Very Merry Wingmen Holiday Collection

by Prescott, Daisy

  Sitting in the most comfortable baby chair ever with a Boppy propped under my arms, I glance around the room, finally understanding the Grinch’s point-of-view. My heart must have grown in physical size to accommodate the emotion I feel for my wife and child.

  Hailey holds Shaw nestled against her chest, only the top of his head visible outside his baby burrito wrap. Next to her on the couch, Mack sleeps in Diane’s arms after nursing. In my old recliner, Alene snuggles on John’s lap, listening while he reads her The Night Before Christmas. Every now and then, her head dips forward and she jerks it back as her lids droop with sleep. I don’t know how she’s still awake.

  Ros and Dan are curled up together on the other couch. Their daughter was born three days after the babypalooza. Ginger haired Ione sleeps on Dan’s chest, swaddled and snug. I’m pretty sure Ros is asleep.

  I blink away the tired burn in my own eyes. Neither Hailey nor I have slept more than a few hours at a stretch the past ten days. I can’t imagine John and Diane have gotten much more than us, given they have a toddler and a newborn.

  The logs snap and pop, the room warm from the fire as snow lightly falls outside. White flakes cling to the boughs of the cedar trees and grass. Some random Christmas music softly plays through the speakers as people recover from the big feast.

  Shaw’s only nine days old, but whenever he sees Alene, he stops crying. And he cries a lot. But when she’s close by, he’s content. I’m not sure if he can even focus his eyes yet.

  Then again, he is a Donnely. With his pale blond fuzz and a single dimple, he already takes after his father. Handsomest baby around.

  John’s not amused and has declared more than once my son will never be allowed to date his daughter.

  We’ll see about that.

  That’s a long way off. We have years of these kids growing up together. Another generation of island boys chasing girls and making fools of themselves.

  I hope they end up even half as happy as I am now. A few years ago if you told me I’d be married and a dad, I would’ve laughed my ass off and then called you crazy.

  Stranger things have happened, but in my life, nothing has been better than falling in love with Hailey. Loving her has made me a better man, someone worthy of loving her and Shaw. The tomcat has been domesticated and I’ve never been happier. If I could, I’d probably purr with contentment.

  Yeah, I’m that much of a mush ball.

  It’s probably the lack of sleep.

  Let’s go with that.

  John reads the last line of the poem, “Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night.”

  “Peace on earth, goodwill to man,” I respond, the words holding more meaning now as we hold the future in our arms.

  Wouldn’t change a thing in my life.

  Except another little combo of Hailey and me. Or two. Twins.

  It’s always good to have goals for the new year.

  A Dan & Roslyn bonus scene

  Dan

  “Are you sure we’re doing the right thing? We hardly know that woman. She could be a baby smuggler.” Roslyn peered in the tiny side mirror of the convertible. “We should go back. Park here and we’ll return on foot. Keep the element of surprise. Maybe cut through the olive grove. Or better, the grape vines will provide better coverages. We’ll sneak through the vineyard. That’s the best idea.”

  Fighting my grin, I shifted the vintage Alfa Romeo Spider into third gear.

  “Why aren’t you slowing down?” She glanced over her shoulder at the billowing cloud of dust behind us before staring at me. “What are you doing? We need to go back and make sure our daughter is okay.”

  The rising screech in her voice told me she was making herself panic.

  “Love, she’s fine.” I ignored her glower, downshifting to take a tight curve. Ahead the road narrowed into a single lane under an arched bridge. No one was coming from the other direction, so I sped up, swiftly gliding through the underpass. “Maria Cristina is a nonna. She has five children and seventeen grandchildren of her own. If anyone is capable of watching Ione for two days, it’s her. Our daughter will be doted upon and spoiled, fed pastine and fresh burrata like a tiny queen. We’ll be lucky if her first word isn’t Nonna.”

  Roslyn’s gasp was soft and barely audible over the car’s engine, but the horrified expression on her face confirmed I’ve gone too far. Her chin wobbled and two fat tears rolled down her cheek.

  She brushed her fingertips beneath her oversized sunglasses. “You … you don’t think that will happen, do you? She’s probably a genius and will start speaking early. What if we miss it?”

  I lifted my hand from the knob of the gearshift and gave her thigh a squeeze. “We won’t miss it. She’s six months old. Months away from talking. I promise.”

  “You can’t keep that promise.” Pushing her glasses to the crown of her head, she swiped at her eyes. “This was a mistake. You should go to Venice on your own. I’ll stay at the house with Maria Cristina and Ione. Maybe she’ll teach me how to make pasta or harvest chicory. Or hunt for non-deadly mushrooms.”

  The road we were on was too narrow to pull over and I was forced to keep driving while my wife softly cried in the passenger seat. Tall umbrella pines lined this stretch of the Appian Way. I was grateful to the Romans for their civil engineering, but wish they had the foresight to make wider roads. A few hundred yards ahead, I spotted a small gas station and pulled into their lot.

  “Are we going back?” Ros eyed me hopefully.

  “Is that what you really want? Or would you rather FaceTime Maria Cristina and reassure yourself Ione is okay, then continue our trip to Venice and be wined, dined, and thoroughly seduced by your loving husband?” I tucked a wild strand of her auburn hair behind her ear, dragging my finger over the sensitive skin there and then down the soft expanse of her neck to her shoulder. Her white sundress had thin straps and already the strong Italian sun heated her skin, leaving it slightly pink.

  With a sigh, she leaned into my touch. “Am I being ridiculous?”

  There was no right response to that question. Instead of answering it, I leaned across the small gap between us and kissed her softly. “We can go back if that’s what you really want. Venice isn’t going anywhere.”

  “It’s sinking. Rising sea levels mean eventually it will disappear.” She blinked away the tears lingering on her lashes. Taking a deep inhale, she held it for a few seconds before slowly blowing out the air. “I’m okay. We can go. Maria Cristina is more than capable.”

  “Want to call her?” I pointed at my phone on the dash where it’s showing our current location on the map.

  “No, that’s a lose-lose situation.” She flipped down the sun visor and checked her face.

  “How so?” I asked, placing a soft kiss on the warm skin of her shoulder.

  “If Ione is inconsolable, my heart will crack into a thousand pieces and we’ll have to go back immediately. And if she’s fine, then my heart will break because she doesn’t even miss me.” She faced me, her lips trembling again. “I don’t want to spend our entire weekend crying.”

  “Oh, sweetheart.” With my index finger, I turned her chin toward me so I could brush my lips against hers. “You will never be replaced as Ione’s mother. How is this different than when the nanny cares for her while you work?”

  “For one thing, I’m normally in the guest house across the driveway. I can’t run from Venice back to Lazio if something happens.”

  “I can’t promise nothing will happen, but between Maria Cristina, Luca, and Teresa, they’ll take good care of her. Back on the island, we’ve let Tom and Hailey babysit her.”

  Her lips twitched with a smile. “I trust Hailey.”

  “What about my cousins?” Maria Cristina’s mother was my grandfather Sal’s sister. This made her my second cousin, or first cousin once removed. Something like that. Didn’t matter, family was family. Especially here in Italy. We’ve been embraced with love and fed until bursting by people I’ve onl
y met a few times in my life.

  “I trust them more than Tom. Or the Kelsos.” Roslyn removed her sunglasses and picked up her enormous sun hat from the floor by her feet. “I’m better. We can go.”

  “Promise?” I asked, softly, my fingers tracing the small eyelets in the fabric covering her thigh.

  She nodded. “I love Maria Cristina. Remember when she made me special pasta for pregnant women when we were here last summer? I know Ione will be fine.”

  “Are you sure?” I had to triple check.

  “Yes, take me to Venice and ravish me. We can spend all day making love in the hotel and order room service.”

  “We could do that in Rome and save ourselves the drive.” I offered, half serious. “We could back to Antico Forno Roscioli. Or that pizzeria on the road behind the Vatican.”

  She peered at me from beneath the oversized brim of her hat. “We already spent a week in Rome. Does this have anything to do with those shiny pizza tools you were eyeing at the ferramenta in Genzano?”

  I gave her a shy grin. “Busted. I can’t help it. They’re so beautiful. Handcrafted. The quality of the pizza peels is better than anything we can get at home. Jeff and Coop back at Sal’s will be over the moon. Did you see the olive wood handles? Bellisima!”

  I touched my fingers to my thumb, kissed them, and then released them into a single jazz hand. Roslyn laughed and rolled her eyes. “Everything in Italy is bellisima to you. Before we arrived here, I thought you only used that word for me.” She pushed her full bottom lip into pout.

  “There are many beautiful things in the world, but only one tesoro mio.” While staring into her eyes, I lifted her hand and placed soft kisses on the inside of her wrist.

  “Dial it down, Romeo.” She laughed, but her pupils were dilated and her pulse fluttered beneath my lips.

  With a final kiss, I released her. “Too much, tesoro mio?”

  Her eyes fluttered closed. “You know what that expression does to me.”

  “Then I should call you tesoro mio every day.” I snuck a quick peck to her lips. “Shall we go?”

  She replaced her sunglasses gave me a cheeky smile. “Andiamo, mi amore!”

  I melted whenever she called me her love. She was right about the Italian making the little terms of affection ten times more powerful.

  Once we were on the straightaway and I didn’t have to shift as often, I reached for her hand, entwining our fingers together. We drove that way in silence for a while, enjoying the sun and scenery.

  “I have an idea,” she said above the wind. “You could buy the guys the David aprons with the magnifying glass over the penis. Those seemed to be a popular near the Pantheon. They’d be much easier to pack and they’ll fit in our checked bags.” Her teasing me was a good sign we were past the mini-freakout.

  “First, I’ll ship the new pizza equipment home. Second, why in the name of all that is good and holy in the world, would I want my kitchen crew to look like they’re naked? That was the worst idea since whoever decided to make those aprons.” My scowl was exaggerated to emphasize my disgust. I released her hand to downshift because of a slow truck ahead of us.

  Her grin turned into full giggles. There was nothing in the world more beautiful than Roslyn full of joy. Apologies to Michelangelo and his fellow masters.

  With a knowing arch to her eyebrow, she rested her hand high on my thigh. “The only person I ever want to see naked in the kitchen is you.”

  “Too bad you’re not the only one. I still have second thoughts about the Naked Whidbey calendar.” I grimaced. “At least me and my apron are so two years ago.”

  She frowned and wouldn’t meet my eyes.

  “What?” I asked, fearing my one time stint as a nude model upset her.

  “I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but Connie has her favorite months framed and Sandy glued this year’s calendar pages over the old ones. Cari’s talking about doing a new version this year.” She bit her lip and I was pretty sure it wasn’t because she was nervous to tell me, but to keep herself from laughing.

  Resigned, I close my eyes. “How are we going to explain this to Ione?”

  “Hopefully the fascination will have died down in five or ten years.”

  “Stop laughing.” I attempted to still my face into a stoic expression reserved for martyred saints.

  “Take me to Venice. All that beauty will distract you from your poor decisions in the past.” She squeezed my thigh before patting it.

  I knew she meant the splendor of the architecture and the magical beauty of the canals, but all I pictured was her, naked and perfect on crisp white sheets.

  * * *

  We parked the car near the airport and hired a private taxi to carry us across the lagoon to Venice. Our driver maneuvered his pristine, vintage wooden boat through the busy water, slipping through the evening gondola and vaporetto traffic of the Grand Canal to deliver us to the private waterside entrance of our hotel.

  Upstairs in our room, Roslyn immediately opened the sheer white curtains and then the tall windows facing the canal. Leaning out over the small, Juliet balcony, she happily shouted, “Hello, Venice. I’ve missed you.”

  From down below, a male voice returned the greeting. “La bella rossa! Vieni qui e mi dai una bacio.”

  Another male voice joined the first. “Anchio. Stasera sono tutto per te!”

  “Anchio,” repeated a few more men before their words turned into a chorus of laughter and insulting each other.

  Laughing, Roslyn twisted to face me, her eyes full of questions. “What are they saying?”

  “From my limited Italian, I think they’re suggesting you open up a kissing booth.” I leaned past her so the horny Venetians could see she was taken. To prove my point, I pulled her into my arms and kissed her until her laughter made it impossible. Clapping and cheers drifted up from the water below.

  “What was that for?” she asked, breathless and a little dazed.

  “Staking my claim, Cara Mia,” I softly growled against her mouth. “Easier than running down four flights of stairs to the canal and throwing all of them into the water.”

  Her hooded eyes widened. “That water is disgusting.”

  So were the things they want to do to my wife.

  “That it is.” I gave her another quick kiss to her lips. “Enough with those canal rats, what should we do with ourselves? Overpriced Bellini on Piazza San Marco? Gelato at that little place near the Rialto bridge? Squeezing a quick visit to the Academia? Gondola ride through the canals?”

  With each suggestion, I peppered her neck and freckled shoulders with kisses while toeing off my shoes and slowly leading us away from the window. Reluctantly breaking contact with her skin, I yanked my T-shirt over my head.

  “Or we could find a little bar and have cicchetti.” I slipped a finger under one delicate strap of her dress and slid it off of her shoulder, revealing a paler line of skin. Repeating the movement on the other side, I gently tugged her loose dress down her torso until it pooled in a white cloud around her feet. With a kiss to each sun-kissed shoulder, I reached behind her and undid the clasp of her bra. “There’s always the option of going to the top of the bell tower for the view.”

  “This view is my favorite.” Her fingers roamed over my chest and abs before she dipped them into the waistband of my shorts. “We could always take a boat to Murano and buy some glass.”

  My patience evaporated when she palmed me. I spun her around and pressed her back to my front, cupping her full breasts in my hands. “Or we could spend the afternoon making love, tesoro mio”

  She responded by threading her hand through my hair and pulling me down for a kiss. “Sono tutta per te.”

  I’m all yours.

  “Sempre,” I whisper between kisses.

  Always.

  A John & Diane bonus scene

  John

  “Alene’s too young to go to school.” I pick up the tiny backpack from the counter and dangle it off of my fingers.r />
  “I know. It’s not even preschool and it’s only a few hours a couple of times a week.” Diane scoops up the pink bag and sets it on the counter. “She has to be three to start preschool. This is more pre-preschool, slightly more than daycare.”

  I’m not some sort of old fashioned caveman who thinks my wife is the only one who can care for my children. I just hate the idea of my daughter stuck in some germ-infested, viral petri dish daycare where the carpets probably have never been steam-cleaned and she’ll be exposed to the nose-pickers and future glue-eaters.

  While I glower at Diane, she fills a small baggie with Cheerios and seals it shut. Next she adds apple slices and grapes to a small Tupperware container.

  “Stop giving me the stink eye. She’s going to have fun.” A small line appears between her eyebrows.

  “If she’s only going for the morning, why are you packing her enough snacks to last a week?” I point at the squeezy tube of bananas and strawberries she’s stacked on top of the other food.

  “I don’t want her to get hangry.” The line deepens between her brows.

  Leaning my forearms on the counter to bring my face down to her level, I study my wife. Completely focused on stacking the snacks inside of the bag, she refuses to meet my gaze. Other than the furrow in her forehead, her lips are pressed together and her shoulders are tight. In fact, they’re locked like she’s tense or ready for a fight.

  “Hey,” I whisper, reaching out to rest my hand on her shoulder. The muscle bunches and releases beneath my hand.

  “Don’t look at me with those eyes.” She lifts her chin and stares up at the ceiling.

  Her lower lashes sparkle with tears and her green eyes shine with emotion.

  The sound of my children crying is a distant second to seeing Diane cry. My heart gives a tight squeeze in my chest when a single tears breaks free and trails down her cheek. She quickly wipes it away before swiping her fingers under both eyes and blinking back more tears.