So Long, Summer Camp

Part 2: Aug 1990 – Jun 1993

Trip and I started our new company on August 1, 1990.

A day later, Iraq invaded Kuwait, although we didn’t think anything about it at the time. Why would we? We planned to build houses in America, not oil refineries in the Middle East.

So we signed a contract with Brett and started designing his house. We became friends with him in the process. He was only a few years younger than us and had a similar personality. Even better, especially for Trip, he loved talking baseball and got us tickets to all the home games.

He didn’t have a problem with Mindy showing off, either. She wore skin-tight dresses that revealed plenty of cleavage. And she never wore a bra, so her nipples were always stiff when she walked into the air-conditioned office. She wasn’t exactly a trophy—they seemed to love each other—but she was definitely the kind of the perk that came with a Major League career.

She also made another pass at me, although she was testing the waters more than anything. She couldn’t possibly expect me to have sex with her in my office. We didn’t have a receptionist or any other employees, but her fiancé and my business partner were in the next room.

Still, I played along and didn’t stop her when she started rubbing my dick through my pants. Then she unzipped them and extracted my hard-on, although she was in for a surprise if she expected me to freak out. I relaxed as she began stroking me. I even decided to see how far I could get. I pulled her dress aside and bared her breast. She sighed with encouragement when I stroked her nipple.

She didn’t seem worried that Brett and Trip might walk in, so I lifted the hem of her dress. She shifted to give me better access. I slid her panties aside and teased her pussy as she jerked me off. She knew what she was doing and made me come fairly quickly. She even had a wad of tissues ready for when I did.

“Next time you can come on my face,” she whispered as she cleaned me up.

She laughed softly as Mr. Big swelled at the prospect of another round. Then she straightened her dress while I stuffed my semi-hard dick into my pants. We walked next door to Trip’s office like nothing had happened. Ten minutes later we wrapped up our meeting and said goodbye.

I told Trip what had happened.

“For real? Dude! Okay, next time you go over the budget, and I’ll ‘show her the sketches.’ Is that what we’re calling it these days?” he laughed. Then he shook his head in disbelief. “You’re batting a thousand. Base hit, every time you step up to the plate. Maybe not a home run—I mean, you didn’t fuck her—but still…”

“Yeah, but this also puts us in a bit of a pickle.”

His eyebrows rose with amusement. “Did you just use a baseball analogy?”

“It was a metaphor. An analogy is— Never mind.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

“This puts us in a pickle,” I repeated. “I wasn’t thinking clearly, but now I am. Mindy’s hot and Brett’s cool, but this is a pretty big job. And right now it’s our only job.”

“Oh, that.” Trip waved away my concern. “I have two more lined up already.”

“Seriously? And when were you going to tell me… partner?”

“Calm down. They aren’t official yet. But you remember the Buckhead couple? And the guy that owns the car dealerships?”

“Yeah,” I said cautiously.

“They both accepted our proposals. They’re sending us checks to get the work started. I found out this morning. And I’m pretty sure the doctor and his wife are gonna go with us. So that’s three jobs right there, plus whatever else I can drum up between now and whenever. Have I mentioned this was a good idea? Well, it was. You were right.”

“Thank you,” I said. “But that still doesn’t solve our little ‘problem’ with Mindy.”

“Oh, that,” he said dismissively. “Listen, dude, Brett’s been dropping hints for a couple of weeks. I’m pretty sure he’s a swinger at heart, even if he doesn’t realize it yet. I mean, you’ve seen the way Mindy dresses whenever they come to the office. You think that’s for his benefit?”

“Maybe not,” I said. “Or, not entirely. But showing off your girlfriend isn’t the same as watching another guy fuck her.”

“Details,” Trip countered. “You know why they want privacy at their new home, don’t you? So they can play sex games and run around naked. Besides, he’s a baseball player. We’re all horndogs. Didn’t you know that?”

I tried not to smile but couldn’t help myself.

“Seriously, dude,” Trip said. “I think they wanna try swinging. I know you’re the expert, but I’m not so bad myself. I mean, I’ve been doing this almost as long as you have. And, no offense, but you’ve been in a rut lately. When’s the last time you and Christy got together with us? Or Mark and Leah? Or… anyone, for that matter? Since before Laurie was born.”

He didn’t have a clue what Christy and I had gone through over the past year. He knew about some of it, but he still dismissed it as “all in her head” or “what mothers are supposed to do.” I wanted to punch him in the face, so I took a deep breath to calm down. I really needed to find an outlet for my aggression.

“Let’s talk to the girls tonight over dinner,” Trip said, the voice of reason. “I’m pretty sure Brett and Mindy are up for swinging. I mean… dude! She gave you a handjob with him right next door. That’s bold. Besides, Wren totally likes Brett. And you know Christy wouldn’t mind another dick to suck.”

“I suppose,” I said.

“Come on, dude. Where’s the Paul I used to know? The swinger! The stud! The ladies’ man!”

“He’s a husband and father now.”

“So? You’re still a man, aren’t you?”

“Last time I checked.”

“Do we need to ask Mindy?” he teased. Then he grinned and clapped me on the shoulder. “Let’s get you outta this rut you’re in. You need to loosen up and have fun.”

“If you say so.”

* * *

We signed several more contracts in early 1991 and started hiring full-time staff, including an intern for me, a woman named Whitney. Trip and Wren sold their condo and moved into a much larger house, with a yard and a swimming pool. Christy and I did the same, although ours didn’t have a pool. It had a detached garage instead, which we turned into a studio where she could finally sculpt larger pieces. Her quality of life improved almost immediately. She slept through the night, ate well, and gained nearly five pounds.

“Kiss me! I’m finally back to triple digits,” she told me one morning, although she went from excited to thoughtful with whiplash speed.

“I know that look,” I chuckled. “Lemme guess… you’re wondering how much semen weighs?”

“How’d you know?” she pretend-pouted. Then she glanced at the door. “Laurie’s still asleep. We have time if you want to…”

“I’ll be late for work.” Still, I began unbuttoning my shirt.

“I know your boss. Besides, you work better without all that pressure.”

“I do,” I chuckled.

“Mmm… my favorite words, still.”

Suburban life suited us, although I still felt restless, like something was missing. I decided to join a gym and start boxing again. I was rusty at first but improved quickly. I didn’t have any desire to fight in matches, but I enjoyed the training. I also enjoyed hitting things that wouldn’t get me fired, arrested, or killed.

The exercise improved my stamina too. I hadn’t gone to seed, but I hadn’t had time for weightlifting or regular workouts since Laurie had been born. I lost ten pounds almost immediately, and I started to see definition in my arms, chest, and abs again.

Christy noticed immediately, and our sex life took a dramatic turn. It had been getting better for the past year, especially once we started swinging again, but it really kicked into high gear after I joined the gym.

“Oh my gosh,” she panted one night after two rounds. “I need to start doing aerobics again. Or Jazzercise. Or… something. Maybe I’ll start doing yoga. I can’t believe how sore I am. It’s a good sore, but still…” She stretched with a squeak.

“I think I want to get our toys out again,” she continued after a moment. “I know I haven’t really been in the mood for a while, especially with everything going on, but… I need it. I need you to hold me down and spank me, or tie me up and fuck me. Like, really hard. And… um… what do you think if I get a piercing?”

“What kind of piercing?”

“Nothing crazy,” she said quickly. “Not my face or anything. Only… I was thinking… maybe a little ring in my belly button? I’m excited now that I have one again.”

“Sure. If you’d like.”

“Thank you.” She fell silent again, but I could feel her working up to something.

“What is it?” I chuckled.

“You know me so well.”

“Mmm, I do.”

“Do you remember Nikki? From UT?”

“Nikki Tomasini? Yeah, of course. She’s hard to forget.” I wondered how the patriarchy was treating her. “What about her?”

“When we played strip poker…?”

“Also hard to forget,” I chuckled. Then I put the pieces together. “Hold on, are you talking about—?”

“Please don’t say no until you hear me out!”

“Okay,” I said slowly.

“I know my body’s back to normal, but it isn’t the same. My nipples aren’t as sensitive as they used to be. That’s part of why I want to start using our toys again. And… I… um…”

I waited.

“I… don’t feel sexy sometimes.”

“You are, though.”

“Thank you. Only, I don’t feel like it.”

“So… what? You want to get your nipples pierced? Like Nikki?”

“Yes, please.”

“Why?”

She sat up, and I saw for the first time how excited she was.

“It’s supposed to make them more sensitive. And I like the way it looks. I’d have little nipple hard-ons. Like, all the time. The woman in the place showed me hers.”

My eyebrows twitched in surprise.

“Sorry, I’m getting ahead of myself.”

“No kidding!” I laughed. “What woman, what place?”

“The little tattoo parlor by the pizza place we like.”

I nodded.

“I drove by there the other day on the way to the Chinese place. You know the one, with the mapo tofu and the yummy spring rolls.”

“I love the way your life revolves around food sometimes,” I chuckled. “Anyway, sorry to interrupt. Keep going.”

“Where was I? Oh, right, the woman. I went in to ask about getting my belly button pierced, and we started talking about other piercings. Oh my gosh, Paul, you have to meet her. She’s like me—she likes pain, I think. Only, I don’t think she’s bi. Maybe she is and just doesn’t like vanilla housewives, but—”

“You’re hardly vanilla.”

“I’m still a housewife. And that’s part of why I want to do this. A piercing, I mean.”

“It sounds like you want three,” I chuckled.

“I want more than that,” she said earnestly, “but the woman said to start with something simple.”

I snorted.

“A belly button is simple.”

“Nipples aren’t.”

“Yes, they are. Oh my gosh, Paul, you should see some of the other things she has pierced. Sensitive things. Lady part things.”

“She showed you?” I said incredulously.

She made a Christy-leap of logic. “Hmm, maybe you’re right.”

“About what?”

“Maybe she is bi. She showed me everything, even her piercings down there. She asked if I wanted to touch them. Maybe my radar was confused ’cause I was so excited.” She thought back. “Yeah, she’s definitely bi. Or lesbian. I’m not sure.” She made another leap. “Anyway, I don’t think I’m ready for that. Piercing my clit, I mean.”

My eyes bulged, but she was too excited (again) to notice.

“But I definitely wanna get my belly button done,” she finished. “And if you like it, we could get my nipples pierced too.”

“We?” I teased gently.

“I know I don’t really have to ask your permission, but… I want to. I like it when I feel like you own me. I know that sounds crazy, but…” She shrugged. “I can’t help it.”

“Some of the things I like are pretty crazy.”

She grinned and leaned over to kiss me. “Thank you. I think you’ll like my new piercing.”

“As long as it’s only the belly button.”

“For now,” she said. Then she cocked an ear.

“Did you hear something?”

“No, but I think I’ll check on her. I… um… want to make sure she’s good and asleep.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“Oh, okay. What for?”

“We have a date with the dining room table.”

She didn’t make the connection right away.

“It isn’t a pool table,” I said, “but it’s the right height.”

“Insatiable?” Her eyes lit up. “Oh my gosh, yes, please!”

* * *

Trip’s life changed the most with our new business. He’d been turning into a jerk at the big company, although I couldn’t really blame him. Corporate culture and management encouraged it. Still, he wasn’t the type of person I’d wanted to spend a lot of time with outside of work. I hadn’t realized it at the time, but I’d been slowly pulling away from him for the better part of three years.

That all changed once we didn’t have to deal with the boys’ club and hyper-competitive environment. We still had deadlines and budgets and the constant push for new projects—more so, since it was our own company—but we didn’t have the “greed is good” mentality, the pressure to win at all costs, to kill or be killed.

In other words, Trip became fun to work with again. He was still just as serious, just as good at his job, but I didn’t want to punch him in the face anymore.

“Admit it,” I said to him one day after everyone else had gone, “you’re happier now than you’ve ever been.”

“Oh, no argument.” He reached into his bottom drawer and pulled out a bottle of Gentleman Jack. “You want one?”

“Sure.”

He set two glasses on his desk and filled them. He passed one to me, and we leaned back in our chairs and put our feet on his desk. He took a long, slow drink. I did the same, and the whiskey fumes filled my sinuses.

“I’m even happier at home,” he said. “Wren says I help more around the house, help with Davis, you name it.” He shrugged. “I don’t think I’m doing anything different, but she does. And you know what they say…” He raised his glass. “Happy wife, happy life.”

“Amen, brother.”

“I’ve had some pretty good ideas in my time,” he said, “but this one tops ’em all, and I owe it all to you.” He toasted me and then took another long drink. “It’s been good for you, too,” he added after a moment. “I mean, you get to design things again.”

“Yep. And I can educate our clients about what makes good design.”

“Right. No more value engineering! God, I hated doing that. It always made me feel… I dunno… dirty. Like changing the background on the Mona Lisa or something.”

“The background in the Mona Lisa isn’t so special,” I said.

“You know what I mean,” he laughed, “Mr. Art History Nerd.”

“You’ve been around Christy too long.”

“Not long enough, you mean.”

I furrowed my brow.

“I’d forgotten how talented she is. Ever since you built her that studio. You saw the painting she did of Wren and Davis, right? And she made him a set of those little… whatchamacallems? The turtles that know karate.”

“Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles,” I laughed. “Yeah, I saw those.”

“They’re just like the real thing. Better! ’Cause they’re one-of-a-kind. He keeps ’em on his dresser and says goodnight to ’em every night. He knows their names and everything.”

“They’re Renaissance artists! How can you not know their names?”

“Hey, I never studied music theory.”

“Touché.”

He eyed me over his glass. “And I’m not supposed to tell you, but Christy’s working on something for your birthday. You know I’m not an art nerd, but this is pretty cool.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell her I know.”

“You’ll see it soon enough. But… yeah, mum’s the word.” He inhaled to clear his head. “Anyway, let’s say I have a new appreciation for how awesome Christy is.” He swirled his whiskey and stared into the glass for a long moment. “Something else,” he said somberly. “I… um… I’ve been talking to Wren, and I think I understand what you all went through after Laurie was born.”

My eyebrows rose.

“Yeah. I… um… I’m sorry. For everything you had to deal with, but also for how I treated you. Both of you,” he amended. “I mean, I thought it was all in her head or something, but… not according to Wren.” He tossed off the rest of his whiskey.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to turn this into a downer,” he said. “I just thought you should know… You don’t have to go through that shit alone. Wren and I…” He cleared his throat. “We love you, man, both of you. And if anything like that ever happens again… come to us. We’ll help, any way we can.”

I swallowed hard. “Thanks. That means a lot.”

“Yeah… I’m sorry it took me this long to figure it out.”

“Water under the bridge.”

“You’re way better’n I deserve,” he said seriously. “You and Christy and especially Wren.”

“We’re all pretty lucky.”

“You got that right.”

* * *

Our business continued to improve over the next few months. We had several houses under construction already and nearly a dozen in varying stages of design. We were looking for ways to expand when Trip came across a large tract of land near Lake Lanier. It was almost three hundred acres and included frontage on the lake itself. It had been on the market several years earlier, but the listing had expired without a recorded sale.

Trip started digging and found out that the original owner had died. Trip called his son and asked if he might be interested in selling. He wasn’t, but Trip didn’t take no for an answer. He asked the man if we could buy him dinner and talk about developing the property instead. He wasn’t interested in that, either, but then Trip made a chance remark about baseball. The man was a Braves fan, and Trip knew an opening when he heard one.

“You know,” he said, “I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but… one of our partners is a Braves player.” He listened and then said, “No, an actual player. Uh-huh.”

I stuck my head into his office at that point, drawn by the conversation. Trip held up a hand to keep me quiet. Then he grinned, although he immediately composed his expression and pretended to apologize.

“No, I’m sorry, I can’t tell you who. He’s a silent partner. But… I might persuade him to join us if you want to talk about selling the property.”

I glared, but Trip wasn’t paying attention.

“You will?” he said in surprise. “That’s great to hear! Let me talk to my partner— Sorry, my not-so-silent partner.” He shot me a grin. “We’ll talk to our actual silent partner and see if he’s willing to meet. It’ll have to be Thursday.” He smiled and nodded. “Right, spring training games on Wednesday and Friday.” He flipped open his planner. “Okay, so… Thursday, seven o’clock. Do you like steak?”

He made arrangements for us to meet the man and his wife at Wren’s father’s steakhouse. Then he hung up and beamed at me. I gave him a pointed look in return.

“That wasn’t very ethical.”

“Oh, chill out,” he replied. “Brett’s been talking about buying some property. And this’d be a good investment.”

“I don’t think he’d like you using his name like that.”

“I didn’t,” Trip said.

I thought back and realized he was right. “A technicality,” I said.

“Still…”

“Okay, but… what if Brett doesn’t want to get involved?”

“Then I’ll figure something out. I just need his name to get the guy to the table. Once I start negotiating, I’m sure I can convince him. But don’t worry, I think Brett’ll be thrilled.”

“I hope so,” I said.

“And besides,” Trip continued, “the old list price was more than you and I can afford on our own. We can leverage it, but… We’ll need another investor if we wanna buy it outright. Brett’s the logical choice. But we’re putting the cart before the horse,” he finished. Then he picked up the phone and started to dial.

“Lemme call and leave him a message. Then I need to make reservations for dinner. Oh, and invite Christy, if you don’t mind. She’s a real closer, and we’re going to need all the help we can get.”

* * *

Nana Choate was already planning to avoid taxes on her estate when she eventually died, and her financial advisors had suggested something called a gift in trust for each of her heirs, which included Christy. Nana C. had plans to transfer more of her wealth as part of several family trusts, but the gifts were the start.

“It’s a lot of money,” Christy said. She told me how much.

“Hold on,” I said, “is that the whole trust? The family one?”

“No, that’s the gift to us. It’s enough to buy the property, isn’t it? Our share, I mean.”

“And then some.”

“I thought so.” She beamed. “You know how I am with numbers.”

“Speaking of which… Are you sure that’s the right number? Maybe you added a zero or something?”

“No, I wrote it down,” she said brightly. “She made me read it back to her. She knows I’m bad with numbers.” She grimaced but then brightened again. “I’ll show you!”

She ran out of the bedroom and returned with a Post-It. “See?”

“That’s… a lot of money,” I said.

“I like ‘a lot.’ And it means we can buy the land. Trip said we’d form a partnership to do it, and my name would be on it!”

“Of course. It’s your money.”

“Our money,” she stressed. “I told you, remember… For the rest of our lives?”

“That’s my line.”

“Well, it’s mine now too. So there!”

* * *

Trip and Wren came up with the money as well, but their story was a soap opera more than a fairy tale.

Her father had been involved in a minor scandal a couple of years earlier, when his then-girlfriend had traded her birth control pills for Benadryl. They were both pink, and he hadn’t known the difference. She’d become pregnant and then tried to force him to marry her. He’d told her to get an abortion instead, but she’d had the child anyway.

Wren’s father had been “less than gentlemanly” about his obligations. (He was a chauvinist asshole about it, but I knew better than say that around Wren.) The woman had gone to court, and the paternity test had backed up her claim. Wren’s father had been ordered to pay monthly child-support. The money was enough that the woman didn’t have to work, which was probably what she’d wanted all along.

“My little bastard half-brother,” Wren called him.

I couldn’t really blame her for being upset, but the little boy hadn’t done anything wrong. His mother, on the other hand, deserved everything Wren said about her. She was a piece of work.

To make things even more interesting, Wren’s father wanted to marry his current girlfriend.

“Gold-digging tramp,” Wren swore when she found out, although she truly lost it when she learned that he’d asked her mother for a divorce.

Wren had never been in the Navy, but grizzled sailors would’ve blanched if they’d heard her. Honestly, I was a bit surprised that her language didn’t blister paint. Trip was comically impressed. He leaned toward me in the middle of her tirade.

“How many of those d’you think are real words?” he asked under his breath. “Doxy whore? Mangy bitch?”

“Oh, they’re real, all right.” Still, I couldn’t hide my admiration. “My favorite so far is ‘come-gargling trollop.’”

“Yeah,” he chuckled, “that was good. ‘Slack-jawed skank’ too. But… what did she mean by ‘fucking neighborhood bicycle’?”

“Anyone can ride…”

“Oh, yeah! Right. Heh. That’s good.”

“What did you say?” Wren screeched.

“Nothing, babe, I swear!” Then he threw me under the bus. “It was Paul.”

She eventually calmed down, but not before she’d come up with some truly creative swearing. I’d always said she could take a few simple ingredients and turn them into something special. I just hadn’t realized that swear-words were on the menu.

At that point she started making arrangements to secure her inheritance. In exchange for an uncontested divorce, her father agreed to hand over 50 percent of the restaurants’ parent company to Wren’s mother. It was rightfully hers anyway, since she’d been the first investor and had supported him in the early days.

He brought in Wren as the senior partner for the 50 percent he still controlled. He had good managers and wasn’t interested in running the business anymore. He wanted to enjoy the fruits of his labors, plus his young girlfriend.

Wren hired a lawyer to draw up an iron-clad prenuptial agreement before she’d let her mother finalize the divorce. Her father’s new wife wouldn’t inherit a dime, although he insisted that part of his estate be set aside to support her after his death. Wren reluctantly agreed.

In the meantime, she used a portion of the restaurants’ profits to pay him a monthly buyout, and the checks were enough to let him retire in moderate luxury.

“I swear,” Wren said when it was all over, “I don’t care how long he lives, as long as I never have to see that fucking gold-digger again.”

“Babe, relax,” Trip said. “Take a deep breath. All’s well that ends well.”

“Easy for you to say,” she snapped. “You didn’t just help your father divorce your mother.”

“No,” he said calmly, “my mother died when I was ten.”

That hit home, and the fight went out of her.

“I’m just saying,” he continued, “it could’ve been a lot worse.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” She sniffed and wiped her eyes. “At least now we can buy the land, right?”

“Who cares about the land. I only care about you and Davis, Paul and his family. The rest is just stuff.”

I was really starting to like this new Trip.

* * *

Christy and I started talking about children again. We both wanted more, but not if it meant several months of hell after they were born. I could handle the lack of sleep and even the lack of sex, but I couldn’t handle watching her suffer, especially when I couldn’t do anything about it.

“But I love being pregnant,” she wheedled. “And you love it too. You know how I am.”

“Our sex life’s pretty good now,” I said.

“Think how much better it’ll be when I’m a nympho and can’t get enough. Mmm, penis.” She reached for it. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

I caught her hand and stopped her, something I rarely did. “We need to talk about this.”

She sighed but nodded.

“I’m not worried about you getting pregnant,” I said. “I’m worried about what comes after.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I arched an eyebrow.

“What? So? It took me some time to get used to being a mother. Now I am. We’ll be fine. I promise. Besides, I want another baby. You know I love them.”

“So do I, but…”

“Laurie needs a little brother.”

“Or sister. And no, she doesn’t.” I didn’t sound convinced, even to myself.

Christy sensed her advantage and pressed it ruthlessly. She was her mother’s daughter, all right. Her father’s too.

“You know I love Wren,” she said, “but she was an only child. I don’t want Laurie to grow up alone.”

“Neither do I.”

We fell silent, and I thought about what she was asking. Then I had a thought, one of my own weird leaps of logic.

“It’s a good thing you didn’t get your nipples pierced.”

Christy frowned. “What?”

“You wouldn’t be able to breastfeed.”

“Of course I would! What makes you—?” Her expression changed as she realized what it meant. “We can have another baby? Thank you, thank you. You’ll love it. I promise! Oh my gosh, we’d better get started!”

I didn’t stop her when she reached for my penis again.

* * *

To this day, Christy swears she gave me two gifts on my twenty-eighth birthday.

She unveiled the first at a cookout with family and friends. The mounting block was a vertical slab of rose-colored granite, thirty inches on a side and six inches thick, with a polished face and rough edges. I did the math in my head and realized it weighed more than six hundred pounds. My pint-sized princess did not think small.

The sculpture itself was bronze, a bas-relief of a man’s muscular torso, mine. Personally, I wasn’t sure I’d ever looked that good, but I wasn’t about to quibble. My bronze self cradled my infant daughter in one arm while I held the other above her. She gripped my index finger with her tiny hand. It was a private moment, and Christy had captured both the tenderness and the strength in our touch.

“It’s beautiful,” someone said, maybe me. “What’s it called?”

“Sleep, darling.”

People around me started talking, in murmurs at first, but louder as their confidence grew. They thought they knew what the title meant, although none of them did, not for real.

It was from a poem by Sappho, one of my favorites. I thought of it often when I held Laurie, my golden flower. I even called her “Flower” because of it, and I should’ve known that Christy would understand why.

Do you like it? she asked hopefully.

Like it? I love it. And I especially love the artist.

Friends and family complimented her and wished me a happy birthday. Then my golden flower toddled up, and I swept her into my arms.

“Bir’day, Daddy!”

“Thank you, sweetie.” I pointed at the sculpture. “Do you know who that is? It’s you and Daddy.”

“Flower?”

“That’s right, Flower and Daddy.”

“No,” she said with a toddler’s seriousness, “Daddy and Flower.”

I slid my other arm around Christy and kissed the top of her head.

“Look, Mommy,” Laurie said. “Daddy and Flower.”

“I know, darling. Mommy made it for you and Daddy.”

“No,” the little girl grumped. “Daddy and Flower!”

I chuckled. “She’s your daughter, all right.”

“And whose fault is that?” Christy asked sweetly.

* * *

My second birthday gift arrived nine months later. Emily Anne Hughes joined us on a cold Thursday in February. She was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen, even red-faced and suspicious. She wasn’t grumpy like her sister had been. Instead, she thought I might be up to something, that I might’ve been the reason she’d been evicted from her nice warm home. Then she pursed her tiny lips, sighed, and went to sleep, just like that. I couldn’t help but laugh.

A little while later we introduced her to Laurie, who was curious and affectionate. She snuggled beside Christy in the hospital bed and watched seriously as Emily had her first meal. My little family was growing, and I thought my heart might burst. Christy and I had brought another life into the world. I was twice the dad I’d been only a few hours earlier.

We brought Emily home a couple of days later. Once again, Christy’s mother stayed with us, and my mother came to visit every day or so. At first we thought Christy would be fine. She suffered the normal baby blues but seemed to recover. Anne returned to San Diego, and I went back to work.

* * *

Christy started losing weight, more than the normal baby weight. She didn’t sleep at night, and sometimes she was confused in the evening when I came home, like I’d just left and had returned because I’d forgotten something. The doctor said it was from lack of sleep and prescribed sleeping pills. They knocked her out, especially after she’d had a couple of drinks, so she stopped taking them.

She started drinking more without the pills, and she bought random things from QVC in the middle of the night. She sobbed when I called the credit card company and told them to block any charges from home shopping networks.

“But… you don’t understand!” Christy pleaded. “I need my things!”

“What, kitschy art? Ugly porcelain dogs? Sports equipment? No! And that’s final!”

Things grew progressively worse over the next couple of months. We didn’t have sex, of course, and we fought more often. Her sketchbook sat untouched, and she stopped going to church. She couldn’t sit still, yet she never seemed to accomplish anything. The house was a mess, and I took care of the girls when I was home.

I called her doctor, but he was no help. Christy’s mother talked to her, and things improved for a little while before they went right back to where they’d been. I even called Leah and begged her to help.

“Let me call Gina.”

“No! You can’t. What if Christy finds out?”

“Let me worry about that,” Leah said patiently.

I waited by the phone and snatched it out of the charging cradle the moment it rang.

“She said it sounds like postpartum depression.”

“What do I do?”

“She has to see her doctor. He can prescribe antidepressants—”

“You mean, like, Prozac?”

“That. Or something else,” Leah said. “And… um… I don’t know how to put this…”

“Just say it,” I snapped, although I immediately felt guilty. “Sorry. I’m not getting any sleep either. And I’m watching my wife slowly disintegrate.”

“I know,” Leah said. “I don’t want to scare you, but Gina said to take her to the emergency room if you think she might… harm herself or the girls.”

I went very still. “Are you serious?”

“Yes. She said it can turn into…” Paper rasped in the background as she flipped a page in her notebook. “Postpartum psychosis.”

“Psychosis,” I said slowly. “Like… she’s crazy? Fucking for real? She might hurt—? I have to get them out of here!”

“Don’t do anything,” Leah said. “I’ll be right there.”

The line clicked.

Leah lived thirty minutes away, even at night and without traffic. She made it in twenty.

“Where is she?” she asked.

“In the bedroom.”

“Where are the girls?”

“Asleep.”

“Check on them.”

“I already did. They’re fine.”

She nodded. Then she looked at her watch and scowled. “I called Kara. She should’ve been here by now.”

“I didn’t even think of Kara!” I said in despair.

“That’s okay. Lack of sleep’ll do that. Besides, Gina’s the real expert. You did right.” She paused and shook her head in dismay. “What happened? I talked to her last week, but she only sounded tired. Wren said she had a cold, so I didn’t think anything of it.”

“A cold? That was… a month ago!”

“Don’t blame Wren,” Leah soothed. “She has her hands full.”

Wren was pregnant herself, due any day now.

Leah checked her watch again. “Has this been going on since Emily was born? Why didn’t you tell us?”

“I… don’t know. I thought I could handle it. And… I… didn’t want to drag you into our problems.”

“That’s what we’re for!” She checked her watch. “Where is she?”

Just then a car pulled into the driveway. Leah yanked open the front door.

“Sorry, I got here as quick as I could,” Kara said. She’d been asleep in bed when Leah had called. It was past midnight, after all. “Where is she?”

“Bedroom,” Leah said.

“The girls?”

“They’re fine. Asleep.”

Kara nodded and took over. She disappeared into the back of the house, and the sound of the television stopped. I couldn’t hear what Kara said, but she spoke in quiet, soothing tones. Christy seemed confused. They talked for a little while longer before Kara returned to the living room. She set a bottle of whiskey on the counter without comment.

“I gave her something to help her sleep,” she said instead. “She’s definitely depressed.”

Leah nodded. “That’s what Gina said.”

“Yeah, we spoke before I left,” Kara said. “She told me what symptoms to look for.” She turned to me. “I don’t think she’s a danger to herself or the children, but I think we should call her OB/GYN first thing in the morning. Who is she?”

“He,” I said, and told her his name.

“Never mind,” Kara said. “You’re changing doctors. I won’t speak ill of a colleague, but… I’ll make an exception this time. Dr. Akin should’ve retired twenty years ago. He’s a chauvinist relic. I’m not sure he understands that ‘hysteria’ isn’t a medical diagnosis.”

“He’s on our insurance,” I said vaguely.

“It’s okay. You had no way to know,” Kara said with the same soothing voice she’d used on Christy.

“What do we do?”

“Sit tight,” she said immediately. “I can admit her to the hospital if you want, but I’m worried that someone might call DFCS. We don’t want that.”

“No!” Leah and I said together.

“I don’t think she’s a danger to herself or the children,” Kara continued, “but she needs help.”

“What kind of help?” I asked.

“Medication and counseling. I’ll call a friend who can see her first thing in the morning. She’ll do a real psych eval and tell us how to proceed.” She glanced at Leah. “Are you okay to spend the night?”

“Of course. I keep a bag packed, just in case I have to leave for a story.”

“I didn’t bring one,” Kara said, “but we can share. It’ll be like old times.”

Leah nodded immediately.

“You don’t have to stay,” I said.

“Nonsense.” Kara smiled, sad and sympathetic. “Looks like you’re spending the night with a couple of Coulter women. Not exactly the way you wanted, is it?”

* * *

Wren went into labor on the morning of my birthday. I was twenty-nine, and we didn’t have a party.

Melissa Lark was born that evening. Christy made an effort to come to the hospital and meet her, but Wren could tell that things weren’t right.

“Thank you for coming, my love,” she said. “Meet Missy.”

“She looks like you,” Christy said. Then she frowned in confusion. “I didn’t bring my sketchbook.”

“That’s okay,” Wren said. “You’ll have plenty of time.”

Christy nodded glumly. “I should probably go. You don’t need me here.”

“No, stay.”

“Love you,” Christy said. “I’ll be in the waiting room.”

“Okay. I won’t be long,” I said.

She left, and a heavy silence filled the room. Wren glared daggers.

“Why didn’t you tell us? We could’ve helped!”

“Don’t start,” Trip told her. “I’d’ve done the same thing in his shoes.”

“Oh, really! You’d let me die? That’s nice to know!”

“Babe,” he said patiently, “I wouldn’t let you die. But you don’t understand what it’s like for us, me and Paul.”

“Oh, really?” she said, sarcastic this time. “Then please, enlighten me.”

“We’re men. We’re supposed to protect our families. What’s Paul supposed to do when he can’t protect his wife from herself? How d’you think that makes him feel?”

I blinked in surprise and didn’t know what to say. I never would’ve expected him to understand, not in a million years.

“You’re telling me this is a macho thing?” Wren snapped.

“It’s a guy thing.”

She huffed in fury. “Sometimes you make me want to scream! My girlfriend’s dying, and all you can say is, ‘it’s a guy thing’?”

He merely shrugged. She was irrational because of her hormones, although it wasn’t worth the price of his life to say so. She was also scared for Christy, which he seemed to understand.

“She isn’t dying,” I said into the silence.

“Do they know what’s wrong with her?” Wren snarled.

“Severe postpartum depression.”

“Severe—? What the—? For real? Postpartum? But… Emily was born four months ago!”

Three and a half, but I didn’t correct her. I shrugged instead. “The doctor said it’s unpredictable.”

“Unpre—? What the literal fuck! He’s a fucking doctor!”

Trip’s eyebrows rose.

“What the fuck is he doing about it?” Wren demanded.

“He? He who? Oh, Dr. Akin? We switched doctors.”

“Thank God for that!” She glared at Trip. “I told you he was a loser. Fucking dinosaur.”

“Anyway,” I continued, “we switched to a new OB/GYN. And Kara recommended a psychiatrist. She’s also a she. So we have a bunch of female doctors now.”

“About fucking time,” Wren muttered.

“The psychiatrist prescribed an antidepressant and an appetite stimulant. She’s starting to eat—”

“She looks like one of those refugees on CNN!”

“Babe, let him finish,” Trip said.

“Why? He’s not doing his fucking job! He—”

“He loves her too. As much as we do. More.”

“You don’t!” Wren sneered. “You never did. You only like her ’cause she ‘sucks a mean dick’!”

He sighed and kept his temper in check.

“Are you ready to listen?” I said to Wren.

She gestured impatiently.

“She’s starting to eat again,” I said. “And she’s sleeping through the night. The doctor gave her pills for that, too. The antidepressants will take some time, but I’ve seen some little improvements already. And we’ve been to a therapist. She doesn’t like it, but I told her she doesn’t have a choice.”

Wren squeezed her eyes shut and nodded. After a moment she wiped her cheeks. Her temper had finally begun to abate. Now she was just worried about her friend.

“We’re going to see her twice a week,” I continued, “until she’s better. I don’t care how long it takes.”

Wren swallowed hard and then forced a smile. “Thank you.”

“Why don’t you take a break from work,” Trip said.

I nodded. I’d been going to ask.

“I’ll cover for you.” He laughed, a touch bitterly. “I’m an architect too, even if I don’t ever use it.”

“You’re a good one,” I said.

“Not as good as you, but I can do the job.”

“Whitney will help,” I said. “She knows all the projects we’re working on.”

“Yeah. She’s good. I thought you hired her ’cause of her looks—”

I shook my head.

“—but she has a brain too. I wish she was friendlier, but…”

“Dude,” I said, “she’s a lesbian.”

“For real? Man, that’s a shame.”

I felt an irrational stab of annoyance, but it wasn’t the time to lecture him. He was trying to lighten the mood, after all.

“She’s still in the closet,” I said, “so be cool about it. I don’t think she knows I know.”

“No problem. That explains a lot, though, now that you mention it.” He shot a glance at Wren and finished quickly, “I mean, yeah, right, she’s good. Anyway, you’d better go. Take care of Christy. My lovely and not-at-all-hormonal wife will kill us both if anything happens to her.”

“Damn right I will,” Wren said.

I leaned in to kiss her. “Missy’s beautiful. Congratulations. To both of you.”

Trip smiled in paternal pride.

Wren caught my arm before I could leave. She squeezed, part plea, part reassurance.

“Take care of her,” she said. “Let us know what you need. Anything. And… I’m sorry I lost my temper.”

“No worries.”

She smiled. “Thank you.”

* * *

Christy’s health continued to improve over the next month. She gained weight and began taking care of herself again. She didn’t like going to the therapist, but I didn’t give her a choice, and the sessions seemed to help.

She wouldn’t talk about “her troubles,” except to say that she’d had them. To hear her tell it, she’d been a little “out of sorts.” Still, I wasn’t going to complain, especially since I was getting my wife back.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t shake a nagging sense of guilt. A small part of me didn’t want her to get better. I enjoyed spending time with her, but most of all, I enjoyed spending time with the girls.

Emily was a different child. Laurie had been sweet, but Emily had a temper, so we came to a tacit agreement not to annoy each other. Laurie had gone to sleep easily, but Emily was stubborn, so I rocked her and sang to her. Laurie didn’t mind sleeping in the dark, but Emily hated to be left alone, so I bought her a little froggy night light to keep her company.

I also put Laurie to bed every night. She liked a story instead of songs. I read to her at first, but then I started making up my own story, about a princess who lived in a tower and didn’t want to leave. But then one night she heard a ruckus downstairs and saw that a pack of pixies had invaded the castle. They were throwing food and making a mess. The princess stomped her foot to make them listen. Then she asked them very politely to play nice and clean up after themselves.

I picked up the story the following night. The princess decided to explore some of the rooms in the castle. She discovered the library, but an old ogre scared her. She came back the next night and tried talking to him instead of running away. He was a friendly ogre after all, and he taught her the alphabet.

I continued the story, night after night, and the princess met new friends in the castle. They taught her new things, like how to braid her hair or how to tie her shoes. Sometimes a group of dryads or sprites would make trouble, but the princess always found a way to make them play nice. Sometimes she talked to them. Other times she won a race. One time she even made funny faces until they stopped arguing and listened.

Laurie hung on every word until I finished for the night. Then she gave me a goodnight kiss, curled up on her side (just like her mother), and closed her eyes. She usually fell asleep in minutes.

“Now I want to know what happens to the princess,” Christy said one evening when I joined her in the living room. She closed her sketchbook and poured me a glass of wine.

“You were listening?”

“Of course. I wouldn’t miss it for the world, Mr. Raconteur.”

I smiled and accepted the glass. Then I sank to the couch beside her.

“I looked it up, you know. Raconteur. Erin isn’t the only one.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“Something you said, years ago.”

I shrugged. “I don’t remember.”

“No, you’re lucky.” She stared into space and then sighed. “I don’t remember them. My troubles, I mean. I remember you being there, but that’s all. I just have this big brown space where I usually have memories.” She sighed again. “I suppose that’s a good thing. My therapist says it is, but I’m not so sure. Maybe if I remembered better I wouldn’t want more children.”

I didn’t know what to say.

“I can’t help it, though. I know we should stop at two, but…” She exhaled, long and dejected. “Oh, well. We’ll burn that bridge when we get to it. You said that to me once. I remember that just fine, but I can’t remember what you said when we brought Emily home from the hospital. Isn’t that weird?”

“It’s probably healthy. You weren’t very happy back then.”

“I know. I’m happy now, though. I like hearing you sing. You’re a little off-key,” she teased with a smile, “but only a little. No one else would notice.”

“Thank you… I think.”

“I like listening to your stories, too. I like relaxing and sitting here with my wine and knowing you’ll always be here.”

“I will.”

“I know. Only, you need to go back to work.”

“Not yet.”

“Soon.” She held up a hand before I could protest. “You can’t protect me forever.”

“The hell I can’t.”

“Paul, I’m serious. Sooner or later, I have to do this. Be a mother, I mean. On my own. You’re a wonderful father, and I love having you at home, but you can’t keep avoiding it.”

“Avoiding what?”

“Leaving me alone with them.”

I sipped my wine so I wouldn’t have to answer.

“I’m not going to hurt them. Or myself.”

“I know. I never thought—”

“Yes. Yes, you did. Leah told me.” She let the words hang there. “You have to trust me, Paul.”

“I do.”

“Oh, no,” she countered. “You can’t just say ‘I do’ and then expect me to do things your way. We have to compromise. You said it, like, a million times. So, now we’re going to do it.” She paused in case I wanted to object, but she knew I couldn’t.

“You’re going to go back to work,” she finished, “and I’m going to be a mother. We have to, Paul. Otherwise, this isn’t a marriage, it’s a dictatorship. I signed up for that in bed, but not the rest of the time.”

“Yeah, you’re right.”

She lifted my arm and pulled it around her shoulders. She was still too small, but she felt solid for the first time in a long time. She leaned against me and sighed.

“I love you.”

I kissed the top of her head. “I love you too.”

“We’ll get through this.”

* * *

In the summer of 1992, Trip began looking for a development partner for our tract of land on Lake Lanier. He found him in September. His name was Douglas J. Trimble, and he was a big-time property developer in the area. He wanted to build a golf course, condos, a country club, and a gated luxury community on the lake itself.

“I’d love to start right away,” he told us, “but I have this other development I need to finish first. It’s behind schedule, and the architect just quit.”

Trip had a solution for that, of course. Our company could do the work while we negotiated contracts and drew up plans for the new development.

“I don’t know if it’s the kind of work you normally do,” Trimble said. “It’s a mixed-use development, condos and retail.”

“No, I can totally do that,” I said.

Trip nodded enthusiastically.

“All right. If you think you can handle it. Besides, we’ll get to know each other while we put together the big deal, the one that’s going to make us all rich. Well, richer. Am I right, boys?”

“Right!”

So I started designing boutique shopping centers, restaurant spaces, and several different condo layouts. Trip tried to get the schedule back on track from where the previous architect had left it.

We had so much work that we stopped accepting new clients for our homebuilding company. Even better, Trimble planned a multi-year development schedule for the Lake Lanier project, so we’d have plenty of work for the foreseeable future. In fact, we’d have to hire more people once we started.

Trip was excited to be working with a more experienced developer, the mentor he’d never had. Then he saw the sales projections from Trimble’s marketing people.

“Dude,” he said to me over drinks in his office one evening, “we’re going to be rich. I’m talking millions of dollars. Each. As a matter of fact, we may be talking tens of millions. And that’s just for starters. The golf club and all the associated revenue will be a goldmine!”

“What about Brett?”

“Him too. I figure he’ll invest right along with us. C’mon, let’s give him a call.”

“Sorry, guys,” he said. “My business manager wants me to diversify. He says computers’re big right now. He wants me to invest in some robot company. They talk to each other over the phone or something.”

We tried to talk him out of it, but probably not as hard as we should’ve. It meant a larger share of the profits for us, after all. So we called Trimble and told him it was just the two of us in the form of our company. His people drew up reams of contracts.

“They’re pretty standard boys. You know that. I don’t know why we even use ’em. A handshake’s good enough for me. I trust you. But the lawyers insist, so…”

Trip spent days poring over them. Then we sent them to our own attorney for review. He warned us that he didn’t specialize in real estate law, which should have been our first red flag. Trip said it was okay, since he just wanted a legal opinion and to double-check his own reading. The attorney repeated his caveats and approved the contracts.

We had a big signing ceremony that looked like a scene out of a movie, with a long boardroom table and a bunch of men in suits. It was exciting and intimidating at the same time, especially when we realized that Trimble had nearly a dozen people on his side. We had two, Trip and me. We hadn’t even thought to bring our attorney.

“Aw, hell,” Trimble said, “we only need one of these guys. What’m I paying the rest of you for? Go on back to your offices. Send in the Notary and let’s start making some money. Am I right, boys?”

“Right!”

Once we signed the contracts, we started investing real money in the new project. Trip and I scraped together everything we could, effectively our life savings. It was an impressive amount. Some came right back to us in the form of deposits for work we planned to do, but most of it went into the general project fund to pay for surveys, impact studies, and preliminary site work.

Trimble knew exactly what we needed, and he had the connections to make everything happen. Trip and I were so eager that our first setback barely even registered.

“Boys, I have a problem,” Trimble said. “And I’m almost embarrassed to admit it, but I feel I should tell you up front before you find out on your own. I don’t want you to think I’m hiding anything. It’s about the money.”

Trip and I looked at each other in concern. It should’ve been our second red flag, but we didn’t see any need to panic just yet.

“My little project is finally on schedule, thanks to your hard work.” Trimble smiled at Trip before he continued, “But the damn bank won’t release any of the funds from escrow. Don’t worry,” he assured us, “the current investments from you boys are enough to keep things moving until I shake loose my own capital.”

We breathed a sigh of relief. But then Trip saw an opportunity.

“Well, since we’re having to wait on you” he said, “we’re exposed to more risk up front. More risk, more reward. Shouldn’t we have a larger share of the final development?”

Trimble winced. “I was afraid you’d ask for that, but it’s what I’d’ve done in your position. I’ll be honest, I was hoping you’d stick to the original agreement, but you’re a sharp one. And you have me over a barrel, so…”

They started negotiating. Trip wanted 60 percent of the country club partnership. Trimble countered with 52 percent, and they eventually agreed on 55.

Trip was proud of himself, of course, but we should’ve realized it had been too easy. Still, we didn’t have a clue, so we went back to work on the condo and retail project.

By the time Christmas arrived, we’d done months of work for Trimble but still hadn’t been paid for it. He apologized and promised to call his project manager first thing in the new year. And, he reminded us, we’d have plenty of money coming in once we started getting paid for the work we planned to do for our own project. That should’ve been another red flag, our third or fourth, but we ignored it too. Our eyes were full of dollar signs.

We started having problems we couldn’t ignore in early 1993. We received payment for some of the work we’d done, but the checks didn’t clear.

“Dammit,” Trimble swore, “I told them to use the new account. Those checks’re from a project two years ago. Boys, where are you? Right now, I mean. I’m going to have one of my people bring you a personal check. Thirty minutes and you’ll have your money.”

Sure enough, an assistant arrived with a check. It was for half of the amount of the original checks, and they’d only been a fraction of what he owed us, but the new check cleared the bank. Trip and I relaxed yet again.

Then we learned that the environmental impact study had found a problem with our land.

“It’s two problems, actually,” Trip said. “Some damn woodpecker on the Endangered Species list. The other is almost as bad. Seems someone’s been dumping oil and used tires on parts of the land. Cleanup and remediation will cost a fortune.”

All of a sudden, the color drained from his face.

“What?”

“The land. Its value. We’re contractually obligated to sell it to Trimble for the market price. With these environmental problems, the value just went down.”

“How much?” I asked.

“A lot. Fifty percent. Um… maybe more.”

“How much more?” A pit had opened in my stomach.

“Maybe… I don’t know, but it could be bad.” He thought of something. “Hold on… Trimble doesn’t have to buy the property. We’re only obligated to sell it if the project moves forward.”

Things started to fall apart pretty quickly at that point. Trimble called in a fury over the environmental report. He’d trusted us. He’d been counting on us. But now he’d have to take a loss on his investment.

“He never invested a dime!” I raged after we hung up. “What about us? We sank our life savings into this project!”

“I know,” Trip said, but he was worried. “I’ll… figure it out.”

He didn’t figure it out. Trimble never paid us for the work we’d done on his previous project. The company we’d been dealing with declared bankruptcy. It was only a holding company, we learned. We might recover some of what they owed us, Trip said, but it would take years in court and require money we didn’t have.

The development company for our new project declared bankruptcy too. It turned out that we didn’t control it. Trimble did as the initial investor, through Series A stock. We looked back at our investment paperwork and discovered that we’d purchased non-voting Series A-1 stock, a subtle but important difference.

Worse, the money from our investment had all been spent, paid out to companies controlled by Trimble. He and his cronies had effectively stolen every dime, and it had all been legal.

The cherry on our swindle-sundae arrived in the form of a purchase demand for the tract of land. We were obligated to sell it at market price. It was effectively worthless because of the environmental problems. We were staring down the barrel of a total loss, all because we’d trusted Trimble.

Nana Choate saved us. Not with any money, but with her gift in trust. We’d formed a partnership when we’d bought the land, and the partnership was the legal owner. Trip and I had signed the contracts with Trimble on behalf of our homebuilding company, but it didn’t own the land. They were the same in our mind, but not legally, and that was the important point.

So Trimble—excuse me, the scumbag con artist—had slipped up. He couldn’t force Trip and me to sell what our company didn’t own. Still, he tried.

“I’m sorry, boys,” he said, “I’m gonna need that land.”

“Good luck getting it,” Trip said.

“You signed a contract.”

“I must’ve missed that one. Paul, do you remember signing a contract with the rest of the partners? No? Neither do I.”

“Boys, I’m sorry it ended like this,” the scumbag said. “I really thought we had a bright future together.”

“Fuck you, asshole.” Trip stabbed the button and hung up.

So we kept the land but lost everything else. Even Pyrrhus wouldn’t have called it a victory.

* * *

“So… what’re we gonna do?” Christy asked.

We were sitting in Wren’s steakhouse, and Trip had just finished recounting the whole sordid tale. The details had been excruciating to relive, especially since we’d missed every single red flag. Worse, they were so obvious in hindsight. Trip blamed himself for most of it, but I knew better—I’d agreed with every decision we’d made.

He repeated Christy’s question, “What are we gonna do? I don’t know. As far as the company goes, we’re almost broke, we don’t have any new work, and we still have to make payroll.”

“But you and Paul are most of that, right?”

“Most, but not all. Still, that’s only half the expenses. We have rent, taxes, insurance, and everything else that keeps us afloat.”

“Oh.” She sighed but then had a thought. “You said taxes. Property taxes too?”

He nodded.

“So we’re going to keep the land?”

“That’s the one bright spot in this whole miserable adventure,” I said.

Trip nodded and picked up the story. “Seems that Trimble’s people—”

I cleared my throat. “I want to punch someone when I hear his name. Can we just call him Scumbag from now on?”

“Fine by me,” Trip said. “Anyway, Scumbag’s guys did the environmental impact study. I talked to a couple of people, and he’s pulled this con before.”

“What con?” Christy asked.

“He signs a contract to purchase land for the market price. Then they discover some kind of environmental problem.” He made air quotes. “Sorry, they ‘discover’ a problem, and Scumbag buys the land at a fraction of its previous value. A couple of months later, they ‘discover’ that the problem isn’t a problem after all. It’s basically fraud, but it’s almost impossible to prove.”

“That fucking asshole,” Wren said in a tone of wonder and outrage.

“Yep,” I agreed. “He’s also notorious around town for not paying his contractors and subs. We’d never worked with him, so we didn’t know.”

“Why isn’t he in prison?”

Trip shrugged. “Money and connections. Part of the good ol’ boy network. He plays it straight with them. He has to. They know his tricks. He only fleeces outsiders and minor-league players like us. And we were lambs to the slaughter.”

I chuckled to myself at how my mind worked—Trip mixed his metaphors, and that was just wrong. I shook it off and focused on important things instead.

“We only kept the land because we were lucky,” I said.

“Very,” Trip agreed.

“And it might be worth something after all?” Christy said.

“Yeah,” Trip said. “We don’t have our own report yet, but I suspect they won’t find any woodpeckers or anything else. The money problems are real enough, though. I mean, we’re still broke.”

“Can’t we just find more money?”

Trip laughed ruefully. “I wish it was that easy.”

“Then… how’re we going to live?”

“We have enough to live,” I told her. “And we have money in the bank. Not much, but enough. I mean, we didn’t put all our eggs in the same basket.”

“And we have some money coming in to the company,” Trip agreed. “We haven’t wrapped up some projects we started before Trim— Scumbag. They aren’t enough, though.”

“We could try to find more,” I said, but he shook his head.

“I think we burned a few bridges when we started turning away clients. And… to be honest, I don’t know if I want to keep doing what we’re doing.”

Wren touched his hand in support.

“I mean, I’m not a businessman. Yeah, I took some Business classes, but that’s it. I don’t have a degree or anything. And I think Scumbag showed that I don’t have what it takes to succeed in business.”

“You were doing fine,” I told him, and Wren silently agreed. Even Christy gave an enthusiastic nod. She was a little more chipper than I thought the situation deserved, but I wasn’t going to object.

“I guess,” Trip said gloomily, “but we were easy pickings for the first crook who came along. We could’ve just written a check for our life savings instead of going through… all that!”

“Why don’t you just learn more about business?” Christy said.

It was such a naïve question that I thought Trip would laugh. I certainly wanted to, but I didn’t know if I’d be able to stop.

“I know you think I’m crazy,” she continued, “but God has a plan for us.”

Trip laughed derisively. “God wanted us to get fleeced?”

“God wants us to grow and prosper.”

“Out of the mouths of babes.”

“I’m telling you, He has a plan,” she insisted. Then she quoted, “I know that Thou canst do all things, and that no purpose of Thine can be thwarted.” She let the words hang in the air. “That’s Job speaking, by the way, and he had a pretty rough time before he saw the truth. So I’m telling you, God wants us to move forward.”

“She’s right.” Wren and Christy shared a sideways look.

The attitude at the table had begun to change. We’d been gloomy before, but Christy lightened the mood for everyone.

“Okay, what is it?” I said. “The plan, I mean.”

She pursed her lips with a smile. “You know us so well.”

“I musta missed something,” Trip said. “What’s going on?”

“Our lovely wives have been conspiring behind our backs,” I said.

“‘Conspiring’ is such a harsh word,” Wren said.

“Semantics.”

She grinned, unrepentant. “Let’s say we’ve been… planning.”

“Then tell us.”

“Let’s order some after-dinner drinks,” she said. “And Christy needs some dessert. You’re still too thin, my love.”

“Can I have two?” she asked hopefully.

“It’s a restaurant!” Wren laughed. “They’ll keep bringing you food until we ask them to stop!”

“Oh. In that case, may I have some more mushrooms? They were yummy. And a side of haricots verts. Oh, and a piece of peanut butter pie!”

Wren couldn’t help but chuckle. “Anything else, my love?”

“Hold on,” I said in alarm. “You aren’t pregnant, are you?”

Christy’s brow knitted. “I don’t think so. Why?”

“Mushrooms, green beans, and peanut butter?” I said.

“Oh, that! No, I’m not pregnant. I’m just hungry. Starving, actually. That was a long story. And… um…” She glanced meaningfully at her empty wineglass.

“What would we do without you?” Wren chuckled.

“Have more food for ourselves,” Trip joked.

“You aren’t hurting,” she said with a pointed glance at his middle. He had the beginning of a paunch. “You could stand to spend some time with Paul at the gym.”

“Yes, dear.”

“I mean it,” she said. “You don’t think I’m doing Cindy Crawford just for me, do you?”

“When did you start doing Cindy Crawford?” he laughed. “And why haven’t you shared?”

She rolled her eyes. “I mean the workout tape.”

“Oh, right. I knew that.”

“Uh-huh,” she said dubiously. “Back to the gym? Or you can start doing Cindy Crawford?”

“There’s only one way I wanna do Cindy Crawford,” he said, “and it doesn’t involve a videotape.” He thought about it. “Then again, maybe we could make one of those movies. Ow! Ow! I take it back. Stop!”

Wren glared playfully and made another pinching motion.

“I’ll go back to the gym,” he promised.

“Good. Now, let’s order. Then we’ll tell you what we’re thinking.” She raised her eyes. Everyone who worked at the restaurant knew who she was, and she’d barely begun to scan the room before the waiter appeared.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Will you please bring us a bottle of Rémy XO? Four glasses, and coffee for my husband. He still has to drive.”

“Of course.”

She nodded toward Christy, who beamed in anticipation. My little Sunshine could light up a room when she was in a good mood. And she was always in a good mood when food was involved.

“…sautéed mushrooms,” Wren was saying, “the haricots verts, and a piece of peanut butter pie. The rest of us will share a molten chocolate lava cake.”

“Right away, ma’am. Anything else?”

Christy cleared her throat softly.

“Yes?” Wren chuckled.

“Um… you said I could have two. Desserts, I mean.”

“Of course!” She gestured for Christy to order.

“May I have a chocolate lava cake too?”

The waiter didn’t even bat an eye, although he clearly wondered where Christy planned to put it all.

“Oh, my love…,” Wren sighed in amusement.

“What?” Christy complained. “You said it’s a restaurant. You said they’ll keep—”

“I know, I know! And they will. I just wish I had your metabolism.” She nodded to the waiter, who turned and headed toward the bar.

“Okay,” I said into the vacuum left by his departure, “tell us about these plans of yours.”

Wren took a moment to compose her thoughts, and Christy couldn’t hide her excitement.

“Well, I’ve been talking to a headhunter,” Wren said. She added quickly, “I didn’t call him. He called me.”

“Go on,” Trip said.

“Well, it seems that a certain sporting goods company is looking for someone to handle PR and athlete endorsements. My name came up, and they…”

* * *

I celebrated my thirtieth birthday in a mild funk. I felt middle-aged, even though I wasn’t. Still, I wasn’t in the same physical condition as the twenty-year-olds at the gym, and I didn’t recover as quickly after a hard workout.

In the career department, I’d been forced to close a successful business and had lost a lot of money because of poor decisions. Granted, we’d been scammed by a con man, but that didn’t make it any easier to stomach. Also, I wasn’t entirely sure what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. We had a plan, but it wasn’t what I thought I’d be doing at thirty.

On the plus side, my sex life was better than ever. Christy and I had more distractions in our lives, but we hadn’t lost the spark in the bedroom. Our little swinging group was fun too, especially when Brooke, Erin, or Renée came to visit. Christy herself was more beautiful than the day we’d met, and a couple of children had filled out her slender curves. She was still petite, but no one would ever mistake her for a teenage boy.

And finally, I had two beautiful daughters. Laurie was an absolute joy. She was bright and cheerful, and she had Christy’s physical grace. Emily was a joy in a different way. She was more like me, in that she analyzed the world around her. She was far more stubborn, but I loved her determination as much as Laurie’s easygoing nature.

All in all, I couldn’t have asked for better children or a lovelier wife. I even decided that our business troubles and career setbacks were temporary. We would learn from our mistakes and come back better than ever.

So, maybe thirty wasn’t so bad after all.