I had Tyrell give a running commentary of the view and sights below. Once we were at altitude and outside of the D.C. flight area we made quick time on the way to Westminster. We landed in a circle near the terminal and Tyrell helped Marty out of his seat. Twenty minutes later we were at the house.
Marty commented as we climbed out of the car, “I’m surprised you didn’t have your pilot land you in the driveway, and save all that time.”
I had to smile at that. I waved a hand around. “Get real, there’s nowhere near enough room in the driveway.” Marty snorted and smiled, and followed me into the house. “Watch out for the idiot dog. She’s harmless, but gets excited.”
True to form, Dum-Dum raced in. When she saw somebody new, she ignored me, but tried to jump up on him. Marty submitted to her for a minute, and then I pulled her away. She immediately began racing around the house at full speed, running off and then running back, only to get stopped by me.
“Don’t worry. In fifteen minutes she’s back to normal. During the first fifteen minutes, though, she’s simply uncontrollable,” I said.
“DUM-DUM! KNOCK IT OFF! DOWN!” yelled Marilyn. I grabbed a newspaper and when she raced back, I smacked her on the nose with it. Dum-Dum was now eight years old, 56 in dog years. She qualified for AARP, the American Association of Retired Pooches.
Marty and I left our bags in the foyer and I led him inside. “Marty, you remember Marilyn Lefleur. Now she’s Marilyn Buckman. Honey, remember Marty Adrianopolis from Kegs?” I said, re-introducing each of them.
Both of them smiled as recognition crept back. “Damn, Marilyn but you look good! You’re prettier now than before. Much nicer looking than your husband!”
Marilyn laughed at that. “I remember you, too, Marty. The last thing I remember was we invited you to the wedding, but never heard back from you.”
Marty shrugged. “When was that ’77 or ’78?”
“June of ’78”
He nodded. “Well, I was in Saudi by then. Supposedly my mail was being forwarded, but it wasn’t the most reliable place to get anything done. The invitation is probably arriving there any time now.”
“Saudi Arabia! You mean, all the way overseas like that!?” she exclaimed.
“Yep.”
“You are going to have to tell us about that!” I told him.
Dum-Dum was still rampaging around, and the kids came out of their rooms and into the living room to see what was going on. Charlie was the first one out, and the tallest, and he said, “Hi.”
“That’s Charlie.” I said, pointing, and then swung my finger over a bit. “And that one is Holly, and that one is Molly. Guys, this is Mr. Adrianopolis. He’s a friend of your mother and mine. He’s staying for the weekend, so behave.”
“Mister Adaroana…” struggled out from my son.
“Just call me Mister Marty. It’s a lot easier to say,” commented Marty.
Charlie’s face lit up at that. “Cool!”
“Hi!” came out of both girls.
Marty smiled at them, and then looked at us. “How do you tell those two apart?”
“Holly is troublesome and Molly is more troublesome,” I answered.
“Mom!” they both complained.
“Out, all of you!” she said in reply. She scooted them out, and sent Dum-Dum off with them. To Marty she commented quietly, “And Charlie is most troublesome!” That just earned some laughs.
“We’ve got two choices for you. Down the hall past the kids’ rooms is a spare bedroom. Option Two is the pool house. It’s more private and has its own bathroom, but you’ll have to come over here for meals and such.” I took him over to the kitchen and pointed the pool house to him through the window.
“Well, I don’t think it will hurt me to share a bathroom with the kids. Let’s give that a shot,” he replied. We went back into the foyer and grabbed our stuff, and Marilyn showed Marty down the hall to the spare bedroom. I dropped my briefcase in my office and then went to our bedroom and changed out of my suit.
I walked barefoot in old khakis and a denim shirt down the hall to the kitchen. Marilyn was putting some dishes away while Marty, now also more casual, was sitting on a bar stool at the island. “What’s for dinner tonight?” I asked.
“Hamburgers!” yelled Charlie running in.
I glanced at Marilyn, who nodded. “Okay, hamburgers it is. What about tomorrow?”
Marilyn said, “I was thinking I just picked up some chicken breasts, and I can thaw out the ham slices from when you baked the ham last week.”
“Coq au vin?” Marilyn nodded, and I shrugged. “Fine by me.” I looked over at Marty and said, “It takes a good hour to prepare, so I don’t normally cook big when I’m in Washington all day.”
“Have I ever had that? Did you make that back at Kegs?”
“I doubt it. I would have blown a Sunday budget for sure. Want a drink?”
“You bet!” He looked over at my son and then turned back to Marilyn and me. “Got any Southern Comfort? We can teach Charlie how to do flaming shots.”
I laughed at this and Marilyn groaned and rolled her eyes. It got worse when our ever-attentive son came over and asked, “What’s a flaming shot?”
“Never you mind, Mister, and mind your own business!” said Marilyn. She pointed towards the living room and sent him packing. “No flaming shots!”
“Right. Gin and tonics?” I asked. The others nodded. “Okay, gin and tonics. He can learn about flaming shots the hard way, like we did, in a run down and seedy frat house fighting over hot and wild women looking to lead him from the path of good and righteousness.”
“God bless them!” agreed Marty.
“You two still haven’t grown up!” said Marilyn.
“You need a double,” I replied.
“With that bunch out there? Make it a triple!”
I made drinks (regular strength) for all of us and then started on the burgers. It was much too chilly to cook on the grill outside, and we had that covered for the winter. Tonight I used the broiler in the oven. The twins didn’t want cheeseburgers, but the rest of us did. We ate dinner in the breakfast nook rather than the formal dining room. “So, tell us, what was Saudi Arabia like?” I asked Marty.
He gave me a wry look that said volumes. “I guess I’m glad I did it, but I don’t think I’d do it again.”
“Oh?”
“You are not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy! It is not like the States. You have to agree to a multi-year contract to work there, so you are locked in. I did one for five years.”
“Is it real strict or something?” asked Marilyn.
“Well, yes and no. I was in Dhahran, which is in the eastern part of the country, near all the oilfields. You live in a compound, sort of a gated and walled city, with only the foreigners, well, mostly foreigners, living in it. It’s sort of like living in a normal American suburb. And the pay is really, really good! Good schools and you can save a lot for retirement or college.”
“Okay, so that sounds good.”
“Yeah, but it can be weird. You are in this walled compound, almost like a prison camp. Outside those walls it’s all Islamic, women can’t drive, you don’t have any rights, and nobody is a real fan of America. Inside the wall, everybody pretends they’re free, but you have to smuggle in booze, and if you get caught, you will probably be deported after being flogged. Everybody inside the compound is secretly running stills and making home brew. It’s like a prison, only it’s the fanciest prison you’ve ever heard of. My first wife, she couldn’t handle it, and divorced me and flew home.”
“Well, that kind of sucks,” I said.
“I thought so at the time, too. Then again, I did find her…” He stopped and glanced at the children in the room, and finished, “… in flagrante delicto, if you know what that means. That didn’t help matters.”