Weekends are always full of weddings, aren’t they? I do love a good wedding – mine were among some of the best. My first husband Thomas was the husband I loved the most, and my last husband, Rémy, was my favorite.
The middle one, Albert, was miserable little prig and they day we divorced was one of the finest in my existence.
Rémy died doing what he enjoyed most – me. He was 87 years old to my 39, it was really only a matter of time. His son, Ferrer, was pretty disappointed he had switched to communism when that will was read. Rémy realized there was no reason his fortune should go into fertilizer to help feed the people and left everything to me – the homes, the investments, the stocks, the cash, the wine cellar.
Oh, I know it seems odd for me to favor Rémy if I was so dearly in love with Thomas. Certainly Thomas made a decent living and I had my own inheritance to keep us in champagne so it wasn’t it entirely the money. No, I was fairly miffed when Thomas went and got himself killed by that streetcar. I don’t mind wearing black and veils but the whole part about not being seen became so tiresome. And I was lonely, having lost my little playmate. Not to mention, had he not insisted on being buried in Michigan, I would never have met Albert. So Thomas had his flaws.
I realize I sound quite the cliché – the widow with the insatiable appetite. Well, so be it. When I passed out in 1913, I was a harlot; when I awoke this last time, I was revered, with a few moments of exalted status throughout the decades. And conversely, a return to being a painted lady when the tides ebbed int hat direction, one learns to ride these out or, in my case, sleep them out.
My point is, darlings, you never know when you are one dance step away from a 90-year nap so do who you want today. And by gawd, make sure the wine is good.