Sandwiched

by Jennifer Archer

  A quote from our heroine:

  “First my daughter, now my mother. And here I am, sandwiched in the middle like a pickle in a bun, trying to keep them from ruining their lives.”

  —Cecilia Dupree, generationally challenged

  Praise for Jennifer Archer

  “Lighthearted, funny, a delight to read.”

  —Jodi Thomas, New York Times bestselling author, on Body and Soul

  “A fun, exciting, humorous, fast-moving story!”

  —Romantic Times on Once Upon a Dream

  “…well written and clever. It’s an all around fun book to read.”

  —The Romance Reader on Shocking Behavior

  Jennifer Archer

  Jennifer Archer has survived maneuvering through life in seven states, raising two teenaged boys and, this year, her very first hot flash—all without serious medication. She is the author of four novels and two novellas, and currently resides in Texas with her high school sweetheart, whom she married more than twenty-five years ago. Jenny is at work on her next novel, while awaiting the words every mother longs for, “Mom, I finally graduated and found a job! I’m off your payroll!” She loves to hear from readers through her Web site www.jenniferarcher.net.

  JENNIFER ARCHER

  Sandwiched

  Like the women in Sandwiched,

  I lived under one roof with some fabulous females

  for many years. This book is dedicated to them

  with love and gratitude:

  My mom, Joan Browder,

  who is patient and supportive, loving and wise.

  You mean the world to me.

  And

  Linda Heasley, Charla Walton and Angie Prince—

  sisters by fate, friends by choice.

  My life would not be nearly so fun

  or interesting without you.

  Thanks to my editor, Gail Chasan, who is

  a dream to work with; and to Tara Gavin and all the other

  wonderful people I’ve met at Harlequin.

  Thanks to my agent, Jenny Bent,

  who challenged me to make the proposal stronger, and

  stuck out the tough times with me.

  Thanks to the Thursday night Divas,

  who offered wine and whine sessions,

  encouragement and their invaluable expertise

  and suggestions: Dee Virden Burks,

  Jodi Koumalats, Marcy McKay, DeWanna Pace,

  April Redmon and honorary Diva (whether he likes it

  or not) Robert Brammer. And to the

  long-distance Divas, Britta Coleman and

  Candace Havens, who encouraged from afar.

  Thanks to my friend, Ronda Thompson,

  who met me at Schlotsky’s and saved my sanity

  by helping me figure out how to

  structure the dreaded synopsis.

  And as always, thanks to my husband, Jeff,

  who didn’t complain when the alarm went off

  every morning at 5:00 a.m.; and to my son Jason who

  sometimes remembered to call and let me know he was

  going to miss his curfew (again);

  and to my son Ryan, whose funny phone calls from

  college gave me nice breaks away from the writing.

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 1

  Cecilia Dupree

  Day Planner

  Saturday, 11/1

  1. Unpack Mother.

  2. Grocery store.

  3. Shop for Erin’s concert dress.

  Instead of filing for divorce, I should’ve buried Bert in the backyard, in the spot beneath the willow where our bulldog likes to pee.

  I realize my mistake on a Saturday morning while driving home from the Donut Hut. The sun shines bright in a lapis-blue sky; the autumn air is as sweet and crisp as my mother’s famous gingersnap cookies. It seems a shame to go back to the house so soon on such a gorgeous day, back to Mother and a bedroom full of boxes containing her things. So I decide, instead, to take a little drive.

  After rolling down the windows, I choose a chocolate long john from the doughnut sack then proceed to lick off the icing. Which might give you a fairly clear idea of what’s lurking at the back of my mind, though I have a difficult time admitting, even to myself, why nibbling the pastry gives me such an inordinate amount of pleasure. I pretend I’m only attempting to satisfy my sweet tooth but, after more than six months of sleeping alone, deep down I know better.

  Since the separation, I’ve spent my days and nights trying to keep up with my teenaged daughter, checking on my widowed mother, putting in long hours at a demanding child-and-family counseling practice. No time exists for sex; at least that’s what I tell myself. So I avoid anything and everything that might remind me of what I’m missing.

  It isn’t easy.

  In case you haven’t noticed, sex is everywhere these days. Television. Movies. Books. Doughnut sacks. Even my late Friday and Saturday nights of safe, celibate solitaire have turned traitor on me. After a couple of months alone with the card deck, the King of Hearts has started to look appealing; I’d swear he has a frisky gleam in his eye.

  But back to Bert and why I should’ve buried him.

  Somehow or another, I wind up on his street this Saturday morning. And just in time to see him step onto the front porch of his condo with a young, buxom redhead attached to his side. The girl doesn’t look much older than our daughter Erin, the only worthwhile thing Bert ever gave me during our nineteen years of marriage.

  It’s the kiss that does me in. I can’t tear my attention away from their passionate lip-lock, from Bert’s hands kneading and caressing that tight, round, voluptuous butt. Because of that kiss, I don’t see the curve in the road. I hit the curb, run up onto the sidewalk, jerk to a screeching halt only inches from a mailbox in front of the condo across the street from Bert’s.

  That forces my attention away from the kiss. Bert’s too, apparently, because before I can catch my breath, he’s beside my window, looking down at me with the smug, disdainful sneer I know so well.

  Swallowing a creamy bite of pastry that, luckily, I didn’t choke on, I meet his gaze and attempt to act as if nothing is at all unusual about my minivan, aka “the grocery getter,” being parked on his neighbor’s walk. “Hello, Bert.”

  “Cecilia.” His eyes shift to my lap where the prior object of my desire now sits in a smear of chocolate, soiling my gray, baggy sweats.

  Bert, I notice, wears boxers. No shirt. His feet are bare. He’s lost weight and bulked up since the last time I saw him barelegged and bare-chested. Muscles bulge I never knew existed. My once soft and pudgy soon-to-be ex looks buff and disgustingly great, which only makes me wish all the more that I’d chopped him up into little pieces and planted him beneath the willow tree. Maxwell, our bulldog, would’ve loved me for it. The dog never cared much for Bert. I imagine he’d take great pleasure in a daily tinkle over the remains of the guy who called him “girly-dog” and once kicked him for eating out of the trashcan.

  When I
realize Bert sees me sizing up his pecs, I shift my attention to beyond his shoulder where a little red convertible backs out of his drive. “How upstanding of you to volunteer to teach the Girl Scouts mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.”

  Bert doesn’t even flinch. I guess nothing embarrasses him anymore after being caught by me in the arms of Tanya Butterfield, our neighbor’s twenty-one-year old daughter.

  “You’re looking good,” he says, eyeing my sleep-mussed hair and the pimple on my chin, compliments of my frequent flirtation with chocolate. I always thought blemish-free skin would be one of the few perks of perimenopause. I thought wrong. This morning, I left for the Donut Hut straight out of bed and didn’t bother to use a comb or wash my face, much less put on makeup to cover the zit.

  Bert sweeps a finger across the side of my mouth and comes away with a glob of icing. “I see you gave up on your diet.”

  Before I can think of a barbed comeback, an old man steps out of the house in front of the mailbox I barely missed demolishing. He stands in the yard wearing his pajamas, arms crossed, glaring at me over the tops of his reading glasses.

  “Hello, Mr. Perkins,” Bert calls out. “Everything’s okay. She missed your box. I’ll have her off the sidewalk and on her way in no time.”

  Bert steps away from the van, and I put it in Reverse then back out into the street. I consider shifting into drive, slamming on the accelerator and leaving him choking on exhaust. But Bert’s arrogant declaration to pucker-faced Mr. Perkins changes my mind. He’ll have me on my way in no time? We’ll see about that. No one controls Cecilia Dupree. Not anymore. I press on the brake and wait for him to walk back over.

  “So…” Bert bends down to look into the window again, leveling one forearm on the edge and his gaze on mine. “What brings you to my neighborhood at 8:00 a.m. on a Saturday morning, CiCi?”

  Birds twitter and cheep, serenading my humiliation. “Yesterday Erin and I moved Mother out of Parkview Manor Retirement Village and into the spare bedroom. Today we’re unpacking. I went to get breakfast.”

  “I’m not exactly on your route home.”

  There is no way in Heaven or Hell I’ll admit that I’ve ended up on his street because I’ve been thinking about him day and night for the past week. Our wedding anniversary passed uneventfully three days ago and, the truth is, I’m having a tough time learning to live single.

  Seeing Bert doesn’t help matters. While he has obviously been working out at a gym, dating, having a life, I’ve been paralyzed. Unable to move forward. Wallowing in the predivorce doldrums while feeding my face with whatever I can find in the fridge to fill the hollow spot inside of me, the gaping hole Bert left behind.

  Don’t get me wrong; I stay busy. During the day, my life is chaos. And most every evening, I’m at the kitchen table studying patient files. When I’ve had enough of that, the King of Hearts and I fool around a little until Erin comes home from wherever she spends her spare time these days. When it’s time for bed, old movies on late-night TV keep me company until I drop off to sleep.

  It’s not so much that I miss Bert; I miss what felt familiar. Being one half of a couple. Having a warm body in the bed beside me at night. Lately, I’ve even been tempted to give in to Maxwell’s sad eyes and let him sleep on the bed at my feet.

  Determined to salvage my pride, I lift my pimpled chin and meet Bert’s stare straight-on. “It’s been so long since Erin’s heard from you, I was afraid you might’ve skipped town. I thought I better swing by and make sure your car was still in the driveway.” I hope it doesn’t occur to him that I could’ve just picked up the phone.

  “Erin’s cell’s always busy. I’ll try her again today.”

  Shifting the van into drive, I motion toward the old man who still stands in the yard, arms crossed, watching us. “Tell your neighbor I apologize.”

  Bert smiles. “Say hello to Belle for me. I’ll miss her cooking this Thanksgiving and Christmas. She’s okay, isn’t she?”

  “Mom’s fine. For the most part, anyway.”

  He frowns. “For the most part?”

  “Her eyesight’s getting worse. I think she’s depressed about it. She doesn’t socialize at all. She’s stopped cooking for the other apartment residents, and you know how Mom loves to cook. Anyway, Erin and I talked it over and decided she’d probably be happier and more active living with us. We’ve hired a woman to come over and be with her during the day.”

  “That’s a big step. I admire you for it.”

  “Yeah…well.” I shrug. “I do my part for the elderly of the world, you do your part for the youth.”

  “Youth?”

  I nod toward his condo. “The mouth-to-mouth?”

  Bert surprises me with a blush, which gives me a small measure of satisfaction as I drive away, this time leaving him alone and embarrassed.

  Sweet justice.

  AROUND 11:00 A.M., Erin declares her work duties done, blows her Nana a kiss and takes off for her best friend Suzanna’s house. They plan to eat lunch at the mall, then spend the afternoon shopping for a dress for Erin’s yearly holiday orchestra concert. I’d planned to go along, but too much is left here to do, and Erin didn’t seem to mind if I begged off.

  Mother shakes her head as she watches Erin go. She mutters something about families eating together, about homemade meals and how life was better back in the old days when my brother, Jack, and I were kids.

  The mention of Jack makes me want to crush the box at my feet. Nothing’s changed. Even as a kid, my brother could always find clever ways to weasel out of his responsibilities. I have to give it to him this time; moving eight hundred miles away just before Dad’s heart attack is his best scheme yet. I want to be here for Mother. Still, some backup would be nice. Even long distance, you’d think Jack could help with the decision-making, with trying to boost Mother’s frame of mind. But, no. His idea of involvement is a fifteen-minute phone call once per week.

  As I drag the box to Mother’s bedroom and start unpacking clothing, knickknacks and books, my early morning drive-by comes to mind. So. Bert has a life. Not only a life, a sex life. Women actually find him appealing. Maybe he really wasn’t just a mercy lay or a boredom diversion for our neighbor’s not-so-innocent young daughter.

  And that pisses me off.

  All these months while I’ve been raising our child alone, coping with all the stress that goes with having a teenager, juggling family and career, struggling with ending our failed marriage and putting it behind me, Bert and his penis have been out on the town. Literally.

  Mother’s humming drifts to me from the kitchen where she’s putting away her gourmet cooking utensils, pots, pans and bakeware. The sound makes me pause. I can’t recall hearing her hum like that since Dad died almost a year ago. The anniversary of his passing is a week away. Next Saturday.

  The humming pleases me…and makes me feel guilty. The truth is, I haven’t come to terms with her moving into my house. I love her and want the best for her. But is her moving in best for Erin and me? I haven’t lived full-time with a parent since I left home at the age of eighteen for college. I’m accustomed to doing things my own way, not Mother’s. And Erin is finally starting to have friends come around. She likes her independence and privacy, and so do I. But did all that walk out the door when Mother walked in?

  “You okay in there?” I yell.

  “I’m making headway, Sugar, but it’s going to take a while,” she calls back. “Your cabinets are a mess! You could die of starvation before you found a pot to boil water in or a pan to scramble an egg.”

  “Which is why I don’t boil water or scramble eggs.”

  “For heaven’s sake! What do y’all eat?”

  “Takeout.” I pry open a box filled with colognes and bubble bath and other bathroom stuff. “Frozen dinners.”

  “What about breakfast?”

  “Breakfast? What’s that?”

  Even the two walls separating us can’t block her sigh. “No wonder Erin’s so skinny, p
oor thing. Now that I’m here, I’ll take care of that.”

  I drag the box toward the adjoining bathroom, reminding myself that this is what matters. Family pulling together during tough times. My mother’s happiness in the winter years of her life. Not my pride or privacy or independence. And most certainly not Bert’s extracurricular activities.

  I groan. Bert. I can get over the fact that he has a social life and a sex life and I don’t; I will get over it. Nothing good ever came of sex anyway. Well, nothing but babies and orgasms, but I’m long past the baby stage of my life.

  As for orgasms, let’s just say Bert never put much stock in the motto “it’s better to give than to receive.” So, while I could argue that some is better than nothing at all, I haven’t really given much up in that department. Anyway, if not for raging hormones, Bert would’ve lost interest in me when the first date ended. It wasn’t my brilliant mind he probed in his bachelor apartment when we were seniors at the University of Texas.

  Hefting the box onto the bathroom vanity, I start pulling out floral-scented bottles and small brown medicine vials.

  “CiCi?” Mom calls from inside the bedroom.

  “In here.”

  My petite, plump, pink-cheeked mother appears in the bathroom doorway, a bright smile on her face, her eyes unnaturally huge behind the magnified lenses of her glasses. She holds my thick, white plastic cutting board, which she lifts up in front of her. “Not that it’s any of my business, Sugar, but don’t you think it’s time you threw this ol’ thing away?”

  I blink. Rarely, if ever, do I use the board, but still it’s mine, and after her previous criticism of my kitchen organizational skills, I’m starting to feel a bit defensive. “What’s wrong with it?”

  “I’m blind as a bat, but even I can see there’s mold growing on it.” Mother wrinkles her nose. “It isn’t sanitary.”

  “It’s sanitary. I bleach it after every use. The green just won’t come off.”

  “Surely you can afford a new cutting board.”

  “Why should I spend the money when that one’s still perfectly functional?”