Laura Smith is the mom of two adorable children, the wife of a successful businessman...and the unappreciated shadow of the woman she once was. Somehow, her family never seems to notice that the laundry gets done, the house is picked up, dinner mysteriously appears on the table, and then cleans up after itself. Instead of being her children's idol and her husband's lover, she's become a funny little footnote in her own life. That is until she takes her children on vacation to Disneyworld in sunny Florida, where she just happens to end up in a hotel room right next to her college flame, Alan James. Old passions ignite and new excitement sparks as Laura and Alan bring new meaning to "The Most Magical Place on Earth." But when Laura and Alan's spouses unexpectedly show up in Florida, a comedy of errors ensues, and only one thing is for certain: Laura's life will never be the same again.
NOTE: This is a revamp of my former book, THE ADULTERER'S UNOFFICIAL GUIDE TO FAMILY VACATIONS.
“And that’s the story of the first Bombay!” I shut the book carefully to avoid startling my birds. The four cassowaries stared at me, blinking.
“Missi, are you reading to those weird emus?” Mom popped up behind me, causing me to drop the book and startling the birds. They started running around in circles like they were on fire.
“They’re not emus, Mom. They’re cassowaries.” I bent to retrieve my cousin Gin’s book. “Totally different thing.”
Mom frowned and looked at the birds. She thought them weird with their prehistoric looking casques – the bone like structures on top of their heads, and lizard necks and feet. I didn’t want her to hurt their feelings by calling them ‘weird.’ I loved these animals. Sure, they resemble an ostrich in height, and a turkey in color with their bright blue necks and scarlet, dangling wattles hanging from their throats, but they are completely unique otherwise. Kind of like me. Maybe that’s why I liked them so much.
I waved my large feathered friends away and motioned for Mom to sit down on a rustic, wood chair. I took the chair opposite her – the one that looks like a giant, orange hand.
“What’s up, Mom?”
Her eyes followed the cassowaries out. “You were reading them the Bombay Bedtime Stories book? Why?”
I shrugged. Mom should’ve, by now, known not to ask me that question. Who knows why I read them those stories? Perhaps they could learn inside those little pea brains of theirs. Maybe I just liked Gin Bombay’s book. I never questioned my own motives, mostly because I did what I wanted anyway.
Maybe I should explain. My name is Mississippi Bombay and I come from a family of assassins. Well, we used to be – for about four thousand years anyway. It was the family biz but we all recently retired from assassination because it just got to be too much. My generation started having issues with the idea that our kids would grow up killing people for a living. Huh? I wonder why no one had that problem before? Anyway, after a year of my cousins squabbling with the Council, we all just decided to end the business.
I was the family’s inventor and I live on the family island of Santa Muerta – still blowing up things, but for fun this time. We’d kept our secret tropical island headquarters after the shutdown because it’s been in the family for centuries. And it with it being off the coast of western South America – it was still a popular vacation spot for the family. We kept the block of condos too so the Bombays would always have their own homes here. They didn’t visit as often as I’d like, but it was there for them nonetheless.
“Where’s Lex? And the boys? Aren’t they home for the holidays?” Mom asked, forgetting that I’d already told her the answers twice already. I needed to work on a cure for Alzheimers, soon. Or maybe she was hitting my future, potential glaucoma stash of marijuana plants again. Oh, I didn’t have glaucoma – but it’s always best to be prepared, right?
“Lex was doing stunts for a film shoot in Germany and the boys are on a college-sponsored ski trip in Switzerland - with, I suspect some dangerous elements involved that I’m refusing to think about. I’m spending Christmas with you this year, remember?” I cringed as I added the ‘remember’ part. I’m sure she didn’t like to be reminded of her recent issues with memory loss.
As usual, Mom ignored me, instead handing me a strangely familiar manila envelope sealed with a blood-red wax stamp. The Bombay Crest. I haven’t seen one of these since the Council disbanded the Bombay Family business of assassination.
“What’s this?” I took the envelope from her and turned it over, afraid to break the seal. Once you broke the seal, you as much as accepted the assignment. Old fears die hard. Technically, we didn’t do this type of work anymore. The island of Santa Muerta, where I lived, was no longer Bombay Central HQ. I no longer invented strange ways to kill people because we no longer killed people.
Well, I guess we could still kill people – there just wasn’t an organization that made us do it anymore.