Fleur De Lies(34)
Helen swatted her husband’s arm with the back of her hand. “That’s not funny.”
“Yes, it is.”
“No. It’s not.”
Ten seconds …
Fifteen seconds …
“Shouldn’t we take a vote?” asked Alice.
“We can’t,” George lamented in a low voice. “It’s not official unless Osmond calls for a show of hands and does the tallying.”
Eleven sets of eyes fired unblinking stares across the deck at him.
“He’s ruining everything,” whispered Grace. “It’s so unfair. What are we going to do?”
“Should we switch political parties?” asked Margi.
George pondered the suggestion. “It’d be pretty easy. All we’d have to do is reject health care reform and buy a few guns.”
Noses wrinkling. Heads shaking.
They stared at Osmond more intently.
“Unh-oh,” Nana whispered after a few moments. “Poor fella’s worse off than he’s puttin’ on. He’s not answerin’ his phone.”
Gasps. Shock. More gasps.
“I wish my hearing were as acute as yours,” Tilly marveled. “I’m embarrassed to admit this, Marion, but I can’t hear his phone ringing.”
“That’s on account of it’s not. I just sent him a text.”
“Saying what?” I asked.
“Sayin’ ‘How did the Norwegian break his leg while he was rakin’ leaves?’ Them Norske jokes always get a rise outta him.”
“Marion’s on the right track,” said George. “We gotta do something to cheer him up.”
“I could transfer a million dollars into his bank account,” enthused Nana. “When I done that for the Senior Center, a whole bunch of folks got real giddy.”
“Oh, sure,” whined Bernice. “Make yourself look good with a grand gesture that sticks Osmond with a mountain of tax headaches. How generous is that?”
“Hey, Marion, if you make the transfer to my account, I’ll be happy to burden myself with the tax implications,” razzed Dick Teig.
“Brown-nose.” Bernice plucked her camera out of his hand. “You morons don’t know anything about men and their libidos.” She jabbed a button several times until she arrived at the desired image. “I, on the other hand, know exactly what’ll get Osmond’s blood flowing again.” She smiled seductively at the screen. “One hundred and forty-seven glamour shots of Bernice Zwerg—up close, personal, and untouched by Photoshop.”
Boos. Hissing.
“Okay, people, I’ll take it from here,” I announced as the hissing continued. “I have an idea, so just back off until I see if it works.”
“Whatcha gonna do, dear?” asked Nana.
I knew what I wasn’t going to do. I wasn’t going to show him one hundred and forty-seven glamour shots of Bernice Zwerg. “I’m going to talk to him.”
“You want to take my camera with you?” asked Bernice. “I’ll start the slide show, and Osmond can look at the pictures in between pretending he’s listening to you.”