Chapter 7

“There’s a line at that wedding chapel,” George points out.

“No way.” But he’s right. A woman with a beehive hairdo and a sweater set is leaning out of the drive-up window, presumably officiating at the union of the happy couple in the back seat of an idling taxi, while a couple in matching Santa hats waits their turn behind them in a red convertible.

“I guess when it’s time, it’s time,” I muse.

George shrugs and guides us back onto the highway.

My turn to settle in. I slouch into my seat and kick off my shoes. “It’s noon,” I announce, reading the dashboard clock. “So what is it from here, like six hours?”

“Little less, maybe. I think it’s like four hundred miles.”

“You’ll be home in time for dinner.”

He nods. Sighs. From what I’ve seen of him over these last couple days, he doesn’t seem like the kind of guy whose morale would flag at the prospect of a home-cooked holiday meal, but he’s not exactly buzzing with anticipation.