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“God. Well…who is this supposed wife of mine?”
“Ella Fletcher, Valentine Bay, Oregon.”
Understanding dawned with the force of a hurricane. He almost laughed out loud, but he didn’t think Flowers would get the joke. He didn’t seem like a real “jokey” kind of guy.
He opened his mouth to explain, but found that he didn’t know what to say. After all, I married her in a drunken stupor in Vegas when we were both eighteen, but I never declared it on my security paperwork because I thought we’d used the fake IDs that we’d brought with us to drink illegally didn’t exactly scream, “Clear me to guard the President!”
He sighed. “Flowers, this is a mix up. I do know Ella. She’s a friend from my hometown. I haven’t seen her in five years. She’s not my wife, that I promise you. I’m going to get this whole thing straightened out.”
There was silence on the other end of the phone. Finally, Flowers replied. “See that you do. And Valentine?”
“Yeah?”
“The sooner the better.”
