Spiral Of Bliss: Adore Part 8

DEAN: No. Where are you?

LIV: With other moms and kids at the park.

DEAN: And you're texting me about s.e.x fantasies during a playgroup?

LIV: I know, it's so wrong. So... naughty.

DEAN: Yes, it is.

LIV: Am I a bad girl in your fantasies? A s.l.u.tty French maid?

DEAN: No, but now I want to buy you a French maid costume.

LIV: I would wear it for you, you know.

DEAN: Yeah, you would.

LIV: Do you really fantasize about that?

DEAN: No, but I will now.

LIV: Come on, give it up, then. What do you fantasize about?

DEAN: It's in the vault, baby.

LIV: I'm not a nurse, am I? A cheerleader?

DEAN: No.

LIV: A stripper? Catwoman?

DEAN: Uh, no, but that sounds promising.

LIV: Dean, there can't be that many fantasies left.

DEAN: You'd be surprised.

LIV: Tell me!

DEAN: Gotta go. Student just walked in.

LIV: I will break you, Professor West.

DEAN: You already do every time you smile at me, beauty.

Well, c.r.a.p.

A smile tugs at my mouth as I tuck my phone back into my pocket and reemerge into the world. Even though Dean and I don't have nearly as much time alone together as we used to, these little stolen moments still have the power to sweep me off into the s.p.a.ce that belongs to us alone.

"Snack!" Nicholas calls, dumping the bucket of sand out.

"Come on." I hold out my hand, feeling that warm glow when he closes his chubby fingers around mine.

We return to the picnic table, and I hand him an individual container of milk, a cookie, and a few grapes.

"Do you have soy milk?" Susan, a young mother of twins whom I met at the last playdate, pauses beside the table. "Bailey is lactose intolerant."

"No, sorry." Because I have become well-versed on the hot topics of The Moms these days, I add, "But the grapes are organic, and the double-chocolate cookies are gluten-free and nut-free."

She appears somewhat mollified as she takes a juice box out of her bag and hands it to the pigtailed blond girl at her side.

"So I heard you've taken over the planning for the bicentennial," Susan says. "Between that and the cafe, you must be swamped. Is Nicholas in daycare?"

"A few times a week," I say, hating the stab of guilt and the sense that I'm being judged-even though the question was innocent enough.

"And how is the festival planning going?" Susan asks. "I don't know how you do it all."

I don't, I think ruefully. At least, I'm not doing my husband.

"It's going well," I tell Susan brightly. "Just looking for a main sponsor."

"I heard you were going to have a children's stage." Joan, a mother of two teenagers and an unexpected three-year-old, reaches for a cookie. "What kind of entertainment do you have planned?"

"Hopefully a magician and an acrobatic group," I say. "But if I can bring in a high-level sponsor, Slice of Pie will be the headliner."

"Slice of Pie?" Susan and Joan exchanged impressed looks at my mention of the red-hot children's band, which is fronted by a charismatic and curly-headed young guitarist and singer known as the Pieman. "Wow."

"I hope they don't play 'Rumble in My Tumble.'" Another mother, Wendy, approaches, pus.h.i.+ng her sungla.s.ses on top of her head. "If I have to hear that song one more time, I'm drowning myself in chardonnay."

"Oh, please." Joan rolls her eyes. "As if you need an excuse to drown yourself in chardonnay."

We all laugh, and Wendy acknowledges the truth of the remark with a good-natured grin.

"So will we need tickets, Liv?" Joan asks.

"There will be a few VIP seats, but since the stage will be in the park, it's all part of the festivities."

"What about backstage pa.s.ses?" Susan asks. "Can we meet the Pieman? He's so adorable."

"Noah wants to be the Pieman when he grows up," Wendy says. "He'd lose his mind if he got to meet him in person."

"Well, nothing is confirmed yet," I reply. "I'm waiting to see if Edison will sponsor the festival so we can afford more entertainment."

I glance at Wendy, wanting to change the subject. "So didn't Noah start pre-K this year? How is that going?"

"Oh, it's wonderful. I really should have had him tested for early enrollment."

"Liv, Louise said you have Nicholas on the waitlist for Preschool of the Arts," Susan says. "Have you heard from them yet?"

"No, but he won't be three until next January. They won't take him before then."

"Oh, they will if your child is advanced," Susan a.s.sures me, patting Bailey's head. "I've had Bailey on the list since she was one. I expect she'll be enrolled this fall."

"Dylan just started at P of A." Carol, the mother of a three-year-old son and newborn daughter, approaches the table. "It's been incredible. They emphasize arts and music as well as academics, so the children go into kindergarten really well prepared. Some of them are even reading at advanced levels by the time they start."

My heart sinks a little. I dropped a ball I didn't even realize I was holding. I make a mental note to call the preschool as soon as I get home, once again feeling like I'm falling behind in some sort of race, even though I don't even know where the finish line is.

"...the Bahamas," Susan is saying, the conversation apparently having s.h.i.+fted to another topic. "We usually stay on Paradise Island, but this year we're going to Na.s.sau. We've never been there before."

"Are you taking the kids?" Wendy asks.

"No, they're staying with my mother." Susan gives a sigh of relief. "I can't wait. I've already booked two spa days and a snorkeling trip."

"Bob and I are going to Colorado in August," Joan says. "At least it's a getaway. The kids are going to visit his sister for about a week."

The other women chime in with their upcoming summer vacation plans. I stay silent. I can't remember the last time Dean and I went on a trip alone together. We've taken Nicholas to California to visit Dean's father, and to Chicago a couple of times, but other than occasional talk about going to Italy someday, we haven't gone anywhere else.

I'm beginning to think with our focus on Nicholas and our work, Dean and I have lost sight of each other in ways that have nothing to do with s.e.x. I can't even remember the last time we managed to go on a date-mostly because by the time evening rolls around, I'm too exhausted to want to do anything but sit on the sofa and watch TV, though even then I'm usually falling asleep before a program is half over.

"Hey, there's my main man." A deep voice booms over the park chatter as Archer strides toward us from the parking lot.

"Unca Archer!" Nicholas launches himself at Archer like a little rocket and hugs his legs.

Archer rubs Nicholas's head and extends a fist. Nicholas obliges with a return fist b.u.mp, and then they simultaneously flare their fingers out into "fireworks."

"How's it going, man?" Archer grabs Nicholas's legs and swings him upside-down to carry him back to the playground. Nicholas shrieks with laughter.

There's a palpable s.h.i.+ft in the air as the other mothers watch Archer approach-big and muscular with black hair and the hard edges of a biker, Archer West draws a great deal of feminine interest and fascination.

"Hey, Liv." Archer hauls Nicholas upright and upside-down again, causing him to burst into a fit of giggles. "You get my text?"

"Yes, thanks. Can you drop us off at home after we pick up the chairs?"

"Sure." Archer flips Nicholas around a few times before setting him back down.

"Swing," Nicholas shouts, tugging on Archer's hand.

Archer obligingly follows Nicholas to the swings.

"He is so hot," Carol mutters to me under her breath. "What's he doing here?"

"I asked him to help me transport some used chairs from a furniture warehouse," I say. "They're for the festival auction."

"You're auctioning old chairs?" Carol asks.

"I'm collecting old chairs," I correct. "The auction is going to be called the Chair Fair. We're going to give a chair to anyone who wants one, and they can paint it with whatever design they want and return it to me. Then we're going to auction the chairs along with the travel and dinner packages that local businesses have donated."

There's a murmur of impressed appreciation among The Moms, which makes me feel good. With the exception of Susan, who claims she can't "draw a straight line," all the other women agree to partic.i.p.ate in the auction by painting a chair.

"I'm going to keep all the chairs in the shed at the b.u.t.terfly House, so you can come by any time to pick one up," I tell them. "I'm going to do a garden-themed chair, and I'm hoping I can get Archer to paint a comic-book chair to go along with a gift certificate from a game store."

"He could be a comic book hero," Carol remarks, eyeing Archer as he catches Nicholas coming down a slide. "Is he married?"

"You are," Susan reminds her.

"Yeah, but Frank doesn't look like that," Carol replies. "Archer could put the rumble back in my tumble, if you know what I mean."

Susan chuckles. "Every mother of young children knows what you mean. That's why we need these vacations alone."

Good heavens. Is that true? Do we all have this dearth in our libidos and s.e.x lives? Are The Moms so caught up in running households and raising children that s.e.x has fallen by the wayside?

"Honestly, I'd rather have a spa day than a romantic night with Frank these days," Carol says. "The idea of being alone and pampered is way more exciting than having to do any actual work. Maybe if I were more relaxed, I'd feel s.e.xy again."

"Yeah, well, Paula had a full-time nanny and plenty of time to pamper herself... you know what a babe she is... and her husband still ended up having an affair," Wendy points out. "Less than a year after their son was born!"

The other ladies shake their heads and cluck their tongues. I eat a cookie and sigh inwardly.

I really do need to do something-not because I think Dean would start eyeing other women, but because I know how lucky I am to have him. In the chaos of the past two years, he's always been right there, steady as an oak tree-walking with a colicky Nicholas at night so I could sleep, going to work every day after making breakfast and coffee, asking one of his grad students to babysit so he can take me out, always ensuring Nicholas and I have everything we need and want.

He and I have struggled with dry spells before, but not for longer than a few months. This one seems to have been going on for two years.

And my husband does look like Archer. Heck, my husband is a zillion times hotter and s.e.xier. And still, even when he's thrusting inside me and murmuring dirty things in my ear... I start thinking of daycare payments.

Really, Liv?

I need to do something more than just get my groove back.

I turn to pack up the snack containers. Archer runs around with Nicholas and a few of the other kids, much to both their and their mothers' pleasure.

If these other women can manage to take vacations alone with their husbands, why can't I? Schedules are certainly adjustable. But though I love the idea of Dean and I going on a trip alone together, I can't prevent a nagging worry. If we're alone in a hotel room, there's some serious pressure to get uninhibited and raw.

Which would obviously be the point and, under the right circ.u.mstances, I'd be all in. But now I can just picture myself gorging on an expensive, room-service meal that I didn't have to cook and then falling facedown on a huge, feather-soft bed to sleep for eight hours straight.

Leaving my husband to his own devices. Again.

But what if I don't tell him about it at all? That would give me even more motivation-I could plan a hot, romantic trip just for the two of us and surprise him with it. How incredible would that be?

Ideas start sparking in my mind. I'll buy new lingerie, get a mani/pedi, maybe a new haircut. I'll study the 31 Days of Hot s.e.x website for new ideas, read some s.m.u.tty novels. Heck, I might even check out a couple of dirty movies.

If I follow the Dean West belief that a plan is the bedrock of every action, then I should be raring to go by the time we close the hotel room door.

That's it! That's the answer. It has to be.

As Archer returns with a giggling Nicholas slung over his shoulder, I think I should have found-or at least looked for-the answer sooner.

Maybe if I had, Dean wouldn't have turned his attention to work so much over the past few years. And maybe he wouldn't be facing the lure of a fancy, international job that feels like it might suddenly be my new compet.i.tion.