by Nina Lane
“I heard you were going to have a children’s stage.” Joan, a mother of two teenagers and an unexpected three-year-old, reaches for a cookie. “What kind of entertainment do you have planned?”
“Hopefully a magician and an acrobatic group,” I say. “But if I can bring in a high-level sponsor, Slice of Pie will be the headliner.”
“Slice of Pie?” Susan and Joan exchanged impressed looks at my mention of the red-hot children’s band, which is fronted by a charismatic and curly-headed young guitarist and singer known as the Pieman. “Wow.”
“I hope they don’t play ‘Rumble in My Tumble.’” Another mother, Wendy, approaches, pushing her sunglasses on top of her head. “If I have to hear that song one more time, I’m drowning myself in chardonnay.”
“Oh, please.” Joan rolls her eyes. “As if you need an excuse to drown yourself in chardonnay.”
We all laugh, and Wendy acknowledges the truth of the remark with a good-natured grin.
“So will we need tickets, Liv?” Joan asks.
“There will be a few VIP seats, but since the stage will be in the park, it’s all part of the festivities.”
“What about backstage passes?” Susan asks. “Can we meet the Pieman? He’s so adorable.”
“Noah wants to be the Pieman when he grows up,” Wendy says. “He’d lose his mind if he got to meet him in person.”
“Well, nothing is confirmed yet,” I reply. “I’m waiting to see if Edison will sponsor the festival so we can afford more entertainment.”
I glance at Wendy, wanting to change the subject. “So didn’t Noah start pre-K this year? How is that going?”
“Oh, it’s wonderful. I really should have had him tested for early enrollment.”
“Liv, Louise said you have Nicholas on the waitlist for Preschool of the Arts,” Susan says. “Have you heard from them yet?”
“No, but he won’t be three until next January. They won’t take him before then.”
“Oh, they will if your child is advanced,” Susan assures me, patting Bailey’s head. “I’ve had Bailey on the list since she was one. I expect she’ll be enrolled this fall.”
“Dylan just started at P of A.” Carol, the mother of a three-year-old son and newborn daughter, approaches the table. “It’s been incredible. They emphasize arts and music as well as academics, so the children go into kindergarten really well prepared. Some of them are even reading at advanced levels by the time they start.”
My heart sinks a little. I dropped a ball I didn’t even realize I was holding. I make a mental note to call the preschool as soon as I get home, once again feeling like I’m falling behind in some sort of race, even though I don’t even know where the finish line is.
“…the Bahamas,” Susan is saying, the conversation apparently having shifted to another topic. “We usually stay on Paradise Island, but this year we’re going to Nassau. We’ve never been there before.”
“Are you taking the kids?” Wendy asks.
“No, they’re staying with my mother.” Susan gives a sigh of relief. “I can’t wait. I’ve already booked two spa days and a snorkeling trip.”
“Bob and I are going to Colorado in August,” Joan says. “At least it’s a getaway. The kids are going to visit his sister for about a week.”
The other women chime in with their upcoming summer vacation plans. I stay silent. I can’t remember the last time Dean and I went on a trip alone together. We’ve taken Nicholas to California to visit Dean’s father, and to Chicago a couple of times, but other than occasional talk about going to Italy someday, we haven’t gone anywhere else.
I’m beginning to think with our focus on Nicholas and our work, Dean and I have lost sight of each other in ways that have nothing to do with sex. I can’t even remember the last time we managed to go on a date—mostly because by the time evening rolls around, I’m too exhausted to want to do anything but sit on the sofa and watch TV, though even then I’m usually falling asleep before a program is half over.
“Hey, there’s my main man.” A deep voice booms over the park chatter as Archer strides toward us from the parking lot.
“Unca Archer!” Nicholas launches himself at Archer like a little rocket and hugs his legs.
Archer rubs Nicholas’s head and extends a fist. Nicholas obliges with a return fist bump, and then they simultaneously flare their fingers out into “fireworks.”
“How’s it going, man?” Archer grabs Nicholas’s legs and swings him upside-down to carry him back to the playground. Nicholas shrieks with laughter.
There’s a palpable shift in the air as the other mothers watch Archer approach—big and muscular with black hair and the hard edges of a biker, Archer West draws a great deal of feminine interest and fascination.
“Hey, Liv.” Archer hauls Nicholas upright and upside-down again, causing him to burst into a fit of giggles. “You get my text?”
“Yes, thanks. Can you drop us off at home after we pick up the chairs?”
“Sure.” Archer flips Nicholas around a few times before setting him back down.
“Swing,” Nicholas shouts, tugging on Archer’s hand.
Archer obligingly follows Nicholas to the swings.
“He is so hot,” Carol mutters to me under her breath. “What’s he doing here?”
“I asked him to help me transport some used chairs from a furniture warehouse,” I say. “They’re for the festival auction.”
“You’re auctioning old chairs?” Carol asks.
“I’m collecting old chairs,” I correct. “The auction is going to be called the Chair Fair. We’re going to give a chair to anyone who wants one, and they can paint it with whatever design they want and return it to me. Then we’re going to auction the chairs along with the travel and dinner packages that local businesses have donated.”
There’s a murmur of impressed appreciation among The Moms, which makes me feel good. With the exception of Susan, who claims she can’t “draw a straight line,” all the other women agree to participate in the auction by painting a chair.
“I’m going to keep all the chairs in the shed at the Butterfly House, so you can come by any time to pick one up,” I tell them. “I’m going to do a garden-themed chair, and I’m hoping I can get Archer to paint a comic-book chair to go along with a gift certificate from a game store.”
“He could be a comic book hero,” Carol remarks, eyeing Archer as he catches Nicholas coming down a slide. “Is he married?”
“You are,” Susan reminds her.
“Yeah, but Frank doesn’t look like that,” Carol replies. “Archer could put the rumble back in my tumble, if you know what I mean.”
Susan chuckles. “Every mother of young children knows what you mean. That’s why we need these vacations alone.”
Good heavens. Is that true? Do we all have this dearth in our libidos and sex lives? Are The Moms so caught up in running households and raising children that sex has fallen by the wayside?
“Honestly, I’d rather have a spa day than a romantic night with Frank these days,” Carol says. “The idea of being alone and pampered is way more exciting than having to do any actual work. Maybe if I were more relaxed, I’d feel sexy again.”
“Yeah, well, Paula had a full-time nanny and plenty of time to pamper herself… you know what a babe she is… and her husband still ended up having an affair,” Wendy points out. “Less than a year after their son was born!”
The other ladies shake their heads and cluck their tongues. I eat a cookie and sigh inwardly.
I really do need to do something—not because I think Dean would start eyeing other women, but because I know how lucky I am to have him. In the chaos of the past two years, he’s always been right there, steady as an oak tree—walking with a colicky Nicholas at night so I could sleep, going to work every day after making breakfast and coffee, ask
ing one of his grad students to babysit so he can take me out, always ensuring Nicholas and I have everything we need and want.
He and I have struggled with dry spells before, but not for longer than a few months. This one seems to have been going on for two years.
And my husband does look like Archer. Heck, my husband is a zillion times hotter and sexier. And still, even when he’s thrusting inside me and murmuring dirty things in my ear… I start thinking of daycare payments.
Really, Liv?
I need to do something more than just get my groove back.
I turn to pack up the snack containers. Archer runs around with Nicholas and a few of the other kids, much to both their and their mothers’ pleasure.
If these other women can manage to take vacations alone with their husbands, why can’t I? Schedules are certainly adjustable. But though I love the idea of Dean and I going on a trip alone together, I can’t prevent a nagging worry. If we’re alone in a hotel room, there’s some serious pressure to get uninhibited and raw.
Which would obviously be the point and, under the right circumstances, I’d be all in. But now I can just picture myself gorging on an expensive, room-service meal that I didn’t have to cook and then falling facedown on a huge, feather-soft bed to sleep for eight hours straight.
Leaving my husband to his own devices. Again.
But what if I don’t tell him about it at all? That would give me even more motivation—I could plan a hot, romantic trip just for the two of us and surprise him with it. How incredible would that be?
Ideas start sparking in my mind. I’ll buy new lingerie, get a mani/pedi, maybe a new haircut. I’ll study the 31 Days of Hot Sex website for new ideas, read some smutty novels. Heck, I might even check out a couple of dirty movies.
If I follow the Dean West belief that a plan is the bedrock of every action, then I should be raring to go by the time we close the hotel room door.
That’s it! That’s the answer. It has to be.
As Archer returns with a giggling Nicholas slung over his shoulder, I think I should have found—or at least looked for—the answer sooner.
Maybe if I had, Dean wouldn’t have turned his attention to work so much over the past few years. And maybe he wouldn’t be facing the lure of a fancy, international job that feels like it might suddenly be my new competition.
CHAPTER FIVE
OLIVIA
AFTER WE GET NICHOLAS BUCKLED INTO the car seat in Archer’s truck, I direct him to the furniture warehouse where we load a bunch of old wooden dining chairs, a rocking chair, and an Adirondack chair into the back of the truck. Then we head over to an industrial area of town, one populated by junkyards and manufacturing buildings. He parks near a warehouse whose parking lot is lined with trucks and vans.
The side door opens, and Kelsey strides out. In contrast to her usual professional attire of a tailored suit and silk shirt, she’s wearing jeans and a tank top smudged with dirt.
She smiles as she greets us, but a faint awkwardness crackles between her and Archer. Archer unbuckles Nicholas from his car seat and hefts him into his arms.
“What’s up with the chairs?” Kelsey asks, nodding to the truck bed.
I explain about the auction as we walk around to the back of the warehouse.
“I’m recruiting both of you to paint chairs,” I tell her and Archer. “Kelsey, you could do a weather-themed chair or maybe one based on Russian egg painting designs. And, Archer, what about a superhero theme or a Blue chair?”
Tension winds through the air at my mention of Blue, the superheroine Archer created after he and Kelsey met. Based on Kelsey, Blue is a fierce, powerful character who derives her power from the forces of weather and uses tornadoes to defeat her enemies.
“He can’t paint a Blue chair,” Kelsey mutters. “Blue is private.”
“Blue is fearless,” Archer says, shooting her a pointed look.
Kelsey’s mouth tightens. Their gazes clash, like sword blades striking. I suddenly wonder what I’ve started with my innocent remark about chairs.
“Yeah, I’ll paint a chair, Liv,” Archer tells me.
“He’s not painting Blue,” Kelsey says, her gaze still on Archer. “Blue is mine.”
“Blue is mine, storm girl.” Archer shakes his head and strides ahead of us. “You know it. Now you just have to admit it.”
Good heavens. With their strong personalities, Kelsey and Archer still often clash, but I have no idea why a comic-book character is a source of tension. I wait until Archer is a distance away before I lean closer to Kelsey.
“What was that all about?” I whisper.
“Him being a stubborn ass.”
“Dean mentioned something was going on with you two, but he didn’t elaborate.”
Kelsey sighs. “Did Dean push you to get married?”
I blink. “He didn’t have to push me. I wanted to marry him.”
I don’t think I’d wanted anything more in my life than to marry Dean West. Not even the love and attention of my mother.
“Does Archer want to marry you?” I ask Kelsey.
“You don’t have to sound surprised.”
“I’m not. I mean, I’m surprised he didn’t want to before now. You’ve been together for two years, right? You’re living together, you work together, you love each other. What’s left to do but get married?”
“Why does that have to be the goal?” Kelsey replies curtly, running a hand through her blue-streaked hair. “It’s so good the way it is, you know? Why change it now?”
Exactly.
The word pops unexpectedly into my head. Kelsey has always been such a no-bullshit friend—a risk-taker, the woman who went up against the male-dominated meteorology department in order to get her Spiral Project funded. And she succeeded. She drives right into storms and tornados. So it doesn’t make much sense that marriage would be the one thing Kelsey March doesn’t want to face.
On the other hand, I can certainly relate to her desire to keep things as they are. Because when it’s so good, why risk change?
“Hey, Liv, this is Roger Jameson.” Archer approaches with a thin, balding man who extends his hand to me.
“Liv West.” I shake his hand before looking past him to the food truck that has a faded burger logo and milkshake painted on the side. “Is that it?”
“Needs work, but it’s got a burner stove and prep space.” Roger pulls open the door, and I go inside. “Plenty of storage space.”
The scent of grease hangs in the air. I look at the rusted fixtures, the old propane tank, and try to envision Allie and I working here. If we fixed the truck up, we could run a mobile unit of the Wonderland Café, serving a limited selection of our menu.
But that’s not all we want to do. Last year, we talked about the idea of a birthday party truck where we could bring themed parties to children’s homes—including the decorations, costumes for kids, character actors, all the party supplies and food. A turnkey party, delivered right to your front door.
I shake my head. “I’m sorry, but this isn’t quite right. We want to be able to serve food, but we need more than a kitchen in a truck.”
As we step outside, I notice an old, silver trailer parked in a corner of the lot overgrown with grass and weeds. The shell is dented and rusty, the metal tarnished, the windows cracked.
“Whose is that?” I asked.
“The silver Twinkie?” Roger glances toward the trailer and laughs. “That’s an old ’72 Airstream. Used to belong to my father-in-law. Hasn’t been used in years.”
“Can I see it?” I ask. “Is it for sale?”
Roger shrugs. “I never really thought about it, to be honest. Didn’t imagine anyone would want to put the time and money into it.”
We walk toward the Airstream—and even though it looks like a huge, old piece of metal pipe, I h
ave a flash of what it could be. A sleek, shiny vehicle emblazoned with the Wonderland Café logo.
We go inside. The interior is a mess of scarred furnishings and torn carpet, but I can see it as a delightful miniature version of the café, with a checkerboard floor, striped curtains, whimsical clocks, and mismatched, cushy furniture.
We’d have Alice in Wonderland murals on the walls and ceilings, teacup-shaped tables, and teapot lamps. We could set up a red-and-white striped awning outside, with table and chairs for the party-goers. If we had a trailer like this, we could even host birthday parties at parks and gardens.
“The shell is good,” Roger remarks. “You’d probably have to gut the interior. Exterior work too, of course. I can look into a price, if you’re interested.”
“I might be.”
I feel Archer looking at me as we walk back outside.
“You’d need another truck to pull it,” he warns me. “And the restoration would cost more than the sale.”
Though I know he’s right, I take a few pictures of the Airstream with my phone and send them to Allie. The whole project will likely be more than we can afford, but the vision is in my head now, crystal-clear. Once upon a time, my decorating ideas were limited to a two-bedroom apartment, but since Allie and I revived and opened the café, and Dean and I restored the Butterfly House, projects like this are exciting rather than intimidating.
After Roger tells me he’ll also ask around about a used pickup, he and Archer start talking about motorcycles. Kelsey and I return to the truck with Nicholas.
“Will you be around on Memorial Day weekend?” I ask her, as I get Nicholas situated in his car seat again.
“Yeah, why?”
“I’m planning a surprise getaway for Dean,” I explain. “With him being gone so much, and all our work, we haven’t gone away together in ages. I figure it’s about time, so I want to surprise him with a weekend trip. Can you and Archer take care of Nicholas?”
“Of course. Archer has been wanting to take him over to that miniature train show in Forest Grove, so we’ll do that when you guys are gone.”
