Chapter 5 #2
“You okay?” Mike asks, following me into the house.
Oh my gosh. The last thing I need is for Portia or Julie to start teasing me about Mike. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not mad, are you? I was teasing before. You are in no way a cactus. In fact”—he takes a long stride to get in front of me—“you’re quite…interesting.”
“Still think I’m the interesting one?” I shove past him, and he follows me up the stairs.
“That’s a compliment. Why are you upset?”
“You’re sunburned, Mike. It must have fried what little brains you had. Take it easy on the tequila, okay?”
“Bea.”
I shush him. “Not another word. There are sleeping infants!” I hiss. “Go. Shoo!”
He walks away, and I tiptoe into the nursery to grab the stuffed moose and blanket without managing to wake the two napping party guests.
I close the door quietly and wonder how this became my Sunday. Tiptoeing around infants I’m not even related to while they nap.
I stop in the study to make sure the affidavits are filed (they are) before heading downstairs. I’m about to take the blanket and moose outside when Adam stops me.
“Thank goodness” He pulls me back into the kitchen. “I need you to keep Mom away from her tarot cards.”
“You’re dripping wet!” And leaving puddles all over the travertine floor.
“She’s threatening to get her cards out and do readings for all of us. Stop her before this party turns into a séance.”
“You want me to stop Molly McKinney. Do you hear yourself? The woman is an unstoppable, single-minded force of matriarchal will.”
Adam grabs a couple of Margaritas from the fridge. “Convince her to get in the pool. Hide her cards. I don’t care what you do, just do it.”
“If you care so much, you do it.”
“I’ve got my hands full keeping Portia and Dad from scaring off all my cast.” He raises the margaritas he’s holding. “Plus, I don’t know where Mom hides them anymore. I’ll leave a trail of wet footprints.”
“Fine. Go.”
I grab Mom’s favorite tarot deck from the cookie jar, but it’s not like I have pockets in my crocheted cover-up. The pockets in my denim cutoffs are useless—the ones in front are decorative, and the ones in back are frayed and not functional. So I shove the cards in my waistband.
“Need a hand?” Mike asks.
I groan internally but plaster a smile on my face. “No. I’m fine.”
“Is shoving tarot cards down your pants considered fine?”
“Bea!” Mom calls from the patio. “Where are you?”
I turn and step closer to Mike, trying to hide the tarot card deck while not noticing how good the combination of thyme and eucalyptus smells.
“I need you to take videos,” Mom says. “Eaton and Pop-Pop are about to unwrap their gifts.”
“Isn’t that what your hired photographer and videographer are for?”
“But I need some on my phone. Grab it. It’s charging in the kitchen.”
“Let me help,” Mike says.
I’m about to tell him I can handle it all by myself, thank you very much, but then I slip on a puddle in the kitchen and stumble into Mike. My hand momentarily lands on his firm chest. I pull it away as if I’ve touched a hot pan.
His gaze darts down and up before his mouth quirks. “Wow, you don’t waste time.” His hand, the one not braced against the kitchen counter, encircles my waist, and then he squeezes.
I attempt to swat his hand away but instead look ridiculous, flailing Eaton’s moose and blankie. “Move. I need to get my mom’s phone.”
He reaches back and grabs the phone. Still holding me, his hand resting on the small of my back. “This one?”
I attempt to grab it but slide once again in Adam’s wet footprints. “My gosh. Why didn’t Adam towel off before coming inside?”
Mike steadies me. “Maybe you should take off those ridiculous sandals?”
“Maybe you should let go of me?”
“I’m just making sure you don’t fall and break something.”
“I’m fine,” I snarl, grabbing the phone and shoving past Mike. I feel close to tears, and I can’t stand the thought of Mike noticing. He’d make it worse. Look, the cactus has feelings. How interesting. This is why I run out of the kitchen.
I dart around the crowd that has assembled on the patio to watch Eaton open his gifts.
“Bea!” Mike shouts, running after me. Which only makes me run faster.
And then my ankle wobbles, I lose my footing, and I fall, spread-eagle, into the pool. As I’m going down, I try to toss the blanket and moose to dry land, but instead I just fling them into the deep end. I see them hit the water right before I do.
I make an incredible splash. Water goes up my nose. My mom’s tarot cards end up spread out around me, floating on the surface of the water.
Eaton is crying and screaming because he’s overtired and needs a nap, and now his security blanket and moose are sinking to the bottom of the pool. Along with my mom’s phone.
Mike dives blithely into the water.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
“For the love, Mike, I can swim.” I get to the side of the pool and pull myself out. I’m a sopping mess of crochet and denim.
Portia is laughing so hard she’s crying.
“You ruined the party,” Julie snaps.
“It was an accident.” I glare at Mike, who has retrieved the moose and blanket.
“We’ll wash them,” Dad says, taking the soggy articles from Mike.
“No! Get the spare. The spare!” Julie hisses.
“The insurance policy,” Mom says before running into the house with the wet blanket and moose.
“Just don’t send Bea.” Portia kicks her legs up on the arm of the sofa. “She’ll throw it in the pool again.”
“I did not throw anything in the pool. I tripped. It was an accident.” I’ve shed both my cutoffs and crochet cover-up, down to my swimwear, and am trying to gather the tarot cards with as much dignity as possible.
Mike dives in again, after Mom’s phone this time. “It might dry out okay.” He hands it to me.
He’s wet and shirtless, and I’m in an old black gingham bikini. I want to die, but I take the phone and place it next to the stack of tarot cards I’m collecting on the ledge of the pool.
“Granny is gonna fix it. Granny is gonna fix everything,” my dad says to a distraught Eaton, bouncing him up and down on his knee.
Mom reappears with identical, if slightly less battered, replacements for the blanket and moose.
The entire crowd cheers. Eaton clutches the blanket to his chest and snuggles in with my dad.
“Maybe we hold off on the rest of the presents until after naptime,” Dad says.
“Excellent idea,” Mom says. “Adam, go get my tarot cards.”
Adam shrugs and is about to dive into the pool when Mom stops him. “No, not those. There’s a deck in the piano bench. This will be fun.”
“This is your fault,” I say to Mike.
“Bea can start,” Portia yells. “She could use a little more insight.”