Betty Timid-Jenkins paused to look at herself in the mirrored plaque hanging on the wall of Jenkins Construction.
By no means would she ever consider herself a vain woman, but having recently married her long time crush Harold "Huck" Jenkins Junior and becoming a French Poodle weredog in the process, she did concede that her looks had GREATLY improved since.
Like going from Velma to Daphne, she mused, for even though she was in her normal human appearance right now, there was no denying her new beauty.
Whistling a happy tune she sauntered over, enjoying the new wiggle in her much fuller hips, to her husband at his desk and tenderly placed her arms around him.
"Comment vas-tu, mon amour?" she whispered in Huck's ear before playfully nibbling on the lobe.
"Huh?" he said, turning to receive a long kiss from his new bride.
"I asked 'How are you, my love?' in French," she explained when their lips finally parted. "That country has always been on my bucket list of places I wanted to visit. Well, it seems now I'm even more experienced in French subjects than I used to be before our honeymoon."
"Well, you won't hear me complain Mrs. Jenkins," Huck said with a smile, as he spun his chair around and pulled Betty into his lap.
"But to answer your question, Jenkins Construction is getting back into the black, so to speak," he added, pointing to the ledger program he had displayed on his computer. "Despite the down time from me getting shot—"
"Don't remind me," Betty said with a shudder, dreading the thought of how close she came to losing Huck, let alone never knowing the wonders of being his girlfriend, let alone wife.
"A couple of more weeks and we'll not only be caught up on our delinquent projects, but about back to where we would normally be this time of year financially."
"Bein," Betty said in French, meaning good. "Do you think there's enough to afford a couple of pizzas from Moe's on the way home tonight?"
"I think we can afford to splurge. Why?" asked Huck.
Betty leaned in close until the tips of their noses were touching. "Because after dinner, for dessert..." she began, as one hand drifted down to confirm the growing bulge in her husband's pants.
Then she leaned in closer and started whispering all her romantic plans for the night in French in his ear.
Huck wasn't completely sure of everything his wife actually said, but her blouse covered breasts pressing against his t-shirt covered chest and the hand that continued to caress him below the belt gave a good indication of what pleasures awaited him.
MEANWHILE...
"Mom? I'm home," the teenager shouted, entering their small apartment.
The fact that there was no answer didn't concern him. Either she's working late or running errands on her way home. he realized. At least I can save my excuse for why I wasn't here when I should have been for another time.
He put his backpack in an empty chair and fixed himself a snack.
I know Mom's got it tough trying to make ends meet for us since dad left to be with that were he hooked up with. Yet Mom doesn't want me taking even a part time job because she's always stressing how important getting good grades are towards a career. That is, if I ever decide just what it is I want to do in life.
With a sandwich and a glass of milk, he sat down at the table and started eating. She doesn't let me date or even hang out with my friends because most of them are weres and she wants me to stay a normal human being. It's bad enough I'm hanging around after school watching the practices, but Mom will freak if she ever finds out I intend to go to the Thanksgiving Exhibition Flag Football game at school.
"Why can't I be like everyone else?" he said aloud.
Silence was the only response, which he expected.
Even if they're not naturally born weres, other kids get to join were society once they're old enough to do so. Granted, I'm not sure what kind of were I want to be yet, but they're so cool. Growing bigger with the fur and everything. Plus living almost four centuries barring accidents or fatal illness isn't a bad benefit, he thought.
I just want to go out. Have fun once in a while. Maybe even kiss a girl and have an actual relationship with one too. Some of the girls signed up to be cheerleaders are really cute, he mused.
So what if I want to be a were, or might have to become one to be with somebody? With all this talk about possibly revealing the secret, I'll be surprised if the were population doesn't increase from all the furry fans I encounter on the internet wanting to join. Yet Mom's even more upset now than she was before. Don't see what she's so worried about anyway. It'd be the weres at risk if it all goes south, but I'm willing to take that risk. As much as I love her, someday I'm gonna live the life I want to, even if that means becoming a were in the process! he vowed.
Yet all he did after making such a promise was push his empty plate and glass aside and started tackling his homework.
AND IN ANOTHER PART OF THE COUNTRY COMPLETELY...
"And that's my diagnosis Mrs. Harper," the doctor said. "I've done all I've can for the moment keeping him calm and alive, but your husband is still refusing the heart valve transplant."
She started crying into yet another tissue as their oldest son asked, "H-how long?"
"Provided he stays here? A few more days, a week at the most without the operation. Yet he's also wanting to be discharged. Says he has no time to lollygag and loaf. There's work he has to do and, I quote, 'a bunch of ungrateful whelps he has to take care of.' Whatever that means."
James Harper Junior realized his father was referring to himself and his siblings. Most of whom were now safely residing back in Moon Lake, Washington. Part of him realized that it might be for the best to let the patriarch of the Harper clan go off into the night, regardless of how gently or noisily he made the journey. Yet James wasn't raised that way, no matter how much of a villain their father was in everyone's lives.
"Okay. Give me the forms and I'll sign them right now," he offered.
"That's all well and good," the doctor said. "As soon as I'm authorized, we could operate as early as tomorrow morning. I must warn you though that considering his age and his current health, the odds are 40/60 at best. There's no guarantee he will survive but it's a certainty he'll die without the operation. But the problem is the only two signatures the state of Alabama will recognize as legal are either your father's or Mrs. Harper's, being his wife. And he's steadfastly refusing to sign."
"You mean you can't get him to—"
"No. Despite the sedation, he's still coherent enough to make a rationale decision as far as the law is concerned at the moment," explained the doctor. "If your mother doesn't sign the consent forms, legally I'll have to discharge him despite my better judgment."
James Junior just shook his head in disbelief. Then he turned to look at his mother, wondering what she'll do.
TO BE CONTINUED...