in a twelve-step program for bad girls, but she’d done it because she truly didn’t like embarrassing her family. Of course, having her parents threaten to withhold her trust—a cool two and a half mil that was hers on her wedding day—unless she “shaped up” was an incentive.
During that period, her parents had introduced her to G. D. McCormick, a prominent lawyer who was eight years older, sophisticated, with a stellar career as a partner at the prestigious Denver law firm Joffe, Marshall and McCormick. Daphne hadn’t liked him for those attributes, however. He’d had a kick-back side that was fun, lighthearted. Plus, he professed to love her “high spirits.”
When, after dating for a year, he’d asked her to marry him she’d said yes. Maybe she didn’t feel that zap of lightning Mario Puzo wrote about in The Godfather, but that was fiction after all and she was in the real world. Her family was thrilled, her friends were giddy and Daphne was happy and relieved that finally she was on the path.
But the happiness had taken a downward turn six months ago when the state’s top-dog politicos had asked G.D. to be their candidate for governor next year. That’s when G.D. became less kick-back and more kick-ass. Increasingly concerned with his political image, his adoration of her high spirits became criticism of her free spirits. If she’d had a quarter for every time he’d asked her to tone down her wardrobe or her language, she probably could have paid off half the city of Denver’s current budget deficit.
G.D. had even started criticizing her way of walking. Seemed her hips swung too far left and right when she walked. She quipped that she’d swing the way of his political leanings, but he—like her family—wasn’t amused.
Daphne’s high spirits were low ones more and more.
She looked in Ever-After’s dressing-room mirror and fluffed her normally straight dark hair, which was resorting to its natural curl thanks to this morning’s April showers. “When we first dated, G.D. and I used to have spontaneous adventures,” she suddenly said. “We’d grab cheese and bread for a picnic or hop a bus and visit some picturesque spot in Colorado. I’d take my camera and snap photos…” Her voice trailed off.
Cindi, checking something on the hem, looked up. “Politicians can’t afford to be spontaneous. Bad for their image.”
Daphne nodded, taking another bite of licorice. Many nights she’d lain in bed, hoping G.D.—Gordo—would change his mind about running for office. Her life was enough of a fishbowl without being married to a governor.
“Oh, sweetie, don’t look so sad. After the wedding, your lives will settle down. You’ll get into campaigning, learn the ropes about being a politician’s wife.”
“That’s what my mother keeps saying.” Daphne sighed heavily. “But a governor’s wife? Me?”
“My mom said Linda Ronstadt was almost a governor’s wife when she dated Jerry Brown. If a rocker almost did it, shoot, it’ll be a cinch for you.”
“If you’d said Madonna, I’d feel better.”
“Hey, she’s written a children’s book.”
“Let’s hope they don’t mix it up with one of her other books during some kiddie story hour.”
Cindi laughed.
“Seriously,” continued Daphne, “I guess you’re saying there’s hope for Renegade Remington.” But even Daphne heard the lack of hope in her tone, which was starting to sound more like the voice of doom.
Cindi touched Daphne’s arm. “Hey, sweetie, I have an idea. Want to try on some slinky lingerie? Something hot for your wedding night? We just got a shipment of sheer, strappy chemises that are to die for!”
Daphne began slipping out of the wedding dress. “Girlfriend,” she said, forcing herself to sound exuberant, fun—not so long ago she never had to force that attitude—“bring them on!”
A few minutes later, Daphne had doffed her bra and was slipping into a bottle-green silk chemise with black lace trim that hovered seductively at the top of her thighs. “Cool,” she purred, eyeing herself in the mirror.
“Some girls are wearing them with skirts and pants. It’s the new skimpy-chic look.”
“I couldn’t wear it in Denver…”
“Take a trip out of town. Somewhere remote, where no one knows you.”
Anonymity. What a treat it would be to be invisible, a face in the crowd. Nobody watching, judging…
Daphne put on her cargo pants and tucked in the chemise. She looked at her reflection. “The pièce de résistance,” she said, stepping into the lime-green Prada heels that gave her bare calves a nice curve.
“You got it,” Cindi murmured.
“I do, don’t I?” It was fun to let down her guard, to be sassy and playful again. She turned sideways, admiring the effect. “I like dressing in different shades of the same color…some days it’s pink, others all blue. Today felt like a green day.”
“Because it’s April?”
Daphne paused. “Maybe. Spring and new beginnings and all that.”
From the other room, a phone trilled.
Cindi stepped toward the door. “Gotta grab that. Hey, check out the turquoise lace camisole on the lingerie rack.”
“Twist my arm,” teased Daphne, following her out of the dressing room.
As Cindi chatted on the phone, Daphne fingered through the sheer, silky lingerie. Outside the tinted windows, she looked down on Denver’s elegant Detroit Avenue.
Jaguars and Beemers cruised down the road. Across the street thin women sipped espressos at a sidewalk café, their groomed dogs sunning nearby. Baskets of bright spring flowers hung from lamp posts. Everything cultured and sophisticated and perfectly perfect…it was as though she were looking into a glass ball at her future life.
She shivered involuntarily, and had started to turn away when something caught her attention.
An old school bus, painted gray with gold trim, sputtered down the street. On its side in cursive script was painted Maiden Falls Tour Bus in bright red.
Maiden Falls. The former mining town in the Rockies, next to where, in the 1880s, her ancestor Charles had staked his claim, Last Chance. It was now a state-preserved historical site. But despite all his riches, for the rest of his life Charlie swore his happiest days were when he’d been a poor and struggling miner.
And could that have had anything to do with your being camped next to Maiden Falls? Daphne grinned, imagining her four-times-great-gramps, before he found the bride of his dreams, being pretty darn happy camped next to Maiden Falls—the tongue-in-cheek term for the ladies of the evening who’d set up business there. After years of usage, the name had stuck. Maiden Falls was now the official town name, a place filled with quaint shops and a lovely old renovated hotel.
At one time, she and Gordo would have been spontaneous and hopped on this Maiden Falls tour bus for a spur-of-the-moment adventure. He’d always justified these excursions with an old legal saying, “No consideration, no contract.” But what he really meant was hey, if you really
