After I publish the essay, I turn to my Pinterest boards. Started as a source of inspiration, the boards have now become the bane of my existence.

My s.e.xy Ideas board mocks me with pictures of lithe, gorgeous couples locked in pa.s.sionate embraces that will never be interrupted by waking toddlers or mommy guilt. My Recipes board is filled with photos of polenta fries, beef Wellington, and "toddler-friendly" snacks of roasted chickpeas and vegetable risotto b.a.l.l.s that I have yet to actually make.

And my Parenting Ideas board taunts me with images of crafts that I planned for rainy Sundays after Nicholas and I make whole-wheat pancakes while listening to Mozart. Melted crayon art, homemade play dough, an airport made out of a pizza box with landing lights that work.

While many rainy Sundays have pa.s.sed since I created the board, my son and I have spent them lounging around in our pajamas, watching cartoons and eating microwaved popcorn rather than being creative and healthy.

Maybe if I hadn't been working so much lately, I'd have had time to make tissue-paper suncatchers with Nicholas before preparing a healthy, gourmet dinner and then rocking my husband's world in the bedroom.

I close the Pinterest boards and give myself a mental shake. Don't be so hard on yourself. The Moms tell each other that all the time, since we all seem p.r.o.ne to self-doubt and criticism.

I shut off all my internal mutterings, tell myself I'm doing great, and go to get Nicholas ready for the day. After leaving him at daycare, I head to the cafe for the morning shift.

"Hey, Liv." Allie pushes through the kitchen doors. "If you still want to deal with the birthday party for the Edison Power guy's daughter, you need to call her mother."

I straighten from refilling the tray of eclairs in the cold case. "Why?"

"She heard that Slice of Pie is headlining at the children's stage during the Bicentennial Festival." Allie waves a piece of paper at me. "Apparently they're little Becky's favorite band, and now her mother wants them to play all their hit songs at her party."

"Seriously?" I take the paper from her, my heart sinking. "Slice of Pie isn't even confirmed for the festival yet. I need Edison's sponsorship before we can afford to pay them. And I don't know if they do birthday parties."

"According to their website, they do, but they're expensive."

"Well, I'll tell Monica she'll have to pay for it, if they're even available."

"Liv, we don't have the capacity for a band!" Allie says. "Especially one that big."

"We'll put them out in the garden." I wave to the window. "The kids can use the terrace as a dance floor."

"I thought we were using the terrace for lunch and cake," she says. "Besides, don't we need some sort of permit for that kind of entertainment?"

"I'll call the city and find out," I promise, reaching for the phone. "Or maybe the band can just send the Pieman and his guitar."

"Good luck telling Monica Harrison to scale back her kid's party," Allie mutters. "She already put in an order for a three-tiered Wizard of Oz cake. Can you imagine what she'll do when her daughter gets married? Mother of Bridezilla."

I suppress the urge to remind Allie that her parents went all out for birthday parties when she was a girl, including the big Alice in Wonderland tenth birthday party that eventually sparked the idea for our cafe.

Maybe Monica Harrison is going over the top, but I can appreciate a mother who is trying to give her daughter everything she wants. Frankly I'd have loved this kind of birthday party when I turned five. I don't think my mother even remembered my fifth birthday. I barely remember it myself.

"I'll handle it, Allie," I say. "Remember, if this works out, we get to cater Edison's company picnic, which will help us buy the birthday party truck."

"The Airstream would be awesome." Allie looks somewhat mollified. "But you have to make sure we have enough staff and organization."

"I will, I promise."

After Allie leaves, I look at the lists spread out on my desk. Despite my encouraging words, I'm in more of a time crunch than I'd antic.i.p.ated. I haven't even thought about what would happen if I don't come up with a festival sponsor. I can't think about that.

Which is why I'm going to make it work, if it kills me. I study the spreadsheet of festival details, trying to ignore the simmering worry about whether or not I can pull it off. The city council approached me because they knew I would do a good job-and if I fail, I'll not only hurt my personal reputation, but also my reputation as a business owner. And that would be bad for the cafe, our marketing efforts, even Allie...

I shake off the growing fear. I'll work things out with Edison, get all the events scheduled, host the birthday party, run the auction, and ensure the Mirror Lake Bicentennial Festival is a success. It's sort of like Dean's and my s.e.x life-when things are on track, it will be perfect.

It has to be.

"Hey, Liv, have you seen my extra shaving soap?" Dean calls from upstairs.

I set the pot I'd been washing into the dish drainer and push a damp tendril of hair away from my forehead.

"It should be in the bathroom cabinet," I call back.

"It's not. I checked."

Check again, I think somewhat peevishly, when an expectant silence indicates he's waiting for me to come upstairs. I look in on Nicholas, who is banging on a xylophone in the sunroom. I trudge upstairs to the bedroom, where Dean has his suitcase open and half-packed. Suit jackets, ties, and pants are strewn over the bed.

He's standing in the bathroom doorway, holding a package of Nicholas's pull-ups.

"I keep my shaving supplies in the bottom cabinet, but this was there instead," he says.

"Oh, since Nicholas has been sleeping in our bed so much, I put those in our bathroom in case he needs changing in the middle of the night," I explain. "I had to rearrange a few things."

"So what did you do with my shaving soap?"

Since I can't remember, I go into the bathroom and search the cabinets. I finally find Dean's shaving soap pushed to the back behind a box of tampons.

"Sorry." I hold a wrapped disk out to him. "I'll rearrange everything again so you can have a cabinet just for your stuff."

"Please don't rearrange again," he replies, pressing a kiss against my temple. "I'll just hereby designate the bottom shelf of the left-hand cabinet as the exclusive zone for Dean West's Stuff."

"I dunno." I shoot a dubious look at the cabinet. "I don't see how I'm ever going to fit in there."

He grins. "Well, you are my best stuff. Maybe you should have a drawer all to yourself."

"Oh, a whole drawer?" I pat his very fine a.s.s as I walk past him to the bedroom door. "Thank you so much, kind sir. You're so generous."

He grabs me around the waist and hauls me against him for a hot, hard kiss that sweeps a tingle clear down to my toes.

"Oh, I'm generous," he murmurs against my lips. "If you're lucky, you'll find out later tonight just how generous."

I smile and squeeze him around the waist, any lingering irritation fading at the thought of indulging in a s.e.xy night before he leaves for Italy again tomorrow morning. Absence has never made our hearts grow fonder-because they couldn't possibly be filled with more fondness-but maybe we can use the separation as a way to keep things hot and tense.

Yes! Redirection, like I do with Nicholas when he's on the verge of a tantrum. Look, here's your shiny train set, why don't we make the tracks go around the kitchen table, isn't this fun...

Whoa. Redirecting myself back to the antic.i.p.ation of a s.e.xy night, I press up against Dean and kiss him again.

"I'm already lucky," I tell him, rubbing my b.r.e.a.s.t.s against his chest. "You just need to show me how lucky."

We indulge in another kiss that makes my tingles tingle. It's so easy to fall into the pleasure of us that at times like this, I can't figure out how we ever disconnected in the first place.

Dean spreads his hands through my hair, angling my mouth so he can kiss me more deeply. My blood heats, my nipples stiffening against the planes of his chest. Only when I start to hazily think I could quite happily fall into bed with him right this second do I ease reluctantly away.

"Later," I promise, nipping at his lower lip.

"d.a.m.n right later," he mutters, giving my b.r.e.a.s.t.s a quick groping as I back away from him toward the door.

Happy antic.i.p.ation rises in me as I head downstairs. It's not the romantic weekend I'd planned, but sending my husband off with a much-needed hot night will be a reminder of just how good we are together. And it will set the stage for his return.

I head back to the kitchen and check on Nicholas, who has lost interest in the xylophone and moved on to his toy fire station. Dusk is falling outside, the picture windows revealing the garden and trees thrown into shadows. I put a pot of water on the stove to boil and preheat the oven for the roasted cauliflower dish I plan to serve with crispy chicken.

I'm halfway through dinner preparations when a chill breaks over my skin. I go to check the thermostat when I realize the sliding gla.s.s door in the sunroom is open, letting cold evening air into the house.

My heart stutters. "Nicholas?"

I glance around the sunroom. His toys and books are strewn over the floor, but my son is nowhere to be seen.

"Nicholas?" I shove my feet into my shoes and hurry out to the garden. "Nicholas!"

Birds squawk and a light wind rustles the trees. I squint into the growing darkness, telling myself to be calm. It wasn't that long-I don't think it was that long, at least, but I was focused on the stupid chicken-so he can't be far.

He's probably digging for worms or waiting for birds at the birdbath or... oh, Jesus, the birdbath, which I just filled with water this morning...

"Nicholas!" I run over the flagstone paths, fear spiking in my blood.

The circular, cement birdbath looms ominously in a corner of the garden. I come to a halt, panting. Nicholas isn't there.

"Nicholas, where are you?" I shove aside a rising panic and rush to check every part of the yard-the bushes where we play hide-and-seek, the lawn where we toss b.a.l.l.s back and forth, the garden where we'll plant vegetables this summer...

"Nicholas..." I stop, my heart hammering so hard I can hear it inside my head.

Beyond the garden lies an acre of land thick with trees and undergrowth. The border isn't fenced yet, and Nicholas isn't allowed to go there, which is just one of the reasons Dean and I never leave him in the yard by himself...

"Dean!" His name rips from my throat. I run back into the house. "Dean!"

I barely make it to the stairs before he comes hurrying down, alarmed at the panic in my voice.

"It's Nicholas." I grab his arm, fisting my hand into his sleeve. "I can't find him. I was cooking dinner, and then I noticed the sliding gla.s.s door was open, and... Dean, I can't find him!"

He's already pulling on his shoes and heading outside before I finish. I run after him, terror swelling into my throat. My breathing is too fast, shivers erupting over my arms.

"Nicholas!" Dean's deep voice resounds through the thicket of fir trees and evergreens.

"He's not in the garden." I'm starting to shake. "I looked everywhere."

Dean looks again. He races around the sides of the house, checks behind the garage and in the front yard, calling Nicholas's name the whole time.

"Stay here," Dean orders, heading toward the trees. "In case he comes back. Run down to the bas.e.m.e.nt and grab a flashlight."

I careen to a stop as he disappears past the tree line, sinking into the depths of the woods. I struggle against the fear threatening to engulf me, my mind flooding with images of Nicholas hurt, lost, or worse...

I hurry back to the house. Dean's voice echoes behind me as he calls for our son, the sound laced with a panic I've never heard from him before. My stomach wrenches. I grab two high-powered flashlights from the bas.e.m.e.nt and return to the garden.

"Dean?" My voice fades into the growing darkness.

His footsteps rustle on the leaves and undergrowth before he appears at the tree line, holding out his hand for one of the flashlights. He turns and disappears back into the woods.

I switch on the second flashlight and tread another path around the garden. It occurs to me that despite the door having been opened, Nicholas might not have gone outside.

I hurry back inside and search all the rooms upstairs and down, calling his name. A deafening silence fills the entire house. By the time I make my way back outside, I'm shaking so hard my teeth are rattling.

I go down the steps of the back porch toward the woods. A sudden noise from behind me jolts my heart up into my throat. I turn and hurry back to the porch.

"Nicholas?" I shine the flashlight around the base of the porch. There's a narrow opening on the side skirting, one I hadn't noticed before. I crouch down and push aside a loose board, trying to peer inside. "Nicholas?"

I aim the flashlight beam under the porch, illuminating nail-studded boards, cobwebs, a growth of scrubby weeds... and Nicholas crouched in a corner, his hands and face streaked with dirt.

"Nicholas!" The cry escapes me before I can stop it.

He jerks his head up, takes one look at me, and crumples up his face to cry.

"Nicholas, no, no, it's okay." Forcing my voice to even out, I try to crawl through the opening toward him, but the board is too tight. "Honey, it's okay, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you. I was just worried... Nicholas, come here, please..."

He opens his mouth and lets out a howl. My heart is hammering-I can't tell if he's hurt or not.

"Nicholas, please!"

He cries harder, his face streaked with dirt and tears in the beam of the flashlight.

"Liv!" Dean's voice rumbles through the cold air.

Relief floods me. I push away from the opening and wave the flashlight.

"Over here!" I call. "I found him!"

Leaves and twigs crunch as he runs toward us, his hair messy from the wind, his eyes still dark with panic.

"I can't reach him." I move away from the porch, my breath rasping in my throat. "I think I scared him when I called his name. I don't know if he's hurt."

Dean moves to yank at the loose board, pulling it away from the skirting. He shoulders his way through.

"Hey, buddy." He greets Nicholas in a calm, measured tone. "What're you doing under here? You okay?"

Nicholas hiccups and gives a waning sob. Dean shoves his way farther under the porch, his voice a low, steady stream of rea.s.surance as he inches his way closer to our son. When Nicholas's crying lessens, my relief blooms stronger-if he were hurt, he wouldn't be easily calmed.

I shine my flashlight under the porch as Dean crawls toward Nicholas, finally getting his hand around Nicholas's arm. Slowly, he pulls backward.

"Come on, buddy. Let's go inside. Maybe Mommy will make us some hot cocoa."

Nicholas scrubs at his eyes and moves toward Dean. I almost hold my breath as they make their way back, Dean guiding Nicholas out ahead of him.