Chapter 1 #2
Mom and Georgie own a shop down on Main Street called Two Old Broads where they sell mostly wonky quilts—quilts with all sorts of crazy shapes and colors that look like they were designed by someone who’s never seen a traditional quilt pattern and decided to wing it.
And they not only sell those as traditional quilts but as quilted jackets, pet beds, pet clothes, and just about anything else you can turn a quilt into, because apparently, there’s no limit to what can be improved with the addition of random fabric scraps.
Everything in their shop is adorable, and I’m on a mission to one day own it all.
I’m doing pretty good at the effort, too, thus the storage unit I’m looking to rent .
“Business is booming, kid.” Georgie’s eyes light up as if Christmas came early at the mention of one of her zaniest ventures. “We’ve got a new flavor—cinnamon apple spice. Very seasonal.”
“Seasonal massage oil. How festive,” Jasper says with a wink. I’m not opposed to trying it out, you know. He shoots the thought my way with a waggle of his brows.
I waggle my brows right back because, let’s face it, every last part of me could use a massage.
“I’m just glad they’re not calling it flash o’ fun anymore,” Leo adds under his breath, probably remembering the unfortunate marketing campaign that shall not be spoken of again.
The truth of the matter is those potions of theirs were made for closed door activities that involve delicate parts. And well, there might be a lawsuit or two pending for minor burns and some light blistering.
Mom ignores them both. “We’re thinking of branching out into scented candles—as in making our own. Macy’s not the only one who can sell things that smell good, you know. I’m making up a batch now that smells just as heavenly as chocolate chip cookies.”
“Speaking of cookies,” I say, struggling to stand up, “I should refresh the snickerdoodle platter. I’ve basically been fueled by Emmie’s cookies these last few weeks.
Oh, who are we kidding? I’ve been fueled by those cookies these entire last nine months.
” And probably as far back as preschool, but no need to demonize a lifetime of sugar-laden carbohydrates now, or further highlight the fact my caloric intake has been on one serious uptick for almost a solid year now.
Jasper starts to rise. “Bizzy, let me get them.”
“No, no.” I wave him off. “If I don’t move every ten minutes, I’ll fossilize on this log. Archaeologists will find me in a thousand years and put me on display and call me Pregnant Woman on Driftwood , circa the cruel maternity fashion era.”
I waddle over to the picnic table where we’ve set up our modest feast, feeling like a penguin with some serious bladder and balance issues. I no sooner reach for the plate of snickerdoodles than a warm sensation rushes down my legs.
For one mortifying second, I think I’ve finally done it.
I’ve lost all bladder control—and who could blame me?
I’ve been trotting to the restroom every ten minutes on a loop since the minute that stick revealed two lines.
Then reality hits me like a ton of chocolate bricks.
And boy, does chocolate sound good right about now.
Have I mentioned my newfound addiction to all things created with cocoa butter? But I digress.
“ Oh no, oh no, oh no ,” I mutter like some kind of panicked mantra. “Either I just peed myself in a truly spectacular fashion or my water just broke.”
Five heads whip around to stare at me. Then chaos erupts faster than Georgie can utter the word retroshade again.
Jasper leaps up so fast he nearly falls face-first into the fire. “What? Now? HERE?”
Emmie thrusts baby Elliot at Leo and rushes to my side. “Are you sure?”
“Either that or I just accidentally piddled enough to fill a kiddie pool,” I say rather calmly even though my heart is suddenly doing the cha-cha-cha against my ribs.
Mom and Georgie start gathering belongings all while moving with the precision of a SWAT team.
“I TOLD you Mercury was in retroshade!” Georgie shouts to the sky as if the planetary alignment was personally responsible for my water breaking.
And honestly? Stranger things have happened.
Fish twitches an ear as she speeds my way. Bizzy, is it true?
“I think so,” I call out, and in less than three seconds flat, Fish, Sherlock, Gatsby, and Cinnamon begin racing in circles and barking in a panic all their own. And all four of them ring out in a choir of It’s time! It’s time! Tiny hooman alert on the horizon!
“Tiny human alert is right,” I say, twice as panicked. “Now if only I can figure out which direction to move in next without falling over or giving birth on a beach.”
Mom spins my way with a crazed look in her eyes. “Bizzy Baker Wilder, you are not allowed to give birth on this beach, young lady.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I call out while giving her a mock salute.
Honestly, though, if anything can keep me from doing so, it’s a reprimand from my mother. I can’t help it. It’s ingrained in me to be a good girl, and not a contraction on earth is going to change that. I hope.
“Car keys!” Jasper pats his pockets frantically like a man searching for his last brain cell. “Where are?—”
“In your hand,” I point out, because apparently, impending fatherhood has temporarily short-circuited his observation skills.
He looks down at his clenched fist. “Right. Hospital. We need to go to the hospital.”
“That’s generally where babies are born in this century, yes,” I agree, surprisingly calm once again despite the fact that I’m about to push an entire human being out of my body.
“Unless you’d prefer I defy my mother and deliver right here on the beach with snickerdoodles as our only medical supplies and seagulls as witnesses. ”
That gets him moving with the speed of someone who’s just remembered that beaches are not optimal birthing locations.
Before I know it, I’m escorted—half carried, really—to our newly purchased minivan that we bought specifically for this moment, while Emmie promises to take the pets to her place and meet us at the hospital.
Mom and Georgie insist on following us, already arguing about who can drive there the fastest, which is terrifying for multiple reasons.
And just like that, the contractions start coming in fast and hot—and have I mentioned with a lot of PAIN that no one adequately prepared me for despite nine months of nonexistent warnings?
The sunset blurs past the minivan window as Jasper drives like we’re in a high-speed chase, muttering under his breath about speed limits and hospital routes.
“Breathe, Bizzy,” he reminds me, reaching over to squeeze my hand at a red light.
“I am breathing,” I assure him through gritted teeth. “It’s kind of a non-negotiable activity.” Or at least I pray it is.
“Right. Right.” His knuckles are white on the steering wheel. “Are you in pain? How far apart are the contractions? Should I call ahead for reservations? Is there something else I should be doing? Should I order a pizza?”
I laugh despite the fact my stomach is contracting at Mach 5. “ Jasper Wilder, homicide detective extraordinaire, undone by a baby. Who would’ve thought?”
On second thought, I’m feeling rather undone right about now, too.
A pizza does sound nice.
Heaven help—we’re about to have the baby!