10. Epilogue – Freya #2
We stand in silence for another few seconds. It’s more like a standoff actually. I’m still trying not to laugh, and maybe scream with excitement, and he’s worried I’m trying to prank him. What takes a few moments feels like years.
Finally, he’s over it. He turns and grabs a knife off the table he just set and, turning back, he eyes me once last time before slicing into the cupcake.
He expertly cuts a piece and starts to slide it out.
Tears spring to my eyes––I know we’re about to find out something huge and I can’t wait for him to know, too.
My husband. My best friend. The man I get to start a family with.
I watch as he puts the piece of cake onto another plate and my tummy flips.
“Freya, why is the cake pink and blue?”
Well. I wasn’t expecting that.
“Because…we’re having twins.” I’m trying really hard right now to keep my voice calm, but the words escape me with a giant breathy whoosh.
Twins. We’re having twins.
Wyatt’s head snaps up to attention and swivels in my direction. “Say what?”
“I’m pregnant Wyatt. You’re going to be a dad.”
I don’t think for as long as I live that I will ever forget this very moment. The moment I get to see Wyatt’s face as he finds out he’s going to be a dad…to twins. Excitement, fear, amusement. So many emotions and all at once.
But––twins?!
Smokey leans against me, panting and his head swivelling to watch the both of us.
I swear he has a smile on his sweet little doggie face like he is totally celebrating with us.
Wyatt lets out a rush of air as he finally processes my news and rushes over to pick me up, spinning me around the kitchen as he whoops loudly .
I’m over the moon giddy as he places me, gently, back on my feet. “I’ll be honest, this was supposed to be a surprise just for you but the universe got me, too. We’re having two babies, Wyatt. Two!”
“Twins.” Beaming, he shakes his head. “It’s a case of the more the merrier, I say.”
“But..twins!” I’m still processing, but Wyatt? He’s my rock.
“Yes, but it’s us, Freya. You, me, and Smokey––and we’ve got this.”
Looking around at the home we’ve built together, and at this man in front of me who has been there all of my life––for good, for bad, and for some of the in between––I know deep in my heart he’s right.
I open a drawer and pull out two forks, handing one to Wyatt. I dig into the oversized cupcake and get a big piece on my fork for myself. A swirl of blue and pink greets me and all I can hear are his words.
Yeah.
We’ve got this.
Thank you for reading Sweet Summer Nights!
Want more from the residents of Lake Lorelei?
Download The Sweet Spot today! Keep scrolling to read the first chapter now.
The Sweet Spot
Ari
“Your hand is stuck where? ”
This is the perfect example of the danger when living in a small town, when calling 9-1-1 means you’ll end up part of the local gossip. Especially when you’ve given the emergency services operator a comedy gold nugget the size of the Blarney stone.
Taking a deep breath, I repeat myself slowly so Connie can hear every word. “In the toilet, Connie. My hand is stuck in the toilet.”
I hear muffled laughter on my end of the phone, telling me Connie’s not alone.
“Am I on speaker, Connie?”
“Well…” There’s a clamor as she grabs the phone, hits what I imagine is a giant button to turn off the speakerphone as she puts the receiver back to her ear.
“Sorry, Ari, but we have a weekly pool in the office for the weirdest emergency calls. I should be thanking you, ‘cause I think I won for the week.”
I can tell she’s chewing on her laughter still. I hope she chokes on it.
I stare at my bathroom wall wondering what I ever did in this lifetime, or any others for that matter, to deserve this very moment. “I guess I should say you’re welcome, but I’ll follow that up with I want half of any prize money you come into.”
My emergency call cohort snorts. “You’ll have to pry that fifty bucks outta my cold dead hands.”
“It can be arranged.” She obviously has forgotten who she is dealing with. “Once I get my hand out of the toilet, of course.”
“Your threats don’t worry me, sunshine. By the way, loved the write-up you did on the new Italian restaurant in town. Bob and I went the other night and had the best eggplant parm.”
I’ve been writing for the Lake Lorelei News-Post for a few years now, ever since coming back home after college. Not many people get to do what they love, but I managed to find a way.
While Connie’s compliments are kind and well-received, I’m literally not in the position for them.
I’m wedged between the toilet and my bathtub—like a sugar packet shoved under a table that won’t balance—and my knees are starting to cramp.
I think my hand is falling asleep. What I really need right now is for Connie to focus on the task at hand—Operation Get My Hand Outta The Toilet. We can talk about the paper later.
“I am so glad you liked it. Hey, Connie, can you tell me when someone might be here to get me out?”
“Oops, okay. Sorry about that. Tell me again how it happened?”
“I was putting on a bracelet in the bathroom and it slipped out of my hands and into the toilet. I could see it just inside where the pipe disappears. So, seeing as it was clean water, I went in after it thinking I could grab it, but somehow my watch got caught on something, and the rest is history. I can’t get my hand out now so I called you. ”
“Are you sure the water is clean?”
I can hear her start snickering again while my all-too-full to-do list cries my name from my living room. “Connie, I have so much on my plate. Please tell me if someone's coming?”
Connie heaves a heavy sigh, breathing out a whoosh into my ear. “Yes, they are. I’m putting out a call now. The guys are at a car accident near the highway so they may not be there for a while.”
Great. “What does ‘for a while’ mean?”
“Assuming you're not in a life-threatening situation?” Connie chortles.
I look around the bathroom. Unless my lotion wants to take me hostage, I’m not in danger. “No, I’m not.”
“Good. Then they’ll be by after they’re clear of that accident. I’ll send Truck 41 over to assess the situation, and if anything else pops up, you can call back.”
She deserves an award. Those last few words almost don’t make it out because I’ll be darned if Connie isn’t dissolving into snorts and fits of laughter again.
“Thanks, Connie. Front door is open, so tell them they can come in.” I start to disconnect the call, but I stop, remembering one more thing. “Oh, and Connie?”
“Yes, dear?”
“Bless your heart,” I sing out as I hang up, knowing the use of those three words will have Connie wondering my true meaning for at least an hour.
You see, in the South, “bless your heart” has multiple meanings; you just need to slot it in where you see it fits best. I sure knew what I meant, and that’s all that matters.
Looking around my tiny tiled cell, I have to trust someone is coming to help. I just pray my brother isn’t working on the fire engine today.
I look at my hand where it has merged as one with the toilet. I still can’t believe I’ve managed to do this to myself. Typical Monday morning, right? Only it isn’t, and I’ve got a case of the Monday blues like nobody’s business.
It started when I got up for my Monday morning team meeting, which we do for the newspaper over video conference each week.
Only this week we were given the news that the physical office for the printed edition will be closing soon and the paper will be going digital only.
Our editor-in-chief and owner of the paper, Morris Johnson, gave us the news with a heavy heart, and I was still digesting it.
It wasn’t in the cards for me to look for a new job this year.
I’ve just hit my sweet spot with work; I have a column in the paper that I love and it’s kicked off a social media influencing side job that I never expected—I’m @alltheyummyfoodies with a following of 65 thousand that’s growing daily, plus I get to meet and interview interesting foodies, chefs, and restaurateurs from all over on a weekly basis.
Now, I’m nervous and, frankly, really scared all of that could go away.
Looking at the position I’m in now, though, maybe I’m getting what I deserve. It’s a theory I don’t really want to spend time with, so lucky for me my phone starts ringing.
“Hey, Ari! You free for a quick chat?”
Maisey Montgomery is one of my most favorite people in all of Lake Lorelei.
A few years ago, after her mother passed, she took over as the owner of the Red Bird Cafe which was her mama’s pride and joy.
She’s made a name for herself around the area for being a savvy businesswoman who has some serious baking skills—whether she’s baking cakes or whipping up pies, you’d swear they were all heaven sent.
“You’ve caught me at the best and worst time for a chat.” I quickly fill her in on my predicament, and Maisey doesn’t disappoint.
“Your hand is stuck in your toilet?” She’s howling with laughter. Actually howling.
I give her a minute before interrupting. “Are you done now?”
“Oh yeah, for the time being.” Maisey chuckles. “I guess you’re a hostage audience for me at the moment, so I’ll take advantage of that.”
“As long as you don’t tell anyone—although, Connie knows, which means…”
“…everyone knows by now. Oof. Well, you used to say you wanted to be the talk of the town. Beggars can’t be choosers.”
Maisey needs to stop talking. “Shush, woman. Whatcha need?”
“Well, I have gone and done something crazy. I wanted to expand the Red Bird, but decided before I do that why not test the waters and see if there’s room for expansion, make sure that other people out there love the Red Bird like I do, like the folks here in Lake Lorelei do.”
And Lake Lorelei does love the food from the Red Bird. “That is great news! When my hand’s free, I’ll give you a fist bump of celebration.”