“Starting… now.” Claude looked up from his watch. “Better go. We’ll give ourselves a four-hour handicap.”
“Just for fun,” Claudine said.
“And, Rita?” Claude said, as Rita made for the door. She paused, looked back at him.
Claude smiled at her. “We won’t use lemons.”
DRACULA NIGHT
*
*
I found the invitation in the mailbox at the end of my driveway. I had to lean out of my car window to open it, because I’d paused on my way to work after remembering I hadn’t checked my mail in a couple of days. My mail was never interesting. I might get a flyer for Dollar General or Wal-Mart, or one of those ominous mass mailings about pre-need burial plots.
Today, after I’d sighed at my Entergy bill and my cable bill, I had a little treat: a handsome, heavy, buff-colored envelope that clearly contained some kind of invitation. It had been addressed by someone who’d not only taken a calligraphy class but passed the final with flying colors.
I got a little pocketknife out of my glove compartment and slit open the envelope with the care it deserved. I don’t get a lot of invitations, and when I do, they’re usually more Hallmark than watermark. This was something to be savored. I carefully pulled out the stiff, folded paper and opened it. Something fluttered into my lap: an enclosed sheet of tissue. Without absorbing the revealed words, I ran my finger over the embossing. Wow.
I’d strung out the preliminaries as long as I could. I bent to actually read the italic typeface.