The Davenport Christmas Chronicles - Piper Davenport
For my readers
May the magic of the season bring joy to you and your families.
Dani
“Okay, Ducky, it’s time for bed,” I told my almost ten-year-old daughter, Daisy. We’d called her Daisy Duck for about a week after she was born, before my boys just shortened it to Ducky.
“But, Mama, I want to help,” she argued. She always argued. She was the perfect definition of FOMO, and we battled bedtime every night. It didn’t help that we were preparing for the annual club Christmas party, something our kids looked forward to every year. Our nineteen-year-old son, Cash, was home from college, and even Archer, a very manly sixteen, was excited to help with the festivities.
“Everything will be here in the morning,” I said as she climbed into bed.
“Will I be able to tie the ribbons?”
“Yes, baby, I promise, I’ll leave the ribbons for you.”
“Tell me a story.”
I sat with my back against the headboard and she snuggled close to me. “What do you want to hear?”
“Tell me about the Christmas I was born,” she said. “And please, Mama, don’t leave anything out. Even the bad words. Tell it like Daddy does. I promise I won’t repeat them.”
I chuckled. “Hmmm. Do you think I can remember the whole story?”
“I know you can.”
“Okay, let’s see...”
Ten years ago...
“Danielle Harris Carver!” Austin yelled from the back of the house. “You need to get that sexy ass in the recliner right now.”
Austin “Booker” Carver had been my husband for over a decade, and I loved him more today than I did yesterday, but I still rolled my eyes at his overprotective tone. “Honey, I’m fine. The baby’s fine, we’re all fine. I need to get these favors done.”
“Danielle,” he warned.
I was currently standing at my kitchen island, because sitting was way too uncomfortable, and stuffing mini-stockings for all of the neighborhood kids, the Dogs’ kids, whom we’d nicknamed the Wolfpack, and any others that might show up to the Dogs of Fire Annual Christmas Party happening the following Saturday. Every year, we collected gifts for Toys for Tots, and then gave any cash donations we received to Bikers Against Child Abuse.
“Kim’s going to be here in less than ten minutes... I don’t want to leave her a mess to deal with,” I said.
My almost nine-year-old, Cash, walked into the middle of the kitchen and crossed his arms. “Mom. You need to listen to Dad.” He pointed to the chair. “Go sit down.”
I forced myself not to laugh. You’d think I’d never had a baby before.
Granted, this pregnancy was a huge surprise, considering our youngest, Archer, was almost six and we’d decided we were done after him. But my husband and I fucked like rabbits, so I suppose this was inevitable (I kept the fucking part to myself. My daughter did not need to hear any of that. But I enjoyed the memories as I censored my words). On top of that, Austin was raising mini-Bookers and I couldn’t wait to have this little girl to even the score a bit.
I turned and stared down my very alpha first-born. “Listen, buddy, I pushed you out of my vagina, and if you want to keep giving me that attitude, I will have no qualms about shoving you back up there. So, how about you give me a break, and either help me with the stockings or empty the dishwasher, hm?”
“Ugh, Mom.” He groaned. “Do you have to make everything gross?”
“Yes. It’s my job. I gave birth to you so I could embarrass you whenever I got the chance.”
“I’ll help with the stockings,” Archer offered, appearing like an apparition. “Cash can do the dishwasher.”
“Both of you can help with the stockings, while Mom sits down,” Austin countered as he walked into the room, still pulling on a T-shirt. “Get on those dishes, Cash.”
I’d hoped that Austin’s shower would take a little longer, because I had shit to do and he kept stopping me from doing it, but I was thwarted once again. I had about six weeks left and I prayed she didn’t come early, because a Christmas birthday sucked for kids and I really didn’t want to do that to her.
Austin slid his hands down my hips and kissed the back of my neck. I leaned back against him and settled my hands over his, which were now on my belly. “How’s our girl?”
“She’s good, honey.”
“She’ll be better in the chair,” he said, and guided me to the recliner.