My first impression of Philip was that he was blessed with unjustified self-confidence and unrealistic optimism. He didn’t know he was an eyesore. He didn’t know  he talked too much. He didn’t know only a desperately lonely, unhappy woman would date him, a woman who’d been missing love her whole life and was now ready to find it, even if finding it meant faking it.

We met at Bingo-for-Boomers at the American Legion Hall. He plopped into the seat next to me and began babbling about the weather (snowy), his favorite TV show (Original Singers Compete!), and his hobbies (walking because he didn’t drive, writing letters to the editor, and meeting beautiful young women like myself).

I’m not young. I’m not beautiful. But I didn’t drive either. I also watched Original Singers Compete!, (and had a pathetic crush on Winston Cowell, one of the talent show judges). I also wrote letters to the editors of both The Chicago Tribune and The Chicago Sun-Times, though none of mine had ever been published.

“The secret is to make ‘em short,” Philip said. He arched his unibrow, which deepened the lines on his forehead. He fingered a mole on the side of his large nose. “I’ve had 24 letters published so far! I got ‘em all framed and hangin’ on the wall in my den. Wanna come over and see ‘em sometime?”

Six months later, we married.

*

“That’s where me and Char honeymooned,” Philip said as we stepped off the bus in front of Wessler’s Bakery. He pointed to The Pink Palace across the street.

Char was his first wife. They’d been married 22 years. He’d been widowed  14 months.

The bus wheezed away. My head ached from 20 miles of a lurching, crowded bus ride from City Hall to the bakery. The wedding ceremony at City Hall had taken 12 minutes. The bus ride had taken 53 minutes. Philip had booked us for 180 minutes at The Pink Palace.

“We only gotta pay for the time we need,” he said. “Can’t see spending a fortune just for the snoozin’ part. Not when we got our own comfy home just 11 blocks away.”

I stared across four lanes of traffic at the “Palace” where I would spend my first hours as a married woman. A front office, pinkish brick, squatted in front of a three-story rectangle of pink stucco. Pink blinds covered slits of windows. Over the flat roof of the front office, a billboard loomed.

THE PINK PALACE

DEDICATED TO LOVE AND ROMANCE

DELUXE ROOMS

SHORT STAY

MOVIES/CABLE/FREE WI-FI

TRUCK PARKING

PINK PALACE SUITES

Little Vegas

Space Walk

Touch of Brass

Hawaiian Waters

Out to Lunch

Wine & Roses

Rainbow

Cleopatra Tubs

Secret Suite

I shuddered. Which suite had Philip reserved for us?

“Oh, you chilly, honey?” Philip flopped his arm over my shoulders. Of course, his blessed optimism made him think I’d shuddered because I was cold, not because the Pink Palace was . . . what? I dreaded finding out.

“Let’s get inside the bakery,” he said. “Get you warm and get our goodies.”

Philip ushered me into the crowded bakery. He pulled a number from the dispenser. “Best bakery on the South Side,” he whispered into my ear. His breath itched my skin. “Probably best bakery in the whole city. We’ll load up on goodies and enjoy them at The Palace. Best krullers in the world, honey, you’ll see. Dunk ‘em in coffee or milk, it’s a taste of heaven. Char loved her krullers.”

Our number was called. Philip pushed his way to the counter. I stayed behind and stared out the bakery’s front window. Four lanes of heavy traffic separated the bakery from The Pink Palace. Wouldn’t it be something if, as we dashed across the street, a distracted driver managed to save me from The Pink Palace?

How empowering to be a widow, alone due to tragedy, and not because I was unwanted, unlovable.

In addition to Social Security, Philip had a pension from 35 years as a pipefitter with the gas company. Had he gotten around to adding me for survivor’s benefits? Not that I was exactly impoverished. I’d been managing okay on my Wal-Mart paychecks and with the money from my mother’s life insurance policy. But it had been hard to live life solo. No one to vacation with. No one to dine out with. No one to sit next to and share popcorn in a movie theater. Always a pity-invite for holiday gatherings.

I looked at my watch. We’d been married 77 minutes. What a fool I was. I was beginning to understand what my mother had often said: it was better to be miserably alone than miserably married. But now I only had myself to blame.

I could have said “I Don’t!” at City Hall.

I should have said “I Don’t!” at City Hall.

Why didn’t I say “I Don’t!” at City Hall?

“Not that tart, miss.” Philip was fussing with the bakery girl at the counter. “The one right behind got more filling.”

I watched a truck slow and pull into the parking lot of The Pink Palace. Would I have liked Char? Would she have liked me? Her photos perched all over Philip’s cluttered little raised ranch. My home now, too. We looked nothing alike. She was plump with chocolate-brown curls, rosy cheeks, dimples, and a gap between her front teeth.

“Them banana boats,” I heard Philip ask the bakery girl. “They fresh or they yesterday’s?”

She assured him she’d piped the whipped cream on them just this morning.

“Honey?” Philip called out. “You want one or two banana boats?”

I turned away from the window. The bakery girl smiled at me. Pink braces glinted on her teeth. Freckles spilled over a perky nose and across pink cheeks. Did she know how lucky she was, I wondered? So pretty. So young. When the time came, she’d never have to settle for a Philip.

“We can load up on the perishables, honey,” Philip said. “They promise there’s a good-sized little fridge in every one of them suites.”

He turned back to the bakery girl. “We’re newlyweds,” he said. “And we’re bringing bakery goodies over to The Pink Palace across the street.”

“Philip!” My face burned.

Color had drained from the girl’s face, but customers were smiling and murmuring congratulations.

“Ten!” I exclaimed. “Get 10 banana boats!”

Maybe he had arteries narrowing right now. Maybe one shrinking artery just needed a few banana boats to jolt his ticker to a fatal stop. His Char had heart-attacked her way to the next life. Maybe they’d both be happier to be together again.

Philip smiled at me. “I sure can pick ‘em, can’t I?” His eyes bounced from customer to customer. “My Char, my first sweetheart, she sure enjoyed her baked goods, too. I can’t trust a lady that don’t enjoy her baked goods.”

I turned away, again looked out the window at the Pink Palace and waited for it to implode like one of those Vegas hotels.

“Okay, honey, we got our goodies.” Philip’s elbow poked my ribs. Three white boxes, tied together with string, filled his arms. A customer held the door open for us.

“It’s good to see love’s not wasted only on the young,” she said.

And Philip, blindly optimistic Philip, replied, “Who needs young when you’re as gorgeous as my bride here?”

“So sweet,” the woman said. “There surely is someone for everyone.”

“Philip!” I said as we stepped to the curb. “I’m not!”

We stood at the curb, stranded without a traffic light to help us cross. A truck rattled by, belching diesel fumes.

“Not what?” Philip asked. I bit my tongue to stop from listing the obvious: I was plain, my chin was pointy, my face too horsey, my hair had never bounced like the bakery girl’s. My hair was cobwebby now. It had been cobwebby when I was 16.

“Well,” Philip said. “Do you think we should just make a run for it?”

My stomach flipped. I gazed at the traffic light a block west. It was just as likely that I would get smacked by a speeding car.

“Let’s cross at the light,” I said.

Philip jiggled the bakery boxes. “You know, that’s two blocks outta our way, honey. A block to the light, then backtrack a block to the Palace.”

I stared at him. “No, really?” Honey honey honey. I hated the word.

“Hell,” I said. “I’m walking.”

*

Halfway to the light was a tavern. “Let’s get a drink,” I said. “That bus ride gave me a huge headache. I can’t abide the thought of spending time in a crappy motel room without a drink.”

“Honey!” His face drooped. If I hadn’t been his bride, I would have hated my meanness.

“The Palace is not a crappy motel,” he said. “You’ll love it! Hey, I wanted to surprise you with the suite I reserved, but, well, I know how you’ve always wanted to go to Hawaii, and —”

I hurried into the bar. Philip sipped a tall milk, and I drank one chardonnay, then another while Philip chatted with the tattooed and bearded bartender. “Drinks on the house!” the bartender exclaimed when Philip told him we were newlyweds.

People seemed to like Philip. What was wrong with me? What kind of ignorant lowlife was I to be imagining myself a widow?

*

While Philip was checking us in at the front desk, I wandered through the boutique inside the lobby. Shelves held hollow erasers shaped like penises, ice cube trays shaped like breasts, love creams, vibrators, body paints. I pushed past racks of lacy lingerie, frothy little nothings you could see through. I was feeling the chardonnay. I needed a bathroom, needed cold water from its sink to splash on my too warm face.

I saw a door painted pink. Bathroom, I hoped. I turned the handle. It was locked, but the door hadn’t been shut firmly. It glided open.

It was not a bathroom.

Pink shag carpet covered the floor and walls. A wide pink couch filled one corner. A mirror covered the ceiling over the couch.

The bakery girl stood in the far corner, her eyes closed. Her baggy smock and her loose white pants lay in a heap on the floor. She now wore a shimmery bit of white silk. A man crouched before her, his back to me.

“Wife’s about your size, sweetheart,” he said, “everywhere but here.” He ran his hands over the girl’s chest. “She’s a bit more blessed here.” He pulled off the scrunchie that was holding her hair in a ponytail. He ran his fingers through her hair. “But your hair is lovelier than hers.”

The girl blushed, shivered. Her eyes stayed shut. “Thanks, Mr. Wessler.” Her voice cracked, and she cleared her throat.

Wessler slipped his hands under the silk. “Not too scratchy, is it?” His voice was husky and the tips of his ears flushed red. “Wife hates scratchy fabric against her skin.”

The girl bit her lower lip. Her eyes opened and met mine. Her eyebrows trembled and she looked away.

I fled, stumbled to the front office. Philip was still fussing with the man behind the counter. The man’s hair was blonde and slicked back, but under his nose, a mustache sprouted, small, brown, and square. A Hitler mustache. He kept glancing at his computer monitor as Philip talked.

“Well now,” Philip was saying. “It’s Hawaiian Waters I was really wanting. I mean, I’m sorry about the pump being busted, but this is our honeymoon, so maybe you could discount the rate seeing as we won’t be enjoying any Hawaiian Waterfall.”

I touched Philip’s arm. He smiled at me. “Don’t worry, honey. I’ll get this straightened out lickety-split.”

“Philip, I . . . I . . .” The words wouldn’t come. Mustache Man glanced at me, then at his monitor.

“Philip!” I cried. He stepped away from the counter, placed his hands on my shoulders. “What’s wrong, honey?”

I told him what I’d seen.

Mustache stopped looking at his monitor. His eyes shifted from Philip to me, then back to Philip. He lifted a cell phone and began texting. 

He’s texting him? Wessler? Warning him? I wanted to grab the phone and…do what?

Mustache set down the phone and  smiled. “It is an honor to have honeymooners spend the start of their life together at our Palace of Love.” He winked at Philip. “We provide for all ranges of romance and we do so with utmost discretion. I insist you accept our hospitality at our most special of all suites. It’s our secret one. Please. Let me escort you. It is on us, eh? Complimentary! For the happy honeymooners!”

Philip looked at me. He lifted the stack of bakery boxes he’d set on the floor. “Whatya think, honey?”

Blood whooshed through my ears. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

Mustache glided from behind the counter. “Follow me,” he said. He hurried to the front door, which jingled when he opened it.

“Well, hold on now.” Philip touched my arm. “Where is she, honey?”

I pointed to the boutique. My legs wobbled. Philip patted my shoulder. “It’s OK, honey.” He turned to Mustache. “As you no doubt overheard my bride say to me, there’s a little girl being bothered in there. The little girl that sold me these bakery goodies.”

Mustache Man’s smile disappeared. “Ah!” he exclaimed. “I’m sure you’re mistaken. Some women retain their youth well into their prime. Just look at your lovely bride.”

“Bullshit!” I yelled.

Philip shook his head. He gripped the bakery boxes by their string with one hand and grabbed my hand with his other. We marched into the boutique. Mustache pushed past us and reached the pink door before we did.

It opened. The girl stepped out.

She was now wearing her bakery uniform, and her hair was once again pulled back into a ponytail. Her eyes widened when she saw us. She hurried past us without speaking. I heard the front door jingle as she left.

Mustache blocked the open pink door, crossing his arms. “Maybe you two should leave,” he said.

I touched Philip’s shoulder. “She called him Mr. Wessler.”

“Wessler!” Philip shouted. “You still in there? Should my bride and me go across the street to your bakery and share with everyone there just what we seen here?”

Silence. But then a tall, thin man emerged. Mustache stepped aside. The man wore a white tee shirt spattered with chocolate and loose white pants. His face was long, his nose narrow, his eyes horizontal slits. He clutched something white and silky in one hand.

“You are a shameful man, Mr. Wessler,” Philip said. “All the fine women around, and you are bothering little girls.”

I moved closer to Philip.

 Wessler straightened his shoulders, raised his arm, and shook the negligee like a flag. “Not that it’s any of your business, buddy,” he said, “but this is a gift for my wife. My wife! My employee is about the size of my wife, and I wanted to make sure of the fit.”

“Honey,” Philip said. “He thinks we’re a couple of ignoramuses. Well, I’ll tell you what, Mr. Bakery Man. My bride and me, we’re heading over to your fine bakery and we’re having ourselves a little talk with that little girl.”

Something sticky bunched in my throat, sticky and sweet. “Honey,” I whispered. The word flowed out. A smile lifted Philip’s lips, crinkled his eyes, a rather nice glistening blue, I suddenly realized, or maybe that was just from the overhead lighting. “Honey,” I repeated, “Let’s talk to her parents, too. Let’s get their opinion on whether modeling sexpot nighties should be part of their little girl’s job description.”

Wessler snorted. “I’ll be happy to give directions to her mother’s house. If she’s not passed out on the sofa, she’ll tell you how grateful she is to me for employing her daughter, for helping with her girl’s college tuition. College, that’s right. She’s 18. And she’ll tell you to mind your own fucking business. And I’m telling you that I better not see you in my bakery again. I don’t want your business. And I don’t want your dirty little minds misinterpreting where I’m only trying to do good.”

Wessler looked at Mustache. “And what kind of establishment you running here where you let morons harass your clientele?”

Mustache frowned. “I’ll thank you to leave now,” he said to us. “I don’t want your business either.”

“Seems we ain’t wanted here,” Philip said to me.

“If that bakery girl is 18,” I said to Philip, “then I’m a monkey’s uncle. She looks like she’s 12 years old. But maybe she’s 16? But if you get a work permit, you can work younger than 16.”

Philip nodded. He set down the bakery boxes, and ripped the top one open.

I looked down at ten creamy banana boats. Philip plucked one and pitched it into the astonished face of Wessler.

Philip began flinging banana boats with incredible accuracy. Whipped cream, custard, and cherries smacked into Mustache and Wessler. They cowered and cursed and ducked.

I ripped open the next box. A dozen strawberry tarts. I began firing them at the two men. A tart slammed Mustache Man’s eye. “Yes!” I cried. A tart slapped Wessler’s chest. “Touchdown!” I shouted.

But before we could open the third box, they escaped into the front office.

Philip and I staggered into the racks, laughing and gasping.

“You got a good arm,” he said.

“You too,” I replied.

Philip opened the last box. We looked down at a dozen powdered sugar krullers.

“They look pretty good,” I said. “I don’t know if we should waste them on those two.”

“Save ‘em for our breakfast tomorrow?” Philip asked.

I nodded, straightened Philip’s collar. “Blue’s a good color on you,” I said. “Makes the blue in your eyes pop.”

Philip blushed. “Might as well leave,” he said.

We entered the front office. Wessler was gone, but Mustache stood behind the counter. He stared at us with bulging eyes. His lips moved soundlessly.

“Honey,” I said. “Think he’s called the cops on us?”

“Hope so,” Philip said. “We got plenty to tell ‘em. Let them find out how old that little girl really is.”

“Get out,” Mustache shouted.

“Jawohl, mein kommandant!” Philip shouted back. And clicked his heels and saluted.

I burst into laughter. “So you see the resemblance, too!”

Outside we stood on the sidewalk and gazed at the bakery across the street.

“Look,” I said. “That’s our little bakery girl in the window, isn’t it? Pulling out the cakes?”

“Yeah, that’s our girl,” Philip agreed. He lifted my arm and looked at my watch.

“Someone needs a watch for his birthday,” I said.

“I like a woman that plans ahead,” he said. “Bakery’s closing down for the day. Should we just walk on home, honey?”

I looked down the street, squinted into the sun. “We could wait, maybe talk to her when she leaves. I mean, I don’t know. Do you think maybe we should see if there’s something we could do?”

“You mean to help her, like?”

“Do you think she’s really 18?” I asked. “We could ask her, I suppose. But does it make it okay, her maybe being 18? Are we just stickin’ our noses where they don’t belong?”

“If that little girl is 18,” Philip said, “then I’m a monkey’s uncle.”

I nodded, stared at my shoes.

“Well now,” Philip said. His voice shook. I looked up and was shocked to see him wiping his eyes. “I married a good woman, I sure did. I am a blessed man.”

He took my hand. “We could park ourselves on that bench in front of the bakery. By the bus stop there.”

We looked at the bench across the street, separated from us by four lanes of speeding traffic. “We can make a dash for it, don’t you think?” Philip asked.

There was a sudden break in the traffic. “Let’s go!” he cried.

I pulled him back. “No, honey,” I said. “It wouldn’t be safe. Let’s just cross at the light.”

“OK, sure,” Philip said. “If you don’t mind the extra walking.”

“I don’t,” I said.

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