Page 39 of Twice Baked Risky Whiskey Cakes (MURDER IN THE MIX #53)
LOTTIE
T he living room looks like a pink bomb detonated with the precision of a glitter-obsessed perfectionist—that would be Keelie.
She’s the one who helped me decorate this morning. It’s the afternoon of Lyla Nell’s second birthday—and well, technically, my birthday, too, but I’m more than happy to let my big day take a back seat.
We’ve invited a few friends and family and already gorged on all the Mangias pizza and Chinese buffet from the Wicked Wok. In fact, we’ve moved past the cake and are already halfway through with the gifts at this point.
Streamers dangle from the ceiling in perfect spirals, balloons cluster in every corner in various shades of bubblegum and cotton candy, and a mountain of glittery wrapping paper grows by the second.
The air smells like buttercream frosting, coffee, and that unmistakable scent of new toys fresh out of their packages—a mix of plastic and possibility.
Cast aside on the dining room table sits a decimated three-tier cake with a Barbie doll standing proudly in the middle, and her lower half once encased in a frosting skirt that now resembles a disaster zone after Lyla Nell and her band of toddler accomplices attacked it with tiny forks and sticky fingers. It was a deliriously beautiful sight.
Crumbs litter the table like pink confetti, and the frosting has somehow made its way onto the ceiling fan. Don’t ask me how. When toddlers are involved, physics takes a vacation.
“Come on, Little Yippy. Hurry up!” Carlotta urges Lyla Nell from her perch on the arm of the sofa. “I’m growing old here. By the time you open all these presents, I’ll need a walker and one of those pill organizers with the days of the week on it.”
“You already have one of those pill organizers,” I’m quick to point out.
“Yeah, but those are for my fun pills.” She nudges Mayor Nash and winks at him, and that lets me know I don’t need to press the subject.
Lyla Nell giggles, struggling with the ribbon on a particularly well-wrapped package.
Her little face scrunches with determination, her tongue poking out the side of her mouth—an expression she’s definitely inherited from me.
But other than that, her green eyes, that dark hair that turns red at the tips, and those deep-well dimples, she’s all Noah Fox.
“I help!” Josie, my sweet niece, dives in to assist, making the unwrapping process approximately seventeen times slower, while two-year-old Bear watches with the intensity of a sports commentator, clutching his own new toy truck like it might make a break for the door.
Noah and Everett hover around the chaos like helicopters with cameras. Noah holds the video camera as if he’s documenting a rare wildlife phenomenon for National Geographic , while Everett snaps photos at a rate that suggests he’s afraid he’ll miss the shot of a lifetime.
“Get her from this angle,” Everett directs Noah while shifting positions. “The lighting is better.”
“I know how to film my own daughter,” Noah shoots back, but moves as suggested anyway. “This is my second birthday party.”
“And I’ve been documenting my daughter’s life each day for two years,” Everett counters. “Experience counts.”
Oh my goodness. These two. Always competing for Dad of the Year, even though technically they’re both hers . And they’re both winning if you ask me.
Lainey bounces baby Mimi on her knee while keeping one eye on Josie, who’s now attempting to climb the gift pile as if it’s Mount Everest.
Meg sits nearby, cradling baby Piper who sleeps through the chaos like a champion.
Noah’s sister Sam watches with amusement as her daughter Willow Grace pulls at her mother’s dark locks. And Lily and Alex’s son Levi seems to be studying the proceedings with the serious expression of a tiny professor.
My sister Charlie and Everett’s sister Meghan are happily sipping a faux mimosa, and I can practically see the glee on their faces just knowing they’re one of the few people in the room that get to enjoy a night’s sleep without interruption.
Over by the window, Mom and Wiley share the loveseat, her hand resting comfortably in his.
It still amazes me how life can take such unexpected turns.
If anyone had told me years ago that my mother would end up with Noah’s father, I’d have laughed myself into a hernia.
And then maybe have hired a good attorney who could draw up a decent restraining order.
Eliza, the picture of elegance even at a toddler’s birthday party, sips tea from an actual china cup she brought from home—British bone china.
Because, of course, she brought her own.
Actually, she just gifted Lyla Nell one of her coveted sets.
That very one. And you can bet I’m far more excited about that gift than Lyla Nell might ever be.
Eliza brought Everett’s twin girls over, Ava and Olivia. And those two cute preteens flank Evie like white on rice, looking at their big sister with admiration while hanging on her every word as she helps Lyla Nell with the next gift.
It’s all so very lovely. And loud. So very, very loud.
“Do you feel another year older, Lottie?” Keelie asks as Lyla Nell rips into another package and sends a shower of glitter-covered wrapping paper into the air that will probably still be turning up in the carpet when she goes to college.
“I feel exactly one Barbie cake and three cups of coffee older,” I tell her, patting my perpetually enormous belly.
“These two have apparently decided to postpone their eviction notice indefinitely. I’m beginning to think they’ve installed a home theater system in there.
I don’t see why they’d ever leave. After all, I’m giving them a steady stream of snacks—mostly donuts. ”
One of the twins kicks as if they agreed with me. Or they want another donut. Probably the latter.
Lyla Nell squeals as she uncovers her next gift—a double stroller with two baby dolls, courtesy of Keelie and baby Bear.
“Look, Mommy,” she cries, holding up the dolls with a mixture of delight and suspicion. “Babies for me!”
“That’s right, sweetie.” Keelie smiles. “So you can be just like your mama and push your twins around Honey Hollow.”
“Only I’ll have a triple stroller,” I say with a dull laugh.
Lyla Nell’s face suddenly turns serious as she looks at the dolls, then at my belly, then back at the dolls. “Too many babies,” she declares with the conviction of someone who’s given the matter far too much serious thought, and the room erupts with laughter.
“Out of the mouths of babes,” Carlotta says with a grunt.
Mayor Nash nods. “The kid makes a valid point, Lottie. You’re about to be outnumbered.”
“I already am,” I say, pushing myself up from the couch with the grace of a walrus. “Anyone need a coffee refill? I’m heading to the kitchen.”
Various murmurs of yes and no thanks follow as I navigate the obstacle course of toys, wrapping paper, and sugared-up toddlers. My back aches as if I’ve been carrying around a sack full of bowling balls—which come to think of it, isn’t far from the truth.
These twins feel like they’ve gained about ten pounds each in the last week alone. My little late-night donut habit isn’t exactly doing me any favors either.
I take three steps when I feel a warm gush between my legs, followed by a splat on the stone floor that silences the room faster than if I had announced the apocalypse. And in a way I had—the baby apocalypse.
Every adult stares my way with a frozen look on their face. Every toddler continues playing, oblivious to the medical event unfolding in the middle of the party.
Lyla Nell points at the puddle. “Mommy needs potty,” she announces with the authority of a tiny drill sergeant—a slightly terrified one at that. “Go now , Mommy! Run! ”
Chaos erupts like someone hit the panic button. Everett drops his phone. Noah nearly trips over a stuffed unicorn. Mom starts shouting instructions no one can hear over Keelie’s excited shrieking about “birthday babies!”
“Well”—I say to no one in particular as Everett and Noah converge on me from opposite directions—“looks like the twins got the memo. If they can arrive in time, we might be sharing a birthday after all.”
“The bag is the truck,” Everett shouts and his face is an equal mix of both excitement and terror.
“The truck is already running,” Noah calls out, somehow having teleported outside and back in the span of ten seconds.
“I’ll watch Lyla Nell,” at least six people volunteer simultaneously.
“And I’ll clean up the cake,” Carlotta adds, already helping herself to another slice by way of her fingers.
Before I can process what’s happening, I’m being whisked out the door between my two favorite men in the world, leaving behind a birthday party that’s now evolved into so much more.
And as we pull out of the driveway, I catch one last glimpse of my pink-festooned house, filled with the people I love most in this world, and I can’t help but smile despite the contraction that’s already building.
Some women get roses on their birthdays. Some get jewelry.
But me? I get the ultimate gift—a day when the entire world seems to celebrate not just the day I was born, but the days my daughter and my twins chose to make their grand entrances, too.
And as another contraction hits with the force of a freight train, I realize that sometimes the most painful gifts are the ones that change your life forever.
Another one bears down on me on top of that and it’s ten times as painful.
“ Drive faster ,” I shout at decibels loud enough to shatter a window.
And just like that, we’re flying through Honey Hollow.