Chapter 11 Lottie
LOTTIE
Monday evening at our house smells like a delicious yet odd combo of Mangia’s pizza and the lingering scent of Easter lilies from the arrangements scattered throughout the great room.
The warm air carries hints of melted mozzarella, garlic, and just a touch of whatever organic essential oil Carlotta has decided to douse herself with from the Wellness and Wisdom from the Wild Side lecture we attended—and systematically destroyed.
Sounds of contentment fill the space with pizza boxes shuffling, babies cooing from their swings, Lyla Nell and Evie playing with the cats, Carlotta and Noah stuffing their faces, and it’s all a part of the gentle hum of family chaos that I’ve learned to call home.
Our great room looks like the upcoming holiday exploded in the most beautiful way possible.
Pastel garlands drape across the mantel, spotted with silk daffodils and tiny ceramic bunnies that hop every which way.
Crystal bowls filled with painted eggs sit on every surface, and an enormous Easter wreath hangs above the fireplace, complete with ribbons and glitter, and a few of my sugar cookies that Lyla Nell flung into it, thinking it was the exact finishing touch the wreath needed.
She was right, of course. My sugar cookies could brighten just about any space or mood.
Unless, of course, Bunny Whitmore was there to see them.
The afternoon turned out better than I expected, once my mother found us at the wellness disaster zone and helped pluck the twins off my chest. She rocked them to sleep in the stroller with the expertise of a Glam Glam who’s survived raising children without losing her sanity—a skill I’m still developing. I hope.
We went back into the tent and listened to Bunny sing the praises of castor oil and coconut oil for everything from hair growth to spiritual enlightenment, and honestly, I’m starting to think the woman could convince me that motor oil has healing properties, too.
Then Lainey, Meg, and I attacked what was left of the dessert table with the determination of nursing mamas who’ve discovered that healthy food doesn’t have to taste like punishment.
We demolished date and walnut energy balls that actually tasted like candy, coconut flour brownies sweetened with monk fruit that could fool any chocolate addict, and chia seed pudding cups with cacao that made me question everything I thought I knew about dessert.
There were raw almond butter cookies that melted in your mouth, avocado chocolate mousse that seemed too good to be legal, and sweet potato cinnamon bars that made me wonder if I’ve been living my entire baking career as a lie.
Who knew eating healthy could taste so sinfully delicious?
Afterwards, we caught up with Evie on the beach, where she was sporting what could generously be called a swimsuit but more accurately resembled dental floss with delusions of grandeur.
I won’t be mentioning that particular fashion choice to Everett.
We need his heart to keep beating, and envisioning his teen daughter in what amounts to strategically placed string might send him into cardiac arrest.
But thankfully, now it’s evening, and Noah just brought over enough Mangia’s pizza to feed a small army, along with his fluffy golden retriever Toby, who’s currently working the room with the shameless persistence of a politician during election season.
The furry cutie has perfected the art of the pitiful stare, moving from person to person with his tail wagging and his brown eyes radiating the kind of cute that makes grown adults talk in baby voices. Namely me.
I’ll admit, I’ve given him more than a few bites of my pizza. And that also might explain why he’s currently seated in front of me with his eyes pinned on mine and his fluffy blond tail wagging with far too much hope.
“Lot Lot, that dog looks at you the exact same way Foxy does,” Carlotta muses with the kind of far-too-gleeful mischief that suggests she’s about to stir up trouble. Because she is. “Same adoring expression, same hopeful tail action, same shameless begging technique.”
“Carlotta,” I warn, but she’s already warming to her theme.
“I’m just saying, there’s a definite pattern here,” she continues with mock innocence.
“First, Foxy starts bringing pizza over every night, then his dog starts camping out at your feet. Pretty soon, Toby’s going to be leaving flowers on your doorstep and writing you love poems. At least the dog has better timing than Foxy.
The cute pooch waits until dinner to start the pathetic staring routine. ”
“Hey!” Noah protests through a grin. “My timing is impeccable.”
“Your timing is desperate,” Carlotta corrects. “Though I have to admit, using your dog as a wingman is actually pretty clever.”
Toby chooses that moment to rest his chin on my knee and give me the most soulful look in canine history.
Carlotta belts out a laugh. “That’s exactly the look Foxy gives you when he wants something. It’s like they’ve been rehearsing together. The difference is that the pooch only begs for food. Foxy begs for whatever you’re in the mood to offer.”
“And again, my timing is impeccable. We have Lyla Nell, don’t we?”
“I can’t argue with that,” I tell him, and we share a quick high-five.
Just then, Everett walks in and sets down his briefcase with the satisfied sigh of a judge who’s managed to survive another day of dispensing justice without throttling anyone. I hope.
“Hello, beautiful,” he says, his voice carrying that low, intimate tone that still makes my knees go weak after all this time. “How’s the most gorgeous baker in Vermont doing this evening?”
“I’m well. How are you?” Noah bats his lashes at Everett and garners a growl from him.
Everett kisses me hello—not just a quick peck, but the kind of kiss that reminds me exactly why I married this man twice. His hand settles possessively on my waist as he pulls back just enough to look into my eyes.
“Mmm, you taste like pizza and trouble,” he murmurs against my lips. “My two favorite things.”
“Just pizza,” I manage to say, though my brain has temporarily short-circuited from the combination of his touch and that ridiculously sexy voice he uses when he’s being deliberately charming.
Come to think of it, it’s his everyday voice that he uses both in and out of the courtroom, and more importantly, in and out of the bedroom.
“Just pizza?” He hikes a brow my way. “Somehow I doubt that,” he says with the hint of a knowing smile that suggests he’s fully aware of the effect he’s having on me. And it’s the exact kind of trouble we’re both looking for.
And I’m reminded once again that my medical clearance to resume full marital relations is tantalizingly close to the finish line.
Not that we haven’t been engaging in some creative hanky-panky—okay, a lot of creative hanky-panky—but what else are we supposed to do?
Heaven knows we’re not allowed to sleep around here.
“Hey, boys.” Everett nods to Ozzy and Corbin, who are still secured in their baby swings, cooing with the kind of delight that suggests they’re either genuinely happy or plotting their next milk heist. They rock gently back and forth, making adorable gurgling sounds that almost make up for the fact that they treat three A.M. like happy hour.
“Lyla Nell, Evie, Carlotta,” Everett says their names with a warm greeting.
“Daddy, look at me!” Lyla Nell has both Pancake and Waffles on what appear to be rhinestone leashes that sparkle under the great room’s chandelier.
The white fluffy cats look about as thrilled with this situation as you’d expect—which is to say they’re plotting revenge with the cold calculation of furry sociopaths.
“Wow, those are cool leashes, Mom,” Evie says, crouching down to get a better look at the bedazzled cat restraints. “Where did you get them?”
I blink at the unfamiliar sparkling accessories. “I definitely didn’t purchase them,” I’m quick to say. I glance at the two fathers among us. “One of you must have.”
Noah and Everett exchange a look that clearly communicates their complete innocence in the matter of rhinestone pet accessories.
“Don’t look at me,” Noah says, holding up his hands in surrender. “I wouldn’t touch those things with a ten-foot pole.”
“Make that a twenty-foot pole,” Everett adds. “I’m a judge. I sentence criminals. I do not coordinate with bedazzled pet restraints.”
Carlotta trots over to investigate with the purposeful stride of a detective who’s about to crack the case of the century, and her eyes light up when she gets a good gander at them.
“Hey, those are MY leashes!” she announces with more than a touch of pride. “Looks like some little yipper has been sneaking into my toy box!”
And there it is. The moment every parent dreads—discovering that your toddler has been rummaging through their grandmother’s collection of adult recreational equipment.
I’m pretty sure this exact scenario isn’t covered in any parenting manual I’ve ever read, though it probably should be filed under “Conversations You Never Thought You’d Have” right next to “Why We Don’t Put Forks in Electrical Outlets. ”
A collective groan rides around the room and can probably be heard in Canada.
“Carlotta,” I snip with exasperation. “How many times have I told you to lock up your room? I don’t want Lyla Nell anywhere near your things.”
It’s true. Everett installed a deadbolt lock complete with key after a similar incident a few months back involving battery-operated devices that shall remain nameless.
Let’s just say the cats weren’t amused then either, and I had to have a very uncomfortable conversation with my two-year-old about the difference between Cray Cray’s toys and actual toys.
“I did lock it!” Carlotta protests. “That little devil must have figured out how to pick locks. She’s clearly inherited the family talent for getting into places she shouldn’t be.”