His Other Woman: A Renny and Rachel Christmas Romance by Nancy MacLaren

1.
     
     
    I cursed for the millionth time. I am a creative and vehement curser but I was running out of appropriately vile words. I cursed my lack of clothes, my lack of style and my lack of excuses. Damn menopause!  I couldn’t even use the old, reliable “I’m on my period” anymore.
    How had I been talked into this anyway? I wasn’t some starry-eyed, newly in love, dying to make my man proud, Southern belle. So why was I so atwitter about meeting Renny’s parents? And the rest of the 105 hillbillies that made up the Taylor clan?
    That wasn’t fair. Only the Arkansas clan were hillbillies, the rest were just good ‘ol boys who loved God, guns and their mamas. They were so not going to love me, no matter how hard I tried to fit in, I never would.  My first sin is not being southern. I grew up in Southern California if that counts. It doesn’t, I know.
    My second sin is not being musically inclined. Apparently, the whole clan (all 105 of them) play multiple instruments and can harmonize thirds, fifths and beyond. I’m lucky to get the melody right.
    Third, and maybe the most fatal, I am not a ‘sweet young thing’. I am not young, a thing or sweet. I’m 58, out-spoken, opinionated and pretty sure I can out think most men. I am no one’s idea of the perfect partner for their wildly successful, outrageously handsome and eternally younger son.
    The worst part is that I lack the wherewithal to impress them. Let’s see, maybe they’d like to hear about the downfall of Fallujah. Or how frickin’ cold tents get in Afghanistan. I know, I know, how about that I took my showers with over 100 strange men because it was the only shower available. They’ll surely love that. Look honey, she’s not just old, she’s also a whore! An old whore! Is that an extra fifty pounds she’s carrying? Good job Renny, with all your talent, good lucks and wealth, you managed to bring home an old, fat, war whore!
    In sheer panic mode I grabbed my phone and called the only person who could possibly help.
    “Hello, sweetums, you all packed?”
    “Get your ass over here. I am in crisis mode,” I screamed at Marlene. I screamed at my phone which, in effect meant I was screaming at Marlene. She remained unfazed by my obvious desperation.
    “On my way, untwist those knickers now,” Marlene chirped.
    “Don’t use that god-awful phrase. Just get over here. And bring wine.”
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    “This is sad,” she said, looking at the heaping pile of material all over my bed that masqueraded as clothes.
    “I know. That’s why I called you. I have nothing to wear.”
    “You have plenty to wear; all of it plain, shabby or just downright ugly. I have clearly been amiss in the best friend department. No real BFF would have let you buy any of this. Do you at least have a decent pair of jeans?”
    “That I have,” I said, digging through the pile and bringing up a pair of awesome, acid-washed jeans. Marlene almost fell down laughing.
    “Those are grotesque! C’mon, we’re going shopping.”
    “I can’t. No moola.”
    Marlene pulled out her American Express card and handed it to me. “Now you do. No arguments. You can pay me back with a dedication when you win another Pulitzer.”
    “Marlene that is not a good investment.”
    “Besides, I promised Renny.”
    “You what?”
    “He called. He expressed some concern that you might try to back out or have a nervous breakdown or have hideous clothes,” she said, putting on her raincoat and grabbing her keys.
    “He said that?”
    “Not the clothes part, no, but the rest. The clothes were implied. He knows you, girl.”
    “Yes, he does. The bastard.”
    On the way to the mall I reflected back on the last few months and my whirlwind love affair with Renny Taylor. Never mind he was a famous musician, incredibly handsome and sex on legs, he was also