Read Happy Hour for Free Online Page B

their favorite champagne. After the wine and after Maddie was tucked in her bed, the Vuevewould be exactly what tonight
called for. And the little black silk number from La Perla that Jamie purchased
the week before would be icing on the cake.
     “I’m hungry,” Maddie whined, walking back into the house. “Lola is just
sitting there.”
    “It’s probably best to leave her alone. I’ll put her in the laundry room
soon. The sun is going down. We don’t want her to get cold.”
    “But I’m hungry.”
    “You’re hungry? You’re hungry? Wait a minute. I thought your name was
Madeleine or Maddie, but Hungry? No. I don’t think so. Unless. Wait! Wait,
wait, wait, wait.” Jamie shook her head in exaggeration. “Did you change your
name?” She picked up her dark curly-headed daughter, whose eyes were exactly
like her father’s—eyes that could melt any heart like chocolate on a hot day
and make a person feel gooey all over.
    Maddie giggled. “No, Mommy. I am Maddie. I want to eat .”
    Jamie set her down and bent to her level, finger on her cheek. “I think
that can be arranged. What do you say about some Mac and cheeeeeeezzze?” Jamie
wiggled her eyebrows in Groucho Marx fashion, a maneuver that always elicited
the same reaction from her daughter—laughter and an eye roll. “Don’t you go
rolling your eyes at me, Madeleine Elise Evans.”
    “You’re so silly, Mommy.” She bobbed her curls. “Plain old silly!”
    “I can take silly. But don’t you dare call me old. Okay, remember I said
that Daddy will be home soon. So hop, skip, and jump out of your school clothes
and I’ll run a bath for you. Then get your jammies on and your dinner will be
ready. And tonight I’ll even let you watch a movie in your room on my laptop.”
    Maddie frowned. “Why do I have to put my pajamas on so early? And can
Lola sleep in my room?”
    “It’s already after six-thirty. And did you not hear what I said? A movie
in bed? How about some popcorn too?”
    “What about Lola?”
    Jamie closed one eye and looked like she was really thinking about it.
“I’ll see what Daddy thinks about that.” She went to the clutter drawer (the
one everyone has in their kitchen, save for Martha Stewart) and dug through it
until she found some matches. A little wine, a little candlelight. Ooh, and wait
a minute. A takeout menu from Arrivederci’s. Perfect.
    “I wanna’ watch Zach and Cody .”
    “Deal.”
    “Mommy?”
    “What, sweetie?”
    “Why do I always have to stay at daycare? I hate staying so late. I’m the
last one. Always .”
    Ugh. Shot through the heart. The kid would make one heck of a mother
someday. She had the guilting thing already down pat. But how could Jamie blame
her? It was true that most evenings Maddie was the last one to get picked
up—usually one minute before six o’clock. Mrs. Sheffield, the after-care
provider, would regularly place her hands on her hips, furrow her already
furrowed brow, and remind Jamie that for every late minute she would be charged
five dollars.
    “I’m sorry, sweetie. Next week, I promise, I will come early every day.”
The editor-in-chief position should provide some kind of privileges, like
working from home, or leaving early on occasion.
    “Good, because Mrs. Sheffield smells like farts!”
     Jamie tried hard not to laugh. “Maddie, the term is gas or flatulence.”
    “Mrs. Sheffield has horrible flatulence.” Maddie wrinkled up her nose,
and rolled her eyes again.
    “Upstairs now. Bath! I’ll be up to run it.”
    “I can do it. I’m a big girl.”
    “Apparently. You and your potty language. Go then!” Laughing, Jamie
kicked off her shoes by the couch and glanced around her tastefully decorated
family room. The entire house was tastefully decorated, thank you very much to
those brilliant designers who do model homes. Jamie may have lived in a tract
home, but not just any tract home. This was Napa Valley and a million dollars
for a tract home was not