Jennifer Archer - Sandwiched

“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

“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 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.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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.

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

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.