"Just give it to me straight, Kid," he said.
"You're pregnant, right?"
"Geee-zus," spat all-educated moi.
""I'll handle Mom," he continued gently.
"How DARE you," shouted the now-who's-got-the-edge yours truly.
"My damned COAT was stolen," profanity punctuating the pain.
"Thank GOD!" And ole Joe grabbed his little girl in a bear hug.
Of course I stiffened just a soul-stabbed smidge before letting the poor guy off, shedding a few conspiratorially-relieved tears. He took us to Blackie's to celebrate and tell Mom that night where I went to the Powder Room and she to pieces. By the time I returned, Mom had vented her rage over the monetary gauging and poor Joe sat slathering butter on a hot roll in famished/celebratory anticipation of his comfort food.
I PROMISE to matriculate him to Poppy tomorrow - RIGHT after you hear the Robert-Mitchum-look-alike story that was still being recalled at our forty fifth reunion last year. For now, "To sleep; perchance to dream."
Later, Lorane. . . .