Secret Agents . . . Continued

(continued . . . )

There's another old saying: "The third time's a charm." And as far as my literary agents were concerned, I had good reason to believe that my third foray into literary marriage would work out. After all, I was experienced now. I had it all figured out. But then, I'm an eternal optimist and my wife has always been there to bring me back down to reality. (Thank God?)

At home that night, I declared my love privately for David. "He's a bum," my wife told me, "just like all the rest."

"But you don't understand," I said. "I actually met this one in the flesh! I shook his hand. He's beautiful. He gazed at me with his big blue eyes and said he'd sell my book!"

"Oh, he was selling all right," Becky said. "And I'm sure he was shoveling, too."

Somehow, I felt like I was confessing my unfaithfulness, sort of like telling her I'd been sleeping around but had finally found someone compatible, someone who understood ME for me, who would stand by me through thick and thin and whisper wonderful lines like: "You iz zee spitting image uf John Steinbeck" or "Zeez ez wonderful proze."

"He'll drop you like a hot potato as soon as he finds out you're bruised goods," Becky admonished. I felt cheap. Violated.

"But he's a lawyer and everything!" I said.

"Oh, well that explains it all," she said. "Stand-by for heartbreak number three. You'll be crying on my shoulder before the month is through."

"You're wrong about David," I said. "He's a go-getter, a warrior, a champion, and, well . . . a real stud in the literary world."

Of course, I was still trying to convince myself that my wife was wrong (even though, yes honey, she's always right.)

(continued . . . )