Country Living ....Part 3 ...Bad to Worse

Some marriages crash
before they get off the ground...


Quinn and I were parting ways but we both got caught outside our house in the rain and ended up soaked.

We were both shivering and covered with mud. She looked up at me, a crooked grin on her face, “Well, Einstein—what do you suggest?”

I sighed. “I suggest we get out of these wet clothes—we can’t track mud all through the house.”

“Oh no,” she says, “don’t think I’m that dumb. No way I’m doing that.”

“Fine, suit yourself—but I’m not shivering here in the hallway.”

“What do you mean—what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to have a warm bath and change.”

“Are you now?” she laughs. “And what are you going to change into—one of my dresses?”

Damn! All my clothes are in the rental apartment in the city. I’m stuck.

She looks at me bemused. “Didn’t figure that one out, did you?”

Her hair’s disheveled—down in her eyes. She looks like the 18yr old I fell in love with.

“Admit it,” she crows, “you’re stuck—you don’t have a plan, do you?”

She’s right. I don’t.

This is the girl who takes me on drives and deliberately gets lost so she can laugh like hell when I panic.

I don’t have plan—and I’m beginning to doubt all the previous plans that I’ve ever made.

More like bad moves, if you ask me.

“What do you suggest?” I sigh.

“You could wear my robe.”

She looks at the horror on my face.

"It’ll just be until we can dry your clothes,” she cautions.

“And how are we going to that, with the power off?”

She goes very quiet, no doubt remembering the last storm—the old country power lines down for three days, and the food in the fridge and freezer ruined.

“It’ll be an adventure,” she says in her excited, little girl voice, that always melts me and lets her get her own way—except tonight.

No way I’m wearing a woman’s clothes.

“How about I wrap myself in a blanket?” I suggest.

“Oh, great—we can have a toga party and toast marshmallows by the fire.”

I have to go by the tone of her voice to see if she’s being sarcastic—with Quinn, you can never tell—and it’s now quite dark in the hall.

She softens a bit.

“Go—go get your bath and grab a blanket from the linen closet in the hall.”

“Wait a minute—what about you—you’re shivering.”

“I’ll be all right,” she says bravely.

“No damn way,” I say, and stoop down and grab her and throw her over my shoulder.

She’s kicking and spitting like a cat. “Let me go right now, Gray—put me down!”

But by then, it’s too late—we’re upstairs, outside the bathroom and I set her down in the hallway. She’s furious and runs into the bathroom and slams the door, I hear water running in the bath.

“Quinn—I’m sorry,” I call through the door, “it’s just that I knew you wouldn’t let me help—I made an executive decision.”

She mutters something, drowned out by the sound of the running water. My back’s to the door.

I go limp like a ragdoll and slide down till I’m sitting on the floor, legs splayed out in front of me.

I’m exhausted and within minutes, fast asleep. Some time later, Quinn jerks open the door and I fall backwards onto the tiled floor, hitting my head.

I start to bleed.

“Oh my God, Gray," she sobs, "I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you were leaning on the door.”

She’s panicking, running warm water over a washcloth and looking around furtively for the first aid kit.

“Just give me the cloth, Quinn—then, you can look for bandages.”

She finally finds the kit in the linen closet, of all places, and kneels down and begins dressing my wound.

“It’s pretty deep—you probably need stitches,” she wails.

“I’ll be fine—just bandage it up.”

“I ran you a warm bath,” she says, softly caressing my wound with an antiseptic swab. “Go soak for a while and I’ll make us something warm to eat—at least, the gas stove will work.”

At least something is working in this damn house, I muse inwardly, while realizing we're suddenly on the same page again.

Is it really too late for us? I ask myself, and find myself silently answering back, I hope not.

To be continued...

© 2026, John J Geddes. All rights reserved

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