Shopping for a Yankee Swap releases in two days! Read Chapter One and then look for two special giveaways.
Shannon
“You’re killing me, Shannon,” Declan says over the Facetime video chat we’re having. He’s in Australia, on a quick layover for some meetings with a resort chain that might carry our coffee. A few years ago, as a wedding present, Declan bought me Grind It Fresh!, a small coffee chain with the best coffee I’d ever tasted. Some men would buy their new wife a necklace, or a fancy bike, or a special memento.
Mine went a little overboard.
We co-own and co-manage the chain of coffee shops. I handle on-the-ground issues at our headquarters here in Boston. He’s the road warrior. His trip to Indonesia to negotiate Fair Trade coffee deals has been a big success, but he’s been gone for three weeks.
Three entire weeks.
Three weeks of no sex. Three weeks of no kisses. Three weeks of no one to turn to for a silent hug, a quick smile, a simple vent. Yes, we have phones and texts and video chats, but it’s no replacement for your lover’s hot breath on the back of your neck as he initiates what you’ve been wanting, too.
The red garters had to come out, even if all we can do is have virtual sex.
Given that he just missed Thanksgiving yesterday, and Christmas is coming soon, I might need to pull out my sexy elf costume for old time’s sake.
“I’m killing you? How about I kill you with my thighs wrapped around your face?” I tease.
His hand goes to his belt, pants unbuttoned, fly unzipped, one part of his body very much alive. Declan has eyes the color of heathered emeralds, framed by a strong face with broad cheekbones, and thick, dark hair. He stands tall, his shoulders straight, with a confidence that comes naturally. Unruffled and unraveled before me, half naked and breathing with a rough edge that speaks to desperation, I watch him on screen, a small smile curving my lips.
In public, he’s an impenetrable wall, a steel fortress, an airtight container of business might and financial savvy.
In private, he’s mine.
And I’m the one who brings him to the point of panting, holding his erection in one fist, staring at the red garters that made him lose his mind a few years ago, and imagining plunging into me.
“Those damn garters. I’m imagining you in my office that day. Remember? On my desk?”
“How could I forget?”
The sound of his ragged breath makes me feel less silly. Since we had our baby two years ago, Declan’s traveled significantly less, but running a fast-growing coffee brand doesn’t lend itself to a lot of time at home. We manage. Declan and Ellie have a standing date for Facetime video calls, and he reads her bedtime stories every night, even if it means he does it with his morning coffee from halfway around the globe.
We chat constantly, dealing with business issues, weaving in personal-life conversations.
But no video camera, no internet connection, no unlimited data plan is a substitute for having my husband naked in bed with me.
None.
“Are we really doing this?” I giggle.
“Pretty sure I’m about done,” he says, but I can see he is definitely not. It’s dark here, late at night, which means it’s afternoon there.
I guess I’m having a nooner at midnight.
I move my face as close as possible to the camera.
“Shannon, what are you doing?”
“Put it right by your camera,” I order him.
One eyebrow goes high. “Put… what?”
“You know.”
I can’t see anything, because my mouth is right up against my video lens, but I sure can hear.
“What the hell are you–oh, no. No. No.” That last no sounds like a growl.
“What? It’s the closest I can get–I’m simulating!”
“First of all, that’s not even close to what your mouth feels like. Second of all, you’re asking me to put my junk on a glass screen and… what? Move it up and down?”
“You can’t exactly poke it at the screen and pretend it’s a wet hole.”
“This thing is so hard, it might make a hole.”
“Declan!” My cry of outraged hilarity makes me stop, mid-sound.
I realize I’ve gone and done it.
You know that movie, A Quiet Place? The one where monsters track humans by sound and kill them if they even snap a twig?
That’s one big metaphor for parenting a small child, let me tell you.
“Mama? MAMAMAMAMAMAMAMAMAMA,” Ellie cries out from her bedroom next to ours.
“NO!” Declan grunts, then lets out an aggrieved sigh. “Damn it.”
“No sex,” I say with a sigh.
“Makes me feel like I’m right back home.”
I wince. He’s not wrong. But it hurts, anyhow.
Toddlers are the OG cockblockers.
Yanking the sash of my chiffon robe together as I stand, I tie it off, looking back at the screen to find Declan looping his belt. The robe is last year’s Christmas present from my husband, one he selected just for this purpose.
“I’m sorry.”
“Me, too.” He looks at his crotch. The thick outline of his erection is obvious, even on video.
“MAMAMAMAMAMA! I want up! I want up!”
I close my eyes, trying to shut out the spike of the immediate reaction her cries generate in me. Shifting roles from sex kitten to mother isn’t second nature, so I feel weirdly exposed as I look down at my breasts, uncovered for Declan’s viewing. These same breasts feed my child.
How they’re being used by others controls how I feel about them.
I grab the tablet, not ready to let go of my only connection to my husband.
Can you tell we’ve done too many of these FaceTime calls? We’re the Facetime Family.
My throat aches a bit at the thought, stinging with emotion.
And speaking of Christmas, he needs to get home soon. Our third Christmas with Ellie needs to be extra special; her first Christmas, my parents’ house caught on fire during the festivities, so that one doesn’t really count.
Our cat, Chuckles, still has half his tail fur burnt off.
Last year we all sat around Mom and Dad’s still-under-renovation living room and tried not to tempt fate. The Yankee Swap was a half-hearted, Jacoby-only event.
None of the usual suspects came to the celebration.
This year is different. More than needing to reclaim good memories, we have been presented with a challenge from my mother.
The great Jacoby Yankee Swap will resume this year, and I’m determined that my husband will join in.
“Up! Uppy!” Ellie calls again, only this time, her tone is less frantic, her language devolving into baby talk. I have a chance to take a true, deep breath and feel my inner arms brush against my lower ribs as I move, the tablet pressing into my side.
“If we had a live-in nanny, you wouldn’t need to do this,” says a voice from under my left arm.
I tap the back of the tablet’s case and say loudly, “If we had a live-in nanny, you’d get less sex, because I can’t make love with you when someone else is here.”
Walking into Ellie’s room, I find her red faced, eyes teary and wide. Her little arms reach for my neck and soon, she’s clinging to me, tiny ribs wracked with aftershocks from crying.
“Shhhhhhh,” I say as I sway-walk back to my bedroom and hold the tablet screen toward her. Declan stares back at us, the image cutting him off at the waist on the display screen.
“Hi, Ellie!” he coos, instantly in Awesome Dad mode, making me smile. My father and Declan are about as different as two men can be, but in this–loving and parenting their child–they are one and the same.
“Dah-dee!” Ellie squeals, touching the screen. “Whatcha doon?”
“I am in Australia!”
“Uh-stray-la?”
“Yes! Good! I’ll be home in two days.”
“I want Daddy home. I want swings whichoo.”
“Swings! Of course. How many pushes?”
“All da pushes!”
A wistful look takes over his face. I know that look. It’s the expression of a man who would rather be here than where he actually is. Ambition is in his DNA, but loving his daughter takes precedence.
“All the pushes, sweetie,” he says as Ellie kisses the glass screen.
“I want milk, Mama,” she says. “Chocka milk.”
“How about water?” I offer. Sexytime is over. Parenting mode engaged. “Water and some cantaloupe.”
“Catnayope!” she crows, toddling off to the kitchen in her footed sleeper. As she leaves, Chuckles pokes his head into the room. He spots Declan, and I swear the cat smiles.
“Want me to put Chuckles on? He can kiss the screen for you.”
“That’s the only pussy I’m getting, apparently,” Declan mutters.
I stick my tongue out at him. He doesn’t laugh.
A huff, then a long sigh comes from the screen as he runs his hand through his hair, conflicted eyes growing larger on the screen as he leans in and says, “I’m not sure I want this anymore.”
“Want what?”
“This.” He motions with his hands, as if gesturing to the whole wide world. “All the travel.”
“You can build a coffee empire without it.”
“No, Shannon. I can’t.”
“You can come home and focus on other aspects of the business. Or you could retire.”
“Retire? I’m not that old!”
“Retirement isn’t just for old people.”
“But I love what I do. I just hate being away from you and Ellie.”
“You’re the boss. Change it.”
A wry grin spreads across his face. “You’re right.”
“I am?”
“I’ve been gone from you for too long. I miss you.”
“I know. Three weeks without sex is a long time.”
“No–not the sex. I miss you. I miss my friend. I miss hearing you laugh. Your breath on my face. Your cold feet against my calves. How you smell in bed. Moving furniture around because you want to make a play area in the living room for Ellie. Going to vintage antique shops and buying weird sculptures.”
“Since when do you miss going to thrift shops with me? And they’re not weird!” I bring the tablet into the kitchen with me, where I find Ellie on the floor, the tub of pre-cut cantaloupe in her lap, each little fist clutching an orange chunk.
The fridge door is wide open, casting a sci-fi glow over her.
“You bought a gnome drinking coffee out of a toilet, Shannon.”
“For this year’s Yankee Swap!”
“The gnome had a frog on a leash.”
“It’s supposed to be funny!”
“And when you press the button, it sounds like an octopus being choked to death.”
“Your point is…?”
He makes a grunting sound worthy of Geralt of Rivia.
“Fine,” I inform him as Ellie thrusts her sticky fingers into the venting grate under the fridge. “Next time we go to a thrift shop, you get to find something better.”
“I’ll just send Dave.”
“You cannot send your executive assistant to find a Yankee Swap present!”
“Of course, I can.”
The silence is what makes me suspicious.
“Declan?”
Another grunt.
“You had Dave shop for you this year, didn’t you?”
Another grunt.
Suppressing the impulse to sing the first line of “The Witcher” song and toss a coin his way, I turn the video camera on Ellie instead.
“Say hi to Daddy!”
“Hi, Daddy! You want some catnayope?” She smears a grey-ish, half-chewed piece on the glass where Declan’s mouth is.
“Mmmmmm,” he pretends. “Yum!”
Talking with my husband for two minutes instead of monitoring her has led to a twenty-minute clean up.
“I knew it! Daddy yikes catnayope!”
“Nice sentences!” he says, grinning.
“She’s been saying more complex phrases all week,” I tell him.
His face falls. “She has? I missed it.” Voice going gruff, he turns negative. “Damn.”
“Dam!” Ellie repeats.
“Shit,” he mutters.
“That doesn’t help!” I say through gritted teeth.
“I mean, I like it!” Over-enunciating, he uses the time-tested technique every parent tries when they utter profanity in front of the human equivalent of a mynah bird.
“I yike it!” Ellie repeats.
Magic.
The man has magical powers. If I said the S-word, Ellie would repeat it ad infinitum, and always in the worst possible places. At the pediatrician, during story hour at the library, at the yarn shop Mom loves, where the woman who runs it looks like a church organist–you get the picture.
Declan does it? Crisis averted.
Chuckles pads up to the screen and starts licking Declan’s face. When I try to pet him, I get a condescending sniff.
Dec laughs.
Chuckles runs off.
“I miss being home,” Declan says. Squaring his shoulders, he nods to himself. “And it’s entirely my fault.”
“Your fault?”
“Which means it’s completely under my control.”
“Huh?”
“If something is a person’s fault, there’s a cause-effect relationship. You can’t be held accountable for something you can’t control, but I can control being away from my family.”
“Yes, you can. You’re the boss. The owner. The CEO. What you do with your time is completely your decision,” I affirm.
“And I’ve been deciding to be away. It felt like it was inevitable, but it’s not. Not if I say no.”
“Say no to yourself?”
“Say no to the idea that in order to be successful, I have to do it like this.” Eyes the color of an Irish hill meet mine. “I chose. I have the power.”
“You always do.”
“I’m a hypocrite.”
“You are? How?”
“I lectured Andrew before the twins were born. Came down hard on him about putting work ahead of his growing family. What do they call that in psychological terms? Projection?”
“Since we’ve had Ellie, you’ve been a very hands-on father. I know you and Andrew worry about being like your father, but neither of you is anything like James.”
His shoulders drop with relief. “I know. And I don’t think Andrew will be like Dad, but I laid into him. We had that fight, and he came damn close to hitting me.”
“I didn’t hear about that part.”
A rueful stretch of Declan’s mouth makes it clear the incident had an emotional impact on him. For as much as I hate having him away from us so much, these Facetime sessions paradoxically tend to get him to open up to me more.
“He told me he wanted to run the gym chain he’d bought, and be CEO, and be a new father to the twins. Plus a husband to Amanda. I told him he was crazy, and he brushed me off. It got… tense.”
“When was this?”
“At the end of Amanda’s pregnancy.”
“The twins are fifteen months old, Dec! You never told me.”
“I know.”
“If he almost hit you, sounds like it got more than just tense.”
“We’re fine now. But I’m thinking back on it and realizing I’m the one traveling all over the place and he’s back there in Boston, winding down his responsibilities at Anterdec.”
Andrew quit his role as CEO of their family company last May, on Mother’s Day.
As we all gathered at their mother’s grave.
“Amanda said it’ll take him nearly two years to really leave.”
“She’s right. You don’t just give two weeks’ notice when you’re the CEO of a Fortune 500 company. And Dad’s doing everything he can to maintain control, which isn’t helping.”
“He’s also frozen Andrew out. Nothing like the silent treatment to make everything better.”
A long, pained sigh comes out of Declan. “Never underestimate the stubborn narcissism of the founder of a large institution.”
“This isn’t just founder’s syndrome, though, Declan. James is acting like Andrew doesn’t exist,” I say, disgust and pain echoing back from my own voice.
“I know. It’s immature and ridiculous, which is exactly what I would expect from Dad.”
“I’m so glad you’re nothing like him.”
“Me, too.” He groans. “Except here I am, gone for three weeks on yet another business trip. It’s exactly what the 1990s were like, growing up with him.”
“You are not him!”
“And I don’t want to lose these years with you. With Ellie. With our other children.”
“Other children?” A tingle forms in my belly.
“Shannon, I–” A distinct buzz cuts him off, the sound of a notification coming in. “Damn it.”
“JAM IT!” pipes up a little voice behind me. I turn and look down.
Ellie’s using a potholder to smoosh cantaloupe pieces into the planks of the hardwood floor.
“I have to go. Some sort of problem with air travel out of Australia.”
“Oh, no!”
Ellie looks at me, eyes wide, reading my emotions.
“It’s fine. I mean, it’s not fine, of course. I’ll be home in two days. No matter what.”
“Good!”
“MAMA!” Ellie screeches, holding up a red finger. “I got a boo-boo!”
“Let Daddy kiss it,” Declan says, and I hold her finger to the screen.
“Mwah!” kisses my billionaire husband, being as goofy and lovesick with his daughter as I’ve ever seen him.
“Dat better, Daddy!” She gives him a very sticky kiss.
I blow him one. You think I’m kissing that tablet screen now? Ewww.
“See you soon. I love you.”
“I love you, too, Dec.”
“And I mean it. I’m redefining how I build Grind It Fresh! There is a better way, and I’ll find it.”
“I know you will. You’ll find your way home.”
Under your tree 12.23.20!
I’m giving away 25 Chuckles the Cat ornaments as I count down to the release of SHOPPING FOR A YANKEE SWAP. If you want to add this one-of-a-kind decoration to your tree, click the Rafflecopter to enter: http://bit.ly/2KyCvz3
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Little Lies by Helena Hunting writing as H. Hunting
Tree picking in glorious, downeast Maine. Snow. Santa. Roaring fires, people you love, and a good life. What more could a guy want?
