Sandwiched
What's a fortyish woman to do if…Her free-spirited elderly mom's movingin, her previously do-gooder teenage daughter's sneaking out, her prize-winning stud bulldog can't get it on and her soon-to-be ex-husband can't get his mind off girls half his age?A. have nervous breakdownB. run awayC. eat massive quantities of ice creamD. see a counselorCiCi Dupree chooses. She doesn't have time for a breakdown, can't afford to run away and she is a counselor.Until she fears her daughter–and even her widowed mother–are repeating her mistakes. CiCi realizes she has to do something, because after all, her family ties might be a bit frayed, but they still could bind nonetheless…Jennifer Archer has survived maneuvering through life in seven states, raising two teenage boys and, this year, her very first hot flash–all without serious medication.
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A quote from our heroine:
“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
Praise for Jennifer Archer
“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
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.
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.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
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.
