CHAPTER 43
“At least it was only your pride that got hurt,” Lary consoles Howard who is sitting on her toilet seat while she stands on a step stool painting her bathroom a nice warm café au lait shade.
At the yacht club the day before, it seemed to take forever for Stan to pull the poor, soaked sailor back to shore. And the crowd of tittering onlookers didn’t help. Apparently, they were more than amused it wasn’t them who had ended up in the bay, when the boom came about in a starboard tack while deep in the throes of admiring the right earlobe of a certain female sailor.
“Sharon will never speak to me again,” Howard moans, draining his martini.
Lary dips her brush in the paint. “Well, then, she just wasn’t good enough for you in the first place. Whoops, I got some on the ceiling. Hand
