Chapter 31

“Pregnant?” He eeped. A breath and a swallow of coffee and... “I thought you were the responsible one?”

“I am ... never had a lick of trouble over periods. What would I need ovulation control for?” I pondered a minute, counted days in my head and didn’t like the result ... so I counted on my fingers. Same damn result. “Feel my forehead,” I requested.

He did. “You’re warm.”

“Shit!”

“What?”

“Exactly halfway between periods.”

“I wasn’t planning on being a Daddy,” he said.

“I wasn’t planning on being a mom,” I said. “How many times?”

“What?”

“Did I surrender to your manly charm?”

“I don’t know ... six or seven...” he said. “What is your name?”

Now he asks ... I thought, oops... “What’s yours?”

“I asked first,” he said.

“Surprise,” I said.

“It was kind of sudden but I don’t think it was a surprise ... alcohol tends to loosen morals. So what’s your name?”

“Surprise,” I held up a hand. “You know Abbot and Costello?”

“I’ve heard of them.”

“The first baseman ... what’s his name?”

“What’s on second,” he chuckled. “Who’s on first.”

“Exactly,” I said. “My name is Surprise Me Flintkote.”

He grinned, “Really?”

“Really.” I said, “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

“What do your people call you?”

“Wait ... what? My people call me Surprise, Melody or Trouble. Your turn.”

“John Beavers...” he said.

“From?”

“Beavers Bottom.”

I raised my hand like I was swearing to tell ‘the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. so help me God.’ “Frogmorton.” I said. “You know the hauley road east of Beavers Bottom?”

He nodded.

“The sheds on the hauley?”

“Uh huh.”

“My mom and dad kept their airplane in those sheds.”

He looked close ... closer than when they were dancing ... closer than when they were ... yeah ... the resemblance struck him. “Sultry Wench Shingle!”

“Mom.”

“You know it’s all gone now?” he said.

“Gone?”

“Government bought the whole area ... it’s National Forest from a line from Grundy to Norton to Pound and Pennington Gap to the Kentucky border.”

“Frogmorton?”

“Gone ... except the big house on the hill.”

“Breaks?”

“Gone.”

Just about then a rap on the hull had them going topside to see.

A RIB dinghy was bobbing in the waves. A diminutive redhead was rapping on the hull.

“Two ... what?”

“Found ya,” she said. “Who’s this?”

“John Beavers, from Kentucky.” I said... “Forgetting my manners. Two ... this is John ... John ... this redheaded troublemaker is Two. Two ... John. John ... Two.”

Two, in disguise as a 19 year old college student, is three points past perfect. Deep red, almost burgundy hair, but flawless clear skin and startling green eyes, with elven ears and a perfectly straight nose, she is amazing. Short ... possibly 5 foot 3 and 105 pounds with the preponderance of that weight in tits, hips and ass ... women want to be her ... men lust after her, grandmothers disapprove of her and modeling agencies specializing in swimsuit and lingerie photos wished she was six inches taller. Except for the height defect, she was perfection personified.

I was expecting John to shift his attention from me to Two. He didn’t.