Truths of the Heart by G.L. Rockey

appearance of the two story brick building hadn't changed much. It
looked like a dump then, still did, hadn't changed a dime.
      Entering the sports emporium, the sound of TV
announcers mixed with the grinding roar of yak, blab, belly laughs, thick
coughs, and smoke.
    Out of the fog, in a husky voice, the bridal party was greeted by Ms.
Tommi Gilmour. Her hair tonight light-blue streaked with silver, her blue eyes
were encased in inch-long black eyelashes. Blue eye shadow sprinkled with
sparklies accented her baby-blues. Blood red lipstick lapped over the edge of
her lips.
    Rachelle remembered her first “strange bird” assessment of Tommi as she
noted Tommi's long nose, hard jaw, and pasty whiteness of her neck. Tonight
Tommi's breasts were squeezed into a deeply cut sparkling silver gown. Like
bread dough hanging over the sides of a pan , thought Rachelle.
    Tommi's gown, slits on both sides, fit snugly over her slim hips and flowed
down to the tips of her blue spike heels.
    Escorted to a booth, Tommi said, “Let the gala begin,” and ordered a round
of drinks for the group.
    Seated with the wedding party, Tommi's drink, served in a brandy
snifter, was what she called, “Polish moonshine.” She smiled, “Actually, it’s
slivovitz, 70% alcohol.” She poured a tiny amount in an ashtray, ignited her
platinum lighter, held it to the liquid, and POOF, a blue flame flashed.
    “Forbidden fruit,” said Tommi and with raised eyebrows, smiling at
Carl, she licked the tip of a blue Virginia Slim, inserted it into a six-inch
silver cigarette holder, and lit up.
    In the wee hours of Saturday morning, back at their Ambassador Hotel room,
Carl passed out on the bed, Rachelle, slightly tipsy herself, noted the date
and caught herself thinking, not of the morrow, nor the long plane ride to
Phoenix, but of Com. 501.

 
 
 

 
 
    CHAPTER THIRTEEN

 
 
    Saturday morning arrived with thunderstorms in the forecast. For Rachelle,
the day moved along like the famed bat out of hell, 9:02 P.M. finally arrived.
Raining outside, the temperature in enclosed Ford Field was a pleasant and dry
70 degrees. A sell-out crowd, half-time ended with the score, Detroit 13, Chicago
10.
    ESPN announcer Tucker Stone bubbled into the TV camera: “Well sports fans,
that's the end of the first half. Looks like a different Lions team than last
week. Wooo-ee. Annnd, don't go way, coming up right after the commercial break,
it's a big night for former Lions star quarterback, Heisman Trophy winner, Carl
Bostich. The big man is hitching the knot right here, live, on the fifty-yard
line! Believe it.”
    Tucker turned to his side kick, Fred Tekcit, “Fred my man, what a
night.”
    Fred said, “Blockbuster, Tuck, Lions winning, Carl Bostich getting
hooked, and wait till you get a load of the dish he's hookin up with, oo la la,
centerfold stuff.”
    Tucker smiled into the camera, “That's right folks, Bostich is hooking
up with Michigan State University's own Dr. Rachelle Zannes.”
    Fred said reverently: “She's a college professor.”
    Tucker: “Doesn't get any better than this, folks. Be right back after a
quick break, don't dare go way.”
    In the back seat of the High Five limo, thirteen long stem yellow roses
(courtesy of Tommi Gilmour) in her arms, Rachelle sat like a porcelain doll.
Dressed in a white suite (she refused wedding gown regalia) white half-heel
shoes, her glistening honey brown hair flowed to her shoulders. She hated it.
She rolled her eyes. What am I doing here, reverberating around in her
mind, she looked out the Limo windows to the hungry crowd.
    Wonder if Jerry Springer might soon appear with a nude pig. This is
insane: I'm not a twenty year old cheerleader. Stop that Z, it's your wedding
day. Stop it this minute!
    Waiting for a signal to drive onto the playing field, High Five limo
driver Gus—black suit, tie—studying Rachelle in the rear view mirror, smiled
like he had heard her thoughts.
    She said, “Gus, why don't