Part 8 (1/2)
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?”