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Instead of answering, Olive looks back over her shoulder. “Can I peek? Please? I’ll be so fast, and I promise not to touch anything.” She tucks her hands into her armpits as if to prove she won’t be touching anything.
Either her dad is super strict or she’s a born troublemaker. Either way, I’m completely won over by her enthusiasm for my work. “Sure, we can keep it a secret.”
She pulls up short and eyes me suspiciously. “My mom and Shelby say grownups shouldn’t ask kids to keep secrets.”
“Your mom and Shelby are right. But this is your secret, not mine.” I point out the flaw in her logic to cover my momentary flinch at her words.
Olive regards me for a second before she breaks into a grin. “Right. Just a quick look. What’s on that one?” She drags me to the main table and starts her inspection. She asks lots of questions, especially once I tell her I made them all myself. We’re by the fireplace, and I’m explaining what a doily is and where I got it from, when there’s a heavy step at the main door.
“Pickle? You better not be in here.”
Olive’s eyes go wide at the deep voice, and she scrunches down between the upholstered chair and the fireplace. Putting her finger to her lips she begs me with her eyes not to give away her location.
“No pickles here. I was told the mom-to-be has an aversion,” I quip, striding away from the tiny condiment culprit. “Can I help—you.” I spit the last word out as the owner of the voice comes into view.
Off-brand Chad Michael Murray is back, and he’s holding my cake. All thoughts of Olive leave my mind when I see what’s in his hands.
“What are you—” we ask at the same time, both of us cutting off with a glower at the other.
“My cake?” I gesture to the cardboard box in Kel’s hands. He hands it over absently, his eyes darting around the space.
“I told my daughter not to come up here and disturb you.” He levels a look past my shoulder, and a faint squeak drifts toward us from the fireplace. “Olive.” He calls her name in a tone that’s gruff enough to make my shoulders hunch as if I was the one in trouble.
“She was fine. She just wanted to see the decorations. I was happy for the break.” When his face doesn’t relax, I add, “She wasn’t disturbing me, I promise.”
Quiet footsteps sound out on the wood floor, coming closer. Olive stops between us, her shoulders hunched like mine. “Sorry, Daddy.” Her voice is a contrite whisper. “I was only going to look from the door, I promise.”
“I was the one who invited her in to look,” I jump in, ready to defend my fellow troublemaker. If I had a nickel for every time I got in trouble for wandering off or touching something I wasn’t supposed to, I’d be splurging on brand-name peanut butter instead of the value brand currently making up my PB&J’s. “It’s Kel, right? Olive was giving me excellent feedback on my decor.”
“I was? Oh yeah! I was.” Olive’s eyes bounce between her father and me, waiting for the hammer to drop. “See, Daddy. I was helping. You can’t get mad at me for helping, too.”
I fight to keep my face neutral, even though I’m desperate to look at the cake and see if the damage is noticeable. The box is heavy in my hands, and my ankle is aching, but I won’t let Olive get in trouble when she hasn’t done anything wrong. Echoes of my father chiding me for sneaking into forbidden places ring in my head.
Kel rolls his eyes to the ceiling with the long-suffering look of a father with a headstrong and curious child. I’ve seen it enough times to recognize it. “Thank you for not disturbing anything, Pickle. Now go down to the house, Greg needs someone to help him tie his shoes.”
Olive darts toward the door but pauses when she gets there, turning to flash me a grin over her shoulder. “Thanks, Maggie, I like your pumpkins!” She yells with a little wave before disappearing.
“Let me guess, she keeps you on your toes?” I give into my need to see the cake, crossing over to the table and setting the box down and peeking inside. The smear of pink and pale yellow is barely noticeable, hidden beneath a clump of fresh pink buttercream flowers. “Oh! This is amazing. Jackie is a lifesaver.” There’s a few spots where the petals are uneven, but I’m not about to point it out to Mr. Grumpypants over there, nor am I going to complain when it’s oodles better than I could have done myself.
Kel clears his throat, startling me at his closeness. He’s leaning over my shoulder to inspect the cake. He smells like fresh dirt after the rain, with a hint of some kind of cologne I can’t place. It’s been so long since I smelled a man up close it distracts me. His warm, solid presence at my back, combined with his scent, flips some kind of animal instinct in my lizard brain. The part that suggests I step a little closer and let him take care of everything for me while I float mindlessly along, doing what I’m told.
Giving myself a little shake, I step away from Kel. He clears his throat and steps back as I speak. “The cake looks great. If you see Jackie before me please tell her she’s a lifesaver.”
Now that there’s some space between us and my cake is safe, I get a good look at him. With the glare gone, he looks younger than I thought, closer to my own age. His hazel eyes are locked on my face, taking me in. The furrow between his eyebrows deepens as his eyes rake over my cheek. Heat flashes through them, making my already sore face ache even more. I open my mouth to challenge him, but he beats me to it.
“Jackie? Oh, uh. Yeah. I’ll tell her. She, erm, wanted you to know that she’s sorry about the one flower. Normally they’re better than that, but the icing was too cold.” Kel clears his throat and shoves his hands in his pockets. “Right, well. I’m going to head out. Good luck with the party…thing. I’ll be out in the lower field, but Jackie is around if you need anything. I’ll have Olive come help me in the field so she won’t disturb you again.”
He’s much less odious than the first time I met him. Probably because I’m not trespassing on his precious vines. Within moments, Kel and his unexpected civility are the last thing on my mind as Mrs. Springer sweeps into the building, her daughter-in-law, Tiffany, in tow.
“Magnolia! It looks magnificent in here.” Mrs. Springer, god forbid I call her Caroline, turns, taking in the decor. “I knew hiring you was the right call. My psychic wasn’t sure, but look at this place. I didn’t even know that shabby chic harvest decor was a thing, but now that I know that it exists, I’m never living without it again.”
Caroline Springer continues to exclaim over everything, dragging Tiffany behind her. While Mrs. Springer is dressed in a luxurious cream sweater and black trousers, Tiffany has a knee-length sweater dress stretched out over her adorable bump. The deep maroon color coordinates perfectly with all the shades of pink and red I’ve scattered around. She’s in that cute stage of pregnancy, where the prenatal vitamins are making her hair shiny and thick, and she has the glow without the exhaustion that comes later.
A pang of regret catches me by surprise as I guide Tiffany to the chair set aside for her. I could have had that. Well, not that exactly—even though I had a couple of pregnancy scares back in my college days from my irregular periods, Frank and I had never had to face that particular problem. But I’ve wanted to be a mom for as long as I can remember, something I thought Frank wanted too—until the day we called off our engagement. The thought that having my own kids was just a matter of time had kept me going through the rough patches. I push all that aside, though, so I can focus on making this baby shower perfect.
In spite of the rocky start and my aching body, the shower goes off without a hitch. The guests are enjoying themselves, Tiffany glows from her throne, and even Mrs. Springer stops hovering and second-guessing everything after the first hour. She settles into her role as the host and lets me do what I need to do from the background—swapping out the games and stacking gifts for Tiffany to open with the help of her two teenage daughters.
My ankle and cheek are a dull pain by the time the last guest leaves. Tiffany’s older daughter packs her into their car and takes off, the trunk full of gifts and one of the rhinestone pumpkins. Mrs. Springer hovers for a moment as I start packing up.
