into his arms and patted him on the back. "It's okay. We're sorry we scared everyone. It was…well, it was an accident."

"This I've got to hear," Mona snarked bitterly. Her hands on her hips, her spine ramrod-straight, her head held high and her face stony, she was the very picture of a worried mother. All she needed was a head full of curlers and a frying pan to brandish at them.

"We're still not completely sure what happened. Our working theory is that someone at the party the other night spiked, or possibly drugged, the punch," Angela simplified for them, shepherding Samantha over to the couch and sitting down between Sam and Mona.

"And that made you lose two days?" Mona raised her eyebrows. "Wow, what a couple of lightweights!"

Tony relaxed. When Mona started flinging insults at them, it was a clear sign that they'd been forgiven. He sat down on the arm of the sofa, tacitly ignoring the snotty messes Samantha had left on his shoulder and Jonathan had left on his chest. "We're not as wimpy as you might think. Everyone else at the party was chugging beer, and Angela and I ended up finishing off the entire bowl of punch completely on our own. Whatever was in it, we got a real snootful." He placed an arm around each of the kids, tipping their faces up to his to ensure he had their attention. "I want you two to remember this when your own college years come along. When you're at a party, you need to be smarter than your parents. Stay aware of your surroundings and be careful about what you put in your body. Especially when it's a party hosted by people you don't know well. And try to stay in a group of trustworthy friends who can watch your back." This whole ridiculous fiasco could have been avoided if even one of the other guests had realized how very out-of-character Tony and Angela's behavior had been.

"And please remember how this felt," Angela added. "The way you've been feeling for the past two days is the way we feel every time you kids stay out past curfew or forget to let us know where you are. It's awful, isn't it?"

"I'll say," said Sam, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. "Speaking of which, Jonathan and I have been talking, and we've agreed that you're both grounded."

"We figured," Tony admitted. "The joke's on you, though. We're so sick from whatever it was that we drank, that we'll probably be bedridden for a week."

"It's past your bedtime, both of you. Why don't you go on up to sleep?" Angela suggested. "Or try to," she added, gesturing at the half-finished coffees on the table.

"It was only one cup," Mona defended as Sam and Jonathan trudged wearily up to their rooms. "They didn't want to go to sleep until they saw you in one piece, with their own eyes. And I wasn't going to force them. I did that last night. They both had terrible nightmares, of you two splattered on the hood of a car somewhere. And so did I, for that matter."

"We're sorry, Mother. We really are. We certainly didn't want to be roofied," Angela defended.

"I believe you. And that is the only reason I'm not choking the life out of you both as we speak. Well, that, and the fact that I'm so happy to see you two finally came to your senses and boinked."

"Mother!" Angela screamed in horror.

"Mona!" Tony moaned, burying his face in his hands.

"Oh, come on. Lucky for you, the kids were too worked up to notice, but I'm not so easily thrown off balance. Did you really think I wasn't going to notice that you're covered in hickeys and you've been used as a scratching post?" She took her daughter's hand by the wrist and examined it thoughtfully. "Angela, dear, you really need to get those nails trimmed more often."

The look of abject humiliation on Angela's kicked Tony's protective instincts back into high-gear. "With all due respect and love, Mona, we are not having this conversation with you."

Mona threw up her hands in surrender. "It was intended as a compliment, but it looks like you guys are determined not to take it. What's the matter?" Mona looked to her daughter in sympathy. "After all this time, he wasn't any good, is that it?"

"No!" Angela protested, for which Tony mentally thanked her. He had a reputation to protect.

"Oh." Mona turned to Tony. "So it's her that's the cold fish? What a shame. I guess the apple simply fell too far from the tree."

"Goodnight, Mona," said Tony firmly.

"All right, I'll leave. But you can't kick the truth out of the room so easily," the redhead reminded them surprisingly gently as she made her exit.

And with that, Angela was left alone with her husband. "We should probably go to bed," she said, then wilted when she realized that it had sounded like a proposition. "Sorry, I didn't mean…" Even if she'd been in the mood for some marital action, she was in no shape for it. She was sore all over, and while her headache had cleared up after her nap on the train, her stomach was still furious with her for the hell she had put it through.

"I know," said Tony simply. Making her life easier, like he always did. "But you should probably eat something first."

"I'd rather die, and if you make me eat, I just might," Angela warned him, pressing a hand to her roiling belly.

"I understand." Tony took her hands and pulled her unwillingly to her feet, despite her miserable groan of protest. "Believe me, I do. If there were anything left in my stomach, I'd have been puking the whole way home. But take it from a guy who knows how to party, food and fluids are an important part of recovery from a hangover. Food helps you metabolize the booze, and fluids help you flush it out."

"But the cure sounds even worse than the disease," she grumbled as he led her to the kitchen.

"Like it or not, you need food. I'll make it as painless as possible," Tony coaxed, sitting her at the table and digging through the cupboards. She had to smile at his efforts. He was always looking out for others, even as miserable as he, himself, surely felt. "We'll play it safe with something nice and bland. I'll heat up some chicken soup and dry toast."

Angela rose from her seat and poured them each a tall glass of orange juice. "Let's get started on the fluids, too, while we're at it." She was eager to have this horrible poison—whatever it was—out of her body.

Five minutes later, dinner was served. The two watery bowls of Campbell's chicken soup with rice, typically one of her favorite comfort foods, might have been bowls of manure garnished with thumbtacks, as appetizing as they were. She opted for a bite of toast first, but the normally pleasant crunch felt like biting into a roofer's shingle. Her body simply did not seem to recognize it as food, and the back of her throat contracted in warning. If you put that down here, I'm sending it right back, she could almost hear her insides threatening her. Thinking better of it, she sat the slice of toast aside and braved a small spoonful of clear broth from her bowl.

Tony, for his part, looked just as daunted, nibbling at his own toast like a ninety-year-old man with a new pair of dentures that he didn't fully trust yet. "So, what's our next step?" he asked in a blatant attempt to put off his next bite.

"Next step toward what?" Angela knew full well that he was talking about their upcoming annulment, but she was trying to put off her next bite, as well. And, admittedly, she was in no hurry for the annulment, either. Just what I need, a second failed marriage. No, wait. Technically, it's my third. How very depressing.

"You know. That marriage license stuffed in your purse. Which, by the way, we should really lock up in your office safe before the kids run across it. Or worse yet, Mona." Tony's face lapsed into a truly disturbed thousand-mile stare. Angela didn't blame him. It was bad enough that her mother knew about the…other stuff…they had gotten up to during their disappearance.

"Well, I could call my lawyer tomorrow. He's available around the clock." And for the kind of money she paid him, that was only fair. "But, of course, there's not much he'll be able to do for us on a Sunday, with the courts and all the government offices closed down for the weekend."

"Probably best to wait till Monday, then," said Tony, taking a casual sip of his orange juice.

"Right." Another day of wedded bliss. She nearly smiled at the thought. Then she looked down at the food still waiting for her, and her smile immediately faded.

They finished half their meal, and had to call it a victory. Tony's face had a greyish cast to it that did not belong on human flesh of any kind, and she was sure she didn't look any better. They adjourned to their respective bathrooms, him hitting the showers, her taking a dip in her oversized bathtub, in an effort to put some color back in their cheeks. The results were mixed, at best. In the end, neither of them even made it to bed after putting on their pajamas, before they were hunched over their respective toilets, retching their respective guts out.

Samantha rose around three am, and in her sleepy, disoriented state, nearly stepped on her father's prone carcass on her way to the toilet. He was curled up on the bathmat, a towel tucked under his head, one hand gripping the nearby toilet seat as if to reassure himself that it would be there when he inevitably needed it. The smell of vomit hung heavy in the air. "Dad? Are you okay?"

"No. I don't think I'm gonna make it. Please bury me in a Catholic cemetery," he groaned.

"I'll get right on that," Samantha replied humorlessly. Her nerves were still far too raw from her father's earlier disappearance for that joke to be funny.

To his credit, he realized his mistake quickly. "Sorry, honey. Seriously, though, could you do me a favor?"

"Dad, I have to go to the bathroom!" She didn't want to be a brat, but it was getting urgent.

"Oh. Right." Her father crawled laboriously into the hallway, and curled into a ball on the carpet just outside the bathroom door. "Hurry, though. I could go off again at any minute."

Was that a threat or a promise? Either way, he didn't have to worry. The putrid-smelling room was the absolute last place on earth where she would have wanted to linger. She did her business and washed her hands with the speed of a greyhound whose tail was on fire, and opened the door back up. "It's all yours. Now, what's this favor you need from a growing kid at three am?"

"Nothing major, I promise. I'm just worried about Angela. If she's awake, she's probably in the same shape I am. But if she's asleep, she could be choking to death on her own guts as we speak. Could you just peek in on her and make sure she's okay? Maybe tip her on her side, if she's asleep? I tried to go check on her myself, but I didn't make it much farther than this," Tony admitted shamefully, indicating the bathroom threshold.

That was a fair request, and it wouldn't take long. "Okay." Samantha made her way down the hall and knocked softly at Angela's door. "Angela?" she whispered, not wanting to wake the poor woman after the ordeal she'd apparently had. No answer. She opened the door and stuck her head in. The bed was empty, and did not appear to have been touched since the last time Dad had made it on Thursday morning. The light was on in the adjoining bathroom, the door was ajar, and gagging noises could be heard from within. Uh-oh.

"Angela?" Sam was scared of what she would find, but as the oldest able-bodied person in the house, she felt a responsibility to open the bathroom door and check on the miserable creature inside. She found Angela slumped against the bathroom cabinet in her nightgown. Her face was likely the whitest face in Connecticut at the moment, which was quite a distinction. "Hangover still hanging over?" the girl asked with a bemused giggle. She felt bad for laughing at someone who was so obviously suffering, but the very thought of straitlaced Angela having a hangover in the first place was so inherently hilarious, she couldn't help it.

"Samantha, if you love me, you'll drown me in this toilet bowl and put an end to my suffering once and for all," she pleaded. Her voice was so raspy Sam barely recognized it. Her throat must have been raw from throwing up.

This wouldn't do. Come morning, she and Jonathan would need to shower, and having both of the bathrooms with showers occupied by their ailing parents could cause serious logistical problems. "I'll be right back. Don't go away, huh?"

"I couldn't run for water if I was on fire," the heap of misery on the bathroom floor moaned irritably.

Telling herself how lucky her family was to have her, Sam sleepily climbed the stairs to the attic and dove into the stack of camping gear near the doorway. It was a good thing her father kept the place well-organized, because she didn't have the brainpower for an exhaustive search at this hour. She tossed a couple of sleeping bags and rolled-up foam pads down the attic stairs and then dragged them into Angela's bathroom. Making up a couple of pallets on opposite sides of the toilet, she hauled her incoherent mother figure onto one of them and tucked a pillow under her head. "Stay on your side, Angela," she advised. "You don't wanna choke. That happened to Grandpa Nick once. He ended up with pneumonia, and the hangover.

"Good advice, sweetie. Thanks."

Samantha then returned to her father, propped herself under his arm, and helped him to his feet. "Come on, Dad. You can't crash here. Even if it is an improvement over Pittsburgh."

"I know, but I ain't got it in me to clean vomit out of a carpeted floor, Sam," he groaned, leaning on her heavily.

"Just trust your brilliant daughter." She steered him down the hall to Angela's room. His eyes were watery and half-closed, so he had no choice but to follow. She laid him out on the second pallet. It was a little like watching a blob of grape jelly ooze across a slice of bread. "You two are in no shape to be by yourselves. This way, if one you starts to choke or faint or something, the other one can yell for help." She knew they were in a bad way when neither of them fought her on it. Once she got them settled, she brought them each a sports bottle of cold water, admonished them to drink, and then sprayed the room liberally with air freshener. That was for her sake more than theirs. She brushed off their semi-conscious attempts at thanking her for her help. "Don't worry about it, guys. I'm going back to bed. I'll leave my door open so you can call me if you need anything. And thank you both so much."

"For what?" Tony and Angela croaked in unison.

"For teaching me the benefits of sobriety." And with a motherly, disappointed shake of her head, Samantha was gone.

Angela was left laughing helplessly on the floor, clutching her aching sides in misery, yet again. "Your daughter has your sense of humor, Tony."

"Don't you mean our daughter, wife of mine?" Tony teased with a weak smile.

That was a lovely thought. She'd considered Samantha her own for a long time. It was nice to think of them being an official family, for a little while. Angela leaned into her pillow and reached out to take her temporary husband's cold, trembling hand. "I'll try not to be a wicked stepmother." While it lasted.

There was an audible gurgle from Tony's stomach, and he dropped her hand, coming up on his knees to embrace the toilet yet again. "And I'll try not to leave you a widow!"