Yesterday, after we went to our friends' baby's baptism in Newport, R.I. and before we could take an overtired, cranky Junior to the after hours at their house, Chuck and I took a nice, long drive so Junior could catch some zzzzzzs.
"Remember when we stayed there?" Chuck asked as we drove past the Hotel Viking.
No sooner were the words out of his mouth than a Viking Tours bus pulled out in front of us.
"Is Junior still asleep?"
We took a turn down a side street and passed the local high school. A large sign out front read, "Home of the Vikings."
When we got our friends' house, after an hour of tooling around town, Chuck gave me a big smile.
"So you believe in signs?"
"I think someone is telling us to move here."
Gasp! Sputter! Could it be that the one thing (okay, the biggest thing) that drives me insane about my husband—his freakish obsession with all things Medieval—will ultimately be my salvation? My one-way ticket out of Mulletville?
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