Finding Home

Epilogue

AUbrEY

M usic is blaring. It’s my playlist, this time. As the czar of our seventh annual Fourth of July party, I always get to pick the music, along with planning the food and everybody’s accommodations. Caleb and all the other rock lovers in attendance needn’t worry, though: I always make sure there’s something for everyone on my party playlist, given the wide age ranges and musical preferences of those in attendance every year.

There’s a whole lot of star power at this party, as usual, but someone passing by on a boat wouldn’t realize that, thanks to the downhome, family-friendly vibe. Also, thanks to the gaggle of kids splashing around in the lake and running around on our extra-long stretch of shoreline.

Thanks to Caleb buying the house next door three years ago, our shoreline feels like a private beach club these days. I thought it was excessive when Caleb bought the adjacent house for family and friends to have an easy, convenient to place to stay while visiting. But I must admit, the idea turned out to be a great one. In fact, between our visiting friends, family, and my parents, the guest house, as we now call it, is rarely empty.

“A-Bomb!” Caleb calls out from the lake. My husband is standing in waist-deep water with our two-year-old son, Bonham, in one arm, while our four-year-old daughter, Page, uses Caleb’s body as her own personal jungle gym. Somehow, even in the midst of the chaos wrought by the children clinging to him, Caleb is managing to calmly chat with the two men standing near him in the lake: Dax Morgan and Reed Rivers.

“Babe!” Caleb calls to me again. “Bonzo’s had a huge blowout in his swim diaper, and Page the Maniac won’t let me leave to change it!”

“A likely story,” I call to him, and Caleb laughs. He’s changed more than his fair share of diapers over the years, first with Raine back in the day, and then with Page and Bonham in rapid succession. But that doesn’t mean my husband likes to do it, especially when he’s happily catching up with close friends.

I motion to Caleb that I’m coming and then strip off my cover-up and wade toward him through the water in my bikini. “You owe me one,” I tease, when I reach Caleb. By now, it’s a running gag between us: taking on the task of changing a diaper and then claiming to be “owed one,” even though neither of us ever collects on the purported debt. As we’ve come to learn, our imaginary balance sheet always corrects itself, without either of us ever needing to keep score in earnest.

“How can I owe you ‘one,’ when I already owe you everything ?” Caleb quips, as I take our poopie son from him with rigid arms and a scrunched nose.

“Oh, I’ll find a way to let you pay me back,” I tease. To Bonham, I mutter, “Come on, Bonzo. Let’s get you all cleaned up.” I can already tell it’s going to be a bad one—a blowout that went everywhere . “Bio-hazard coming through!” I call out, as I make my way toward the house, and all our friends part like the Red Sea.

Inside, I find Reed Rivers’ wife, Georgina, changing their infant son’s diaper on the living room floor. So, I grab a nearby changing pad and throw it down next to Georgina. As we’re both chatting and working on our similar tasks, my sister-in-law, Miranda waltzes through the front door of the house and makes a silly “pee-yew” sound at the sight of Georgina and me surrounded by dirty diapers on the floor.

“How delightful ,” Miranda deadpans. “I’m loving this for you ladies.”

“Yep, we’re living the dream,” I reply, and Georgina chuckles. In Georgie’s case, she really is living the dream, though. I mean, so am I. But I’ve managed to get pregnant easily, every time we’ve tried. From what I understand, Georgina and Reed had to work pretty hard to make their baby dreams a reality, so I’m quite certain she’s savoring every moment of this journey, even changing poopie diapers.

“Can I use a back room to breastfeed him?” Georgina asks. And when I say, of course, yes, she bids a temporary farewell to Miranda and me and heads off.

With my own son’s fresh diaper secured, I stand him up, pat his little bottom, and ask, “You want a snack before you go back out, Bubba?”

Bonham shakes his little head. “ Dadda .” He begins toddling toward the front door, but I stop him. “Hold up. I have to watch you go to Dadda to make sure you make it to him safely. Lemme wash my hands first, and then we’ll go.” As Bonham grumbles, I wash my hands, while Miranda grabs a cold drink from the fridge. Hence, the reason she came inside, apparently. And then, we head out the front door as a trio, at which point, Bonham toddles at full speed toward his beloved father in the lake.

When Caleb sees his drummer boy racing toward him, he eggs him on and scoops him up at the shoreline with a loud whoop. I glance around for Page, our four-year-old, and find her nearby with some other kids, being watched over by my mother. But when I hear a happy squeal in the water, I turn toward Caleb again, just in time to watch him dragging Bonham around by his little hands, exactly like he used to do with Raine back in the day.

“Aw,” I coo. “That makes my heart go pitter pat.”

“He’s so cute with him,” Miranda murmurs.

“He’s cute with all his kids.” I absently touch my belly, even though I’m not showing yet. Caleb doesn’t know this, but the phrase “all his kids” will soon refer to four of them, rather than the three he knows about.

“Have you seen Raine anywhere?” Miranda asks. “She’s supposed to give me a pedicure.”

“Last I saw her, she was playing horseshoes with Rocco near the guest house.”

We both look over at the shoreline next door, just in time to catch Raine, slack jawed and frozen, with a horseshoe in her hand, staring in awe at Jackson Morgan—the teenage son of Dax and Violet. At the moment, he happens to be striding past Raine and Rocco, on his way to the lake, alongside Paula’s gorgeous, vivacious, teenage daughter, Zelda. Not surprisingly, Zelda is commanding Jackson’s full attention. So much so, he’s not registering ten-year-old Raine’s existence in the slightest.

“Crap,” I say. “I know that look.”

Miranda giggles. “Can’t say I blame her for having a crush on him. Jackson looks exactly like his father, and Dax isn’t a worldwide sex symbol for nothing.”

“I’m not ready for this, Miranda. She’s ten.”

“The perfect age to have her first crush.”

I flap my lips together. “Jackson doesn’t know she exists, right?”

“Not at all. She’s totally invisible to him.”

“Thank god.” I rub my forehead. “Damn. I was hoping my kids would turn out to be late bloomers, like me. I didn’t have a crush till I was fifteen. But it looks like maybe Raine got Claudia’s boy-crazy gene.”

“I’ve got the same gene, unfortunately, so she probably got it from her daddy’s side of the gene pool, too.”

“When did crushes start for you?”

Miranda grimaces. “Around Raine’s age. Sorry.”

“Same as Claudia. In sixth grade, she wanted to marry this boy named James.” Once again, I find myself thinking how much my sister-in-law reminds me of Claudia. I thought that the first time I met Miranda, and the resemblance has only grown and crystallized, since then, the more I’ve gotten to know my sister-in-law over the years.

“I think I’ll let Raine off the hook for that pedicure,” Miranda says. “If she happens to be looking for me later, let her know I’m over there.” She motions toward a group that includes Aloha Carmichael, Aloha’s adorable husband, Zander, and their two closest friends, Keane and Maddy Morgan—Dax’s older brother and his wife. And off Miranda goes, slithering past me in her bikini, smelling of coconuts and confidence.

“A-Bomb!” Caleb shouts from the lake, drawing my attention. “Look at Bonzo! He’s ready for the Olympics!”

Caleb leans down to whisper something to our son, and a moment later, he swims, on his own, about ten yards, from Caleb to Dax’s outstretched hands.

“Woohoo!” I call out. “Go, Bonzo, go!” I race down to the shoreline to cheer from a closer distance, and Bonham repeats the feat by returning to his father.

When Bonham reaches him, Caleb scoops up his son and high-fives him, and our sweet little water-logged boy smiles proudly.

“You want to go a third time?” Caleb asks excitedly.

“All done!” Bonham chokes out. “Sand.”

“You sure? Okay.” He calls to me. “He wants to play with his sand toys, babe.”

“I’ll get him settled!”

Caleb brings Bonham to me, and I get him settled with my father and some sand toys on the shore, at which point I accept my husband’s sexy invitation to return to the water with him for some “alone-time.” It’s a no-brainer to say yes. My husband’s only become sexier to me over the years, as we’ve settled into our happy life here on the lake. I’ve seen the whole world with this man by now, always with our family in tow, usually during short summer tours with the band. But those experiences never feel like real life to me. They always feel like a grand adventure. A vacation. While this place here on Lake Lucille always feels like home.

When we’re all the way to our chests in the cool water, and finally acclimated to the temperature, I straddle Caleb’s torso with my legs, slide my arms around his neck, and press my center into his bulging hard-on. For several minutes, we make out like horny teenagers, our lust consuming us.

“I was thinking we really should buy that house,” Caleb says. He doesn’t need to explain. The owner of the house on the other side of the guest house mentioned he was thinking about selling the other day, when we ran into him in town while shopping for party supplies.

“Oh, yeah?”

“This party is only going to get bigger every year, right? And as our friends’ kids get older, we’ll need more and more room for everyone. We’re home for good, right? We’re never leaving. So, why not make this whole place into a Baumgarten Family Compound?”

I laugh. He's so cute. “You mean, like we’re a cult?”

“Exactly.”

I laugh again. The truth is, I already know he’s going to do it, no matter what we talk about today. But I’m happy to play along. “How much are they asking for the place?”

Caleb tells me the number, and I whistle. “That’s a lot of money,” I murmur. Again, I’m playing along. Caleb’s always done fabulously well with his band, of course. But after the Ralph Beaumont incident made worldwide news, his personal “brand” took off, without any intention or effort on Caleb’s part. Suddenly, even more money started rolling in from all sorts of licensing and sponsorship deals, in addition to all the usual income streams. At this point, it’s seriously like money grows on trees for this man.

“Seems kind of excessive,” I tease, even though I know it’s chump change to Caleb. I brush a lock of wet hair off his forehead and grin. “Although, I mean, I guess it might be kind of nice to know all four of our kids will always have a place to stay with us.”

“Well, maybe we shouldn’t do it, then,” he jokes. But he’s no sooner said the words, then his brain processes what I just said. “Wait. All four of our kids?”

I let my husband hold his breath and wait for confirmation for a long beat, just for the sheer fun of it. But when Caleb looks too cute to torture any longer, I laugh and say, “ Sorry to tell you, babe, but you’re going to need to find yet another open spot on your neck.” After our wedding in Billings eight years ago, Caleb got an “A” and an “R” inked onto his neck, both tattoos topped with lit fuses like the “C” that was already inked there. And then, with Page’s and Bonham’s births, Caleb added two more letters to his collection, the same way he’d added to the carvings on The Family Tree.

“Oh my fucking god,” Caleb blurts excitedly. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure. I took three tests this morning. All positive. Get ready to change even more poopie diapers, Dadda.”

He kisses me. “Can’t wait.”

“Also, you’ll need to carve another initial into The Family Tree. Let’s not forget about that.”

“Of course. Oh my god.” With a laugh, he kisses me deeply, as I press myself into his hard bulge again and enjoy the waves of euphoria rocketing through me.

“What’s another good Zeppelin-inspired name?” Caleb asks, nuzzling his nose to mine.

“I feel like we’ve reached the end of that particular road,” I say. “I mean, I don’t really want to name my child Robert, Roberta, or any variation of Plant, John Paul, or Jones. Do you?”

Caleb guffaws and agrees none of those options sound appealing to him, either.

Fun fact: the name of our four-year-old, Page, wasn’t actually inspired by Led Zeppelin’s famous guitarist, Jimmy Page. Everyone thinks that, but it’s not true. We both simply liked the name, for whatever reason—although maybe it was subliminal—and we went with it. But then, once Caleb’s musician friends, many of whom are also obsessed with Led Zeppelin, started assuming Page had been named for the famed guitarist of Caleb’s all-time favorite band, we just sort of adopted that revisionist version of history and rolled with it. Which is why, when our son came along two years later, it felt natural and right to name him after John Bonham, Zepp’s legendary drummer and Caleb’s biggest inspiration.

“I actually have a couple name ideas,” I say, biting my lower lip flirtatiously.

He pinches my ass underneath the water. “Lay ‘em on me, baby.”

“So, if it’s a girl, I’m thinking Adele .” True, that’s the name of one of my all-time favorite pop girlies; but she’s not my inspiration. Which is why, in case my intentions aren’t clear to Caleb, I add quickly, “After your mother.”

Caleb’s green eyes widen and prick with moisture. “That’s perfect. Thank you for thinking of that.”

“And if it’s a boy, I was thinking Hayes.” That’s Caleb’s mother’s maiden name. And not surprisingly, this next suggestion causes the moisture in Caleb’s eyes to morph into full-blown tears.

“I love you so much,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead to mine. “Thank you, Aubrey.”

“I love you, too. Thank you for our beautiful life.”

“That’s all thanks to you, momma.” He kisses me tenderly. But after a moment, he breaks free of my lips and smiles broadly. “I have a confession to make.”

“You want to fuck me,” I deadpan. It’s a safe bet, given the way his hard dick is currently poking urgently against me underneath the water.

“Well, yes. Always. Endlessly. Forever. But that’s not what I was going to say.”

I grip the wet hair at the back of Caleb’s head and gaze into his green eyes with intensity, making a big show of being ready for whatever silly confession he’s going to make this time. Caleb does this often: he “confesses” something that always turns out to be wonderful.

“I already bought the house. Yesterday. Escrow closes in two weeks.”

I snort. “ Caleb .”

He laughs. “The thing is, I was talking to the owner, and he mentioned he was going to put it up for sale today , so I had to act fast. We can’t let some stranger move in there. This whole beach is ours. ”

“Well, gosh. It sounds like you had no choice, when you put it like that.”

“Right? I knew you’d understand.”

“I do.”

Laughing, he runs his thumb against my cheek. “I think we should invite your parents to move in there, full-time. Wouldn’t that be fun?”

I melt. “That would be amazing.” And I know they’d fucking love it. Yes, my parents only live twenty-five minutes away, but I can’t deny we all have a blast whenever they stay the night next door at the guest house. In fact, the thought of my kids being able to wander over to Grammy and Pop-Pop’s house, any ol’ time they like, makes my entire body tingle with joy.

“Thank you for doing that,” I whisper, nuzzling my husband’s nose, yet again. “I love you so much, you sweet, romantic fool.”

“I love you, too, baby. You know that, right?”

“I sure do.”

Caleb grins. “Good. Because, baby, I always will.”

THE END