Tree. The interior has opulent gold-and-brown décor with plush booths and chocolate-themed artwork, not to mention a menu filled with chocolate drinks and desserts. We sit in a booth and peruse the menu, then order hot cocoa and slices of butter cake.
Dean, of course, is right—the thick, rich cocoa combined with Nicholas and Bella’s delight, and Archer and Dean talking about the upcoming ski season, all conspire to ease the sadness that has hung over me since the surgery.
“Um, excuse me?” says a female voice.
We look up at the three teenaged girls who are standing bunched together beside the table, looking both nervous and excited. One of them nudges another.
“Hi.” Girl #1, a cute brunette, gives Archer a little wave. “Um, sorry to bother you, but we were just sitting over there, and we’re huge fans of Storm Hunters.”
“Huge,” adds Girl #2, not taking her eyes off him.
“Yeah, so we were just wondering if, like, we could get an autograph and maybe a picture?” Girl #1 asks.
Girl #3 giggles. Dean and I exchange smiles.
“Sure you can.” Archer pushes his chair back and stands. The girls step back and look up at him in awe.
“What are your names?” he asks.
They just stare. Kelsey snorts.
“I’m…I’m Jenna.” Girl #2 digs into her purse for a pen and paper. “It is just so cool to meet you. I mean, what you did for that poor dog…”
“It was totally epic,” Girl #1 adds. “We’ve watched the video, like, a thousand times.”
Girl #3 giggles again.
Archer, clearly having warmed to his celebrity status, signs his name on scraps of paper they produce from their little purses, asks them their grade levels and favorite subjects, answers their questions about Storm Hunters, and then poses for a few pictures.
“Let me take some of all of you,” Dean offers generously, standing to borrow the girls’ cell phones.
The girls smile and blush their way through a series of photos before Archer makes their entire year by giving them each a hug. They back toward the door, their rapt gazes still on him.
“It was so great to meet you,” Girl #1 says breathlessly. “Thank you so much.”
“Yeah, you’re really awesome,” Girl #2 agrees. “We can’t wait for the next season to start.”
Girl #3 giggles.
“Oh, wow.” Girl #1 glances at the table, her gaze zeroing in on Kelsey. “You’re Professor March.”
“I am.”
“Would you like a picture with her too?” I ask the girls.
“No, thanks.”
Girl #2 puts her phone back into her purse, and the three of them turn away from Kelsey with little huffs, in what the Victorians would have termed a cut direct.
The girls wave at Archer again and leave the restaurant on a rush of winter air. He sits back down, looking rather smug and pleased with himself.
“What was their problem?” Nicholas scoops melted whipped cream onto his spoon.
“A misguided case of fangirling,” Kelsey mutters.
“What’s fangirling?”
“It’s like a bad rash,” she explains.
Archer grins at her. “You want a selfie with me, lady? Because you’ll have to get in line.”
“No, thanks. I’m thinking of selling some of your photos to the tabloids, though.” She raises an eyebrow in challenge. “Might be worth something.”
“Hey, Mom, can we go do those machines?” Nicholas, his face smeared with chocolate, waves toward the vintage penny arcade games at the back of the restaurant.
“Sure.” I dig into my purse and produce a few quarters.
Dean and Archer follow the kids as Kelsey and I finish our cocoa and cake. She sits back in her chair, nodding toward my husband.
“How’s he handling it?”
“The way Dean does.”
She levels her perceptive blue stare on me. “And you?”
I shrug. How do I handle challenges? I used to let Dean deal with them, until I learned how to stand on my own. To face what life threw at me, at us, and to realize that sometimes I need to be the strong one.
“I think I need some new big girl panties,” I tell Kelsey.
“You have plenty of big girl panties,” she replies. “You just had to discover for yourself that you’ve been wearing them all along.”
I can’t help smiling.
“Ah, wisely, my friend, you speak,” I warble.
She frowns. “What’s wrong with you?”
“That was my Yoda impersonation.”
“Your Yoda impersonation is terrible.”
“Hey, I’m sick, remember?” I say as we drain the last of our cocoa and push our chairs back. “By default, you have to be nice to me.”
We get our coats on and join everyone else at the games—a “love meter,” a fortune-teller, a strength tester, a bubble-gum digger machine, and an old auto racer.