My aunt yelled back, "Forgetyourshoes!Minewere Jimmy Choos!"
My uncle said, "You mean the guy in our bridge club?"
"Oh, for God's sake," my aunt hissed. "That's JimmyWoo. The banker." Under her breath, she muttered, "Oh, forget it." Returning to the phone, she said, "So when you get the bill, I suggest you pay it, pronto."
And with that, she hung up.
That was fine by me. She could rant all she wanted. I couldn’t – and wouldn't – be paying for her shoes.
Cripes, I could barely afford cheap shoes for myself, much less shoes for someone else, especially the kind that would set me back a small fortune. I was just tucking my phone back into my purse when something made me pause.
It was the sound of music – violins maybe? – coming from somewhere down the hall. As I listened, it became louder, until a moment later, the conference door swung open, and a trio of musicians playing – yup, violins – sauntered into the room, followed by Derek, holding a bouquet of red roses.
As they all approached, I eyed them with growing trepidation. I didn't know what exactly was going on, but I did know that I wanted no part of it.
