“I, Cynthia, take you Greg to be my husband, my partner in life and my one true [...]]]> For Greg, the second run-through was much different from the first. He tried to forget about the anonymous call, but couldn’t help wondering if he really knew the beautiful woman who was reciting vows to him.

“I, Cynthia, take you Greg to be my husband, my partner in life and my one true love. I will cherish our union…”

As he looked into her deep blue eyes, his fears began to melt away. The sincerity of her voice was mesmerizing. Noth­ing could harm him. Nothing else mattered.

Then he noticed the necklace. Why hadn’t he seen it be­fore? It looked expensive. He had not given it to her, and he wondered who had. Could it have been a gift from an ex-boy­friend—some guy she had hypnotized like Greg.

Some women like to treat a man like a piece of bubble gum. The poor sap thinks everything’s fine. And it is—until the taste runs out. Then she’ll just spit him out the car window of her life and never look back.

So, what was the worst-case scenario? He would marry her, and then go off to Orlando and enjoy the rides and shows at Disney World. Every night they would make love. Maybe some days they would take a midday nap after some midday sex. Wow! His body ached for her. Whoa. Not a good time to get aroused though.

The wedding would be in two days, on Saturday. They would drive to Dallas, spend their first night together in the Marriott near DFW Airport, and then catch their flight to Orlando the next morning.

Greg decided to forget about the stupid caller.

**********

It was about 7:00 PM, and pitch black. As far as Larry could tell, there was no moonlight at all. The gas pole lamp provided just enough illumination for nighttime barbecuing. But now that his eyes had adjusted to it, he could barely see anything else. His only real point of reference was the light coming from the cabin windows. Without it, he could imagine himself get­ting lost and walking right into Lake Texoma.

He figured the temperature to be around 50 degrees. Proba­bly about average for late February, he thought. He wasn’t wearing a jacket, but felt plenty of warmth from the hot barbe­cue pit.

“Catch any big ones?” A deep voice boomed from some­where out in the darkness.

Larry jumped.

The man’s voice was approaching. “Me and my boys pulled in quite a haul today. I caught me an 8 lb. largemouth bass.”

Larry strained to see the man, but couldn’t. For all he could tell, it could have been a ghost, floating around in the darkness.

“Something smells good.”

A big plaid shirt materialized at his side, and Larry jumped. Then he saw the jeans and the boots, and looked up to see the face. The guy was huge.

“Hi. My name is Jim.” He grabbed Larry’s hand and gave it a bone-crushing shake. “Me and Barb brought my three boys up for a long weekend of fishing. Yeah, I know what you’re think­ing: shouldn’t them boys be in school? Nope. Cause I sent a note to their principal explaining how this is a part of the boys’ education. Know what I mean, Guy?”

“Yeah…sure.”

“Well, the principal didn’t like it. He didn’t like it one bit, and he got all huffy with me. But I told him I didn’t give a durn what he thought. Sure, they gotta learn their three R’s: reading, writing and ‘rithmetic. Everybody knows that. But you gotta have some balance in life. Know what I mean? Gotta have your three F’s, too. You know what the three F’s are?”

Larry could only imagine. “No, I don’t.”

“Fun, fishin’ and fryin.’” He laughed. “Yeah, I made that up. Pretty good, ain’t it? The fun and the fishing go without saying. But you gotta have the frying, ‘cause that’s what we do, Guy. It’s a family tradition. We don’t broil ‘em like you do.” He glanced at the barbecue pit. “But there nothing wrong with broiling, I guess—if that’s what you like.”

Larry had nodded along with everything, hoping the big redneck would soon run out of things to say and leave him alone.

“But that ain’t fish, is it, Guy? I’m sorry—I don’t believe I got your name. That’s just rude of me to keep calling you ‘Guy’.”

“Larry. And no, it’s not fish. It’s…uh…”

“That’s okay. No need to be embarrassed. You must be one of them fellas that likes to fish, but doesn’t like to eat ‘em. You’d rather have a big juicy steak, right?”

“Uh…yeah, that’s right.”

“Probably one of them expensive cuts. Mind if I have a look-see?”

“Uh, no. I mean, yes, I do mind. The uh, particular way I cook my steak…you have to keep the lid closed until right when it’s done. Yeah, because if you don’t, it’ll get tough.”

“I see. Never heard of that. But you might oughta take a look at that thing soon, Larry. Smells like it’s starting to burn.”

“Yeah. Well, I was just about to check it. Thanks for drop­ping by. See you around, Jim.”

“Yep. We’ll probably see you out on the lake tomorrow.” Jim started walking away, then stopped and looked back and said, “But if you catch some you don’t want, no need to throw ‘em back. I’ll take ‘em.” He chuckled.

“Okay, Jim. Thanks.”

Jim started whistling as he walked back toward his cabin. Larry recognized it as the theme to the Andy Griffith Show. He wondered how Jim could see his way back to his cabin. He half expected to hear him yell when he tripped over some stump or armadillo.

Larry watched in satisfaction as the smoke drifted upward, beyond the soft glow of the lamp, into the night. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, he thought. This was one steak that would never cheat on him again.

He had never felt so alive. Putting that sleazy tramp in her place and taking control of his life had cranked up the en­gine of his dark soul. And now, thanks to the close call with Jim, he was drenched in sweaty fear, pedal to the metal, fuel-injectors kicking in hard. What a rush!

**********

Greg, Cynthia and Beverly had decided to catch a ride with Sandy from the church to the rehearsal dinner at Coreyville Pasta House.

As Greg was getting into the front seat with Sandy, he said, “By the way, Baby, that’s a beautiful necklace you’re wearing tonight. I don’t think I’ve ever seen it before.”

“Thanks, Honey. Mom gave me this necklace.”

“I did?” said Beverly.

“Yeah. Remember, it was Aunt Judy’s.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. You gave it to me three or four years ago.”

“Oh. That’s right. Now I remember.”

Greg wondered if Cynthia had winked at her mom to get her to go along with the story.

“I could eat a cow,” said Sandy.

“Would you settle for spaghetti?” said Beverly.

“Sure, that’ll work. As long as they have plenty of that good bread.”

Cynthia was sitting behind Sandy. “So, Greg told you all about the bread, huh? I’m not surprised. The man loves a great loaf of bread.” She put her hand on Greg’s left shoulder. “That reminds me, Sweetie. You told them you’d call when we were on our way.”

“Oh, that’s right.” Greg took out his phone, flipped it open and noticed that he had missed a call. He keyed in the number for the restaurant. “Hi. This is Greg Tenorly and I have reser­vations…that’s right—the wedding party…we’ll be there in five minutes…okay. Thanks.”

Just before Greg closed his phone, he saw that he had a message, so he hit the voicemail button.

You’re not gonna take my advice, are you? You’re gonna marry her anyway. But you’ll be sorry, Man. So sorry.

“Who was the message from?” said Cynthia.

“Nobody. I mean, it was a wrong number.”

“I hate that,” said Sandy. “A couple of weeks ago I had this message from some guy saying his flight had not been delayed after all, and could I please be at the airport by midnight.”

“So, you had to call him back and tell he had the wrong number?” said Beverly.

“I couldn’t—it was an anonymous call.”

“Serves him right for blocking his number,” said Cynthia.

“Yeah,” said Greg. “I want to know who’s calling me.”

“When they do that, I just want to ignore the call,” said Sandy.

I wish I had, thought Greg.

“But then sometimes it’s important,” said Sandy. “So, what can you do? You really can’t take the chance.”

“Just let it go to voicemail every time,” said Cynthia. “That’s what I do.”

“But then you still end up listening to what they have to say,” said Greg. “You’re not likely to just delete the message without listening to the doggone thing.”

“Are you okay, Sweetie?” said Cynthia. “You seem kind of upset.”

Greg changed his tone. “No, uh, I just hope they have the tables set up right.”

“You worry too much, Man,” said Sandy. “Chill.”

Greg wished he could chill. He wished he could enjoy what should have been one of the best nights of his life.

He wished he could rewind the evening and start over.

Without his cell phone.

Greg Tenorly was the luckiest man in the world. The woman of his wildest dreams was standing beside him—at their wed­ding rehearsal. He knew he didn’t deserve her. Any­body could see that. He saw himself as a balding, average-looking 35-year-old. Cynthia was a strikingly [...]]]> Book Three of the Greg Tenorly Suspense Series
(Four-chapter excerpt)

Greg Tenorly was the luckiest man in the world. The woman of his wildest dreams was standing beside him—at their wed­ding rehearsal. He knew he didn’t deserve her. Any­body could see that. He saw himself as a balding, average-looking 35-year-old. Cynthia was a strikingly beautiful 30-year-old redhead. He wouldn’t have been surprised if Cupid himself had flown in to break up the crazy mismatch.

But Cynthia saw something in Greg she couldn’t resist. Something she should have looked for in the eyes of her first groom. Troy was a rugged, handsome man. Nothing wrong with that. But he was also an abuser. And all the love he’d ever given her meant nothing after that first brutal slap across the face. Then came the boozing and hitting and steady barrage of obscenities.

So, this time around Cynthia was looking for something dif­ferent. Greg was kind and thoughtful and funny. And regardless of what Greg thought, she did find him attractive—even on their first meeting. And the more she got to know him, the more attractive he became. She wasn’t marrying him just because he was a nice guy. She truly had the hots for him.

It was Thursday night, 6:20 PM. Greg and Cynthia were finishing up a run-through of the ceremony at First Bap­tist Church, Coreyville, where Greg was part-time music di­rector. They were well on their way to happily ever after. Every­thing was perfect.

Until the phone call.

Cynthia’s mother, Beverly, was serving as her Maid of Honor. She had girlfriends her age at First State Bank where she was a vice president. But her mom was her closest friend. It might have seemed a little odd to some people—no mother sit­ting on the second pew, crying. No father to walk her down the aisle and give her away. She wished so much he was still alive to share in the joy.

“And then, Greg, I will invite you to kiss your bride,” said Dr. Huff, pastor of the church.

“What if she doesn’t want to be kissed?” said Sandy Vock­elman, Greg’s Best Man. Sandy had a habit of cracking jokes at inappropriate times.

Dr. Huff shot him a stern, over the top of the glasses, stare that said, Sir, this is a holy place of worship—not a comedy club.

Cynthia turned to Greg and smiled. “Oh, I’ll definitely want to be kissed.”

Dr. Huff went on. “And then I will present you to the con­gregation as Mr. and Mrs. Greg Tenorly and the organist will play the Wedding March as you make your grand departure.”

“Great job, Greg,” said Sandy as he slapped him on the back.

“Now we’ll take a ten minute break and then do a second run-through,” said Dr. Huff.

Sandy leaned in to Greg and whispered, “He’s kidding, right? I’m starving.”

Dr. Huff checked his watch. “So, let’s all be back in our places at 6:34.”

Sandy decided to make a point of being back in his place at exactly 6:35. Even as a college music professor he was still somewhat rebellious. He put his arm around Greg as they walked down from the platform. “I hope this Italian restaurant you’ve been bragging about is worth the wait.”

“It’s fantastic. Believe me—you’ve got nothing in Dallas that can beat it.”

“Well, that’s a little hard to believe.”

“I’m telling you, Man. Their bread is better than Lugio’s.”

“Whoa. Now you’re getting sacrilegious. Nobody’s bread is better than Lugio’s.”

“We ate a ton of that stuff.”

“We had to. I couldn’t make it through my music theory homework without that bread.”

“Yeah, me either. And my music history, music litera­ture…even math,” said Greg.

“It was a wonder I didn’t gain all my weight back, eating like that.”

“You were pumping iron every day. I’m the one who gained weight.”

“That’s true. But it looks like you’ve managed to trim down since the last time I saw you.”

“Thanks. I’ve been jogging with Cynthia.”

“That woman’s good for you, Buddy. Seriously—she’s amazing. Congratulations.”

Cynthia and her mom had gone to the ladies room, and were checking their hair and makeup.

“Sweetie, I’ve got to say that I’ve never seen you more happy,” said Beverly.

“He’s wonderful, Mom. He’s everything I need and want in a life-long partner. And I know he feels the same way.”

“Greg’s a very lucky man.”

“Yes. I’d agree with that.” She smiled at herself in the mir­ror. “And I am a very lucky woman.”

“Y’all are like a couple of teenagers when you’re together. So you should have a ball at Disney World.”

“You really could have come with us, Mom.”

“Nope. Three’s definitely a crowd when it comes to hon­ey­moons. And besides, I’m gonna have a great time on the cruise with my church group.”

“But it’s going to be hard to stay in touch with you while we’re in Orlando and you’re out at sea.”

“You don’t need to stay in touch with me. It’s your honey­moon. I don’t want to hear from you until you get back. And that’s an order, Young Lady.”

“Okay, okay. So, I guess I shouldn’t worry about you.”

“Of course not. Just enjoy yourself. We can share our sto­ries when we all get back home.”

Beverly had moved into her daughter’s house a few months earlier. There was some concern, especially on Greg’s part, that she would interfere with their lives. But Cynthia had reassured him that her mother would respect their privacy. And so far, she had. Except for a couple of times when she accidentally caught them making out on the couch.

When Sandy went into the men’s room, Greg walked down to his office to get the gift for his Best Man. It was a music en­graving pen, stamped with the letters ‘SUV.’ Sandy was a com­poser who still preferred writing manuscripts the old fashioned way rather than using music software and a printer. He said he felt more connected to Bach, Beethoven and Verdi when he wrote out the music notation by hand.

Greg had used one of those pens a few times. And he won­dered how many shirts his buddy had ruined over the years. If you got a single drop of that black Indian ink on your clothes, you could forget about the washing machine or the dry clean­ers. That pair of pants or shirt was going straight to the trash can.

‘SUV’ was a nickname Sandy had picked it up as a ninth grader, at six-foot-two, 285 pounds. It was just too hard to resist when some kid realized Sandy’s middle name was Uriah. Sandy Uriah Vockelman—‘SUV.’

Sandy quickly corrected the boy. His first name was Alexan­der—Sandy was just a nickname. So, his initials were really ‘AUV.’ And you can’t create a nickname from another nick­name. But it was too late. ‘SUV’ stuck. And he hated it. Maybe he would have liked it if he had been a offensive lineman. But he was no football player. His thing was choir and piano and music theory.

So, he began to work out with weights and trim down. By his senior year, he didn’t mind being called ‘SUV’ anymore because he was a slim, buffed-up guy. All of the choir girls wanted to go out with him—even some of those with boy­friends.

Greg sat down at his desk and pulled open a drawer and took out Sandy’s gift. His cell phone rang. He checked the caller id. It was anonymous.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Greg. How’s it going?”

Greg didn’t recognize the man’s voice. “Uh…fine.”

“Cynthia’s going to look stunning in her wedding dress.”

“That’s for sure.” Greg still didn’t know who the caller was, but it seemed like he was supposed to know.

“There’s something I need to tell you about, though.”

“What’s that?” Greg waited for the punch line.

“Are you sure you can trust her?”

“What do mean? Who is this?”

“I’m afraid there are some things she hasn’t told you.”

“This is a joke, right? Who is this?”

“She’ll rip your heart out, Man.”

“This is not funny. Now, stop it. Who is this? Sandy?”

Greg heard a click. “Hello?”

The caller was gone.

If that was Sandy, Greg thought, I’m gonna kill him. He put the gift box in his jacket pocket and walked down the hallway. Sandy was standing outside the restroom, drinking from the water fountain.

“That wasn’t funny, Sandy.”

“Huh? Oh, you mean that wisecrack about Cynthia not wanting to kiss you?” He chuckled. “Yeah, sorry about that. Couldn’t resist.”

“No. I’m talking about you calling me and pretending to be somebody else.”

“What? When?”

“Just now, while I was in my office.”

“Well, that wasn’t me, Man. Must have been some other weird friend of yours.”

“Are you serious? You didn’t just call me?”

“No. I really didn’t. Why? What did the guy say to you? What­ever it was, it sure got you upset.”

“No, it was nothing. Just somebody clowning around, I guess.”

“Then I’m sure he’ll take credit for it later. Probably at the rehearsal dinner. Hey—maybe it was the pastor. He seems like a real jokester.”

“Yeah, right.”

Sandy laughed.

Greg looked around to make sure Dr. Huff wasn’t within earshot. Then he laughed along with his old buddy.

But as he and Sandy walked back toward the auditorium for the second run-through, Greg couldn’t shake off the uneasi­ness. The man on the phone didn’t sound like he was joking. But who would call him two days before the wedding and malign Cyn­thia’s character? Even though they had been to­gether for less than a year, he felt he knew her well. And he wasn’t about to let some stranger or prankster rattle his faith in her.