“Hello? Tor?” A very beautiful, extremely pregnant white woman hovers at the edge of the backyard, nervous hands clutching her purse strap.
Tor’s halfway across the yard before my brain can think,Surprise!
“Renata! What are you doing here?” He puts a comforting arm around her, sweeping her away from us. It would look unintentional if I didn’t know Tor, the king of premeditated actions.
Tobin’s head swivels between our new guest and Marijke’s kitchen. He caught on fast, like he, too, suspected this day would come.
“I’m sorry to disturb your meeting,liebchen,but I couldn’t check in to the hotel. The credit card…” She tries to smile, lips trembling. “They wouldn’t hold the room, and your phone must be on silent. Oh, horrible pregnancy hormones, it’s not worth crying.…” She flaps a hand at her flooding eyes, leaning into Tor’s chest.
Oh no.
“What. Is. This.” Marijke stands at the kitchen door.
Tor’s got his hands on the woman’s shoulders, ready to spin her out of his arms, but it’s too late. She looks up at Marijke, all apology. “Excuse me, so sorry to intrude. I’m Renata. Tor’s fiancée. Please carry on, I just need to borrow Tor for one minute.” I hope she’s not as young as she looks—twenty-five, maybe?
Tobin comes to stand behind me, his breathing quick and sharp, fingers trembling as they sneak around my shoulders.
“How canshebe your fiancée, whenIam your wife?” Marijke storms to the table, carrying a cake frosted to resemble breasts in a frilly bikini. The icing matches her outfit.
“Common-law,” Tor points out.
“Common. Law.Wife,” Marijke shoots back. “We never agreed to separate. You never even asked!” She slams the cake down on an ill-placed serving spoon.
The platter cracks cleanly across the spoon. The boobs lift and separate, flying to opposite sides of the patio.
Marijke’s baking was my reward for enduring this supposedly joyful event. Now the boobs have paid the ultimate price, and I have nothing left to lose.
Renata’s game smile wobbles. “Tor, darling. You aren’t married?”
“Of course not,liebchen,” he says, stroking her belly, buffed nails glowing under the fairy lights. “A misunderstanding only.”
Marijke seizes the fish platter, hurling the contents at Tor with a Valkyrie battle scream. This scene is awful, but that scream is excellent. I want to bookmark it.
“Misunderstanding, huh? Every time you promised to come home!”
She wings a handful of tomatoes. Her aim is terrifying; Tor takes a cluster bomb of deliciousness across his Hawaiian shirt.
“Every time you begged me for money.”
Eesh, there goes the hummus.
“Every time you promised to be a father to your only child!”
The pitcher of margaritas with ice. Lots and lots of ice.
“I should have listened to Liz when she said I was stupid and deluded.”
Tobin’s body jerks like he’s been shot.
“I never said that!”
“Didn’t you?” Marijke shouts. “Didn’t everybody?” Panting, beet-red, she looks from Tobin, clutching me like I’m a piece of flotsam in the North Atlantic, to Renata, hands curled protectively around her belly. “How many children, Tor? Not just these two, I imagine.”
Silence.
“Well.” Marijke props her fists on her hips, surveying the damage. “Not one more minute. Not one more minute of my life, or my son’s life. You may get off my property. You’ll hear from my lawyers.”
A slice of salmon peels off Tor’s shoulder, landing with a splat on the driveway.
