Page 12 of The Holidays with Mr. Mitchell
She kissed the top of my head where it rested in the center of her chest. “I missed you today,” she said. “And I wasn’t going to let work steal you away from me again.”
I kissed her dewy flesh. “I’m sorry, but hell, having sex like this might train me to start doing this more often.”
She laughed, “Baby, if you dothis shitoften, your hand will be what reminds you not to leave your wife wanting more at home.”
This was everything I loved about my wife. Life may have been hectic and busy, but Avery and I always found a way to give each other what we needed right when we needed it most.
FIVE
Avery
If someone had toldme five years ago that I’d be standing in the middle of a pumpkin patch in Los Angeles, at a festival I organized for a women’s shelter, I would’ve laughed them out of the one-room apartment that I could barely afford.
Yet, here I was, heels sinking into the grass of Westwood Park, surrounded by hay bales, cider barrels, and more pumpkins than I realized Southern California could grow. Scarecrows lined pathways, and wagons overflowed with gourds of every shape, color, and size. Even though we didn’t get the full experience of the autumn season in Southern California, the Farm Fresh Fall Festival brought that to life for us tonight.
Jim had rented out the entire park, permits and all, because of course he had. I would’ve been happy with folding chairs and fairy lights strung between the oaks, but my husband didn’t do small. If Mitchell and Associates were going to sponsor the fall festival, apparently, Westwood Park had to belong to us for the night.
But, as I looked around, it was clear to see that it wasn’t just a festival anymore. Under strings of golden fairy lights, stacks of hay and pumpkins mingled with Mitchell-level touches. There were gourmet cider stations with copper samovars steaming in the brisk October air, heaters disguised as rustic lantern posts, and a sound system that made the jazz band sound like they’d been imported straight from New Orleans. Security blended into the crowd, wearing jeans and sweaters to maintain a casual atmosphere.
And the crowd…God, it was exactly what I envisioned. The women from the shelter were enjoying themselves while their kids ran wild between booths, giggling with painted faces and caramel apples in hand. They were the heart of this night. This was their festival, and their chance to feel joy without fear and to have a holiday that didn’t remind them of what they’d lost, but of what was still possible.
Holidays were the worst for people dealing with divorce, separations, or strained relationships, especially when it was so hard to leave in the first place. I didn’t want anyone to feel loss or sadness or wish their family was together when the whole reason they left was to save their lives from the toxic family environment that was making them so unhappy.
Plenty of my husband’s associates and other client investors were here too, floating through the crowd in tailored suits and expensive shoes, pretending they didn’t mind grass stains or glittery pumpkins. They weren’t who this was for, though. Not tonight. Tonight, they were just a bankroll for me, a tax write-off for them, and the necessary means to keep the shelter’s lights on. If they enjoyed sipping cider out of mason jars and pretending it was charming, all the better.
“Mom! Watch this!” Izzy’s voice rang over the music. She was red-faced and giggling as she fished a plastic duck from the prize pond, her ponytail flying everywhere. Addy stood beside her,arms crossed like a tiny CEO, watching like she’d coached her to win the prized duck.
“I gave her the cheat code to dunking for ducks, Mom,” my teenage daughter said, trying to steal the spotlight.
I laughed. “Cheat code?”
Addy smirked. “Yes, because the ones with the faded paint always win.”
“I’m confused,” Jim appeared at my side and handed me a steaming paper cup, his Tom Ford suit looking hilariously out of place against the hay bales. “Hot cider for the lady who insisted on pumpkins instead of catering from Spago.”
“Thank you, and I’m just as confused, but at least they’re having fun.” I took a sip, the warmth spreading through me. “What you should be more concerned with is the dunk tank I insisted on thatyoupromised to get in.”
His green eyes sparked. “That was under duress, andnotin writing.”
“Still counts,” I winked, taking another sip and shrugging.
“Well, well,” Jim’s younger brother, Jake, approached with his and Ash’s oldest kid, John.
I smiled at John, who looked identical to his dad but was identical to Jim in personality. “How’s my handsome nephew? Is Kaley with Mom?”
John stood as if he were one of the influential executives here, with an air that said this was merely something hehadto attend.
“She’s doing the duck dunk with Izzy and Addy,” he answered.
“Of course, at eleven years old, Big John here is too cool foranyof this,” Jake responded.
“More like too cool for any ofus,” Jim added.
“Hey, babe, this is spectacular. I love everything about this atmosphere,” my best friend, and Jake’s wife, Ash, said as she handed John a caramel apple. “Here, hunny-bunny.”
We all covered our smiles when John’s cheeks flushed red, mortified that his mom had just embarrassed him in front of his Uncle Jim, whom he admired more than anyone.
“Where’s mine?” Jim covered for him, just as he always had.
