Finding Sky (A Nicki Valentine Mystery Book 1) by Susan O'Brien

them out of trouble, I sent them to their rooms with firm instructions: Dry off, put on an outfit Mommy will like, and play until I get out of the shower.
    Under the hottest streams of water I could stand, I tried to scrub away the memory of how I must have looked to Dean. It doesn’t matter , I told myself. It’s not like we have a chance of dating. He’s out of my league, and he’s not going to take on kids, á la the real Brad Pitt. On the positive side, if we ever do date, he’s already seen me at my worst. Shouldn’t that be a relief?
    By the time I dried my hair and pulled on jean capris and a pink T-shirt, I wasn’t worried about Dean anymore. Maybe it was being clean, semi-presentable and deodorized, or maybe it was the distraction of kids running circles around the first floor, playing tag-and-tackle. It’s undeniable that while entertaining each other, they could also seriously injure one another—accidentally of course. That was enough to worry about.
    I let them play for a few more minutes, watching more carefully than a boxing referee. Finally the stress was too much and I separated them with an announcement.
    “Camp time!” We’d be ridiculously early if they started getting ready now. But based on history, that wouldn’t happen. We’d arrive ten minutes late after half an hour of cajoling them into outfits, shoes and sunscreen.

      
    Thank goodness I looked decent, because we were late to camp as expected, and I had to escort them in instead of using the beloved carpool line, which allows frazzled parents to hide in the front seat while teachers retrieve kids from the back. More than once, I’d had to walk in tardy, tucked into a hat and last-minute outfit, hoping not to be noticed. Those days I’d inevitably run into Perfect Mom, some random parent who had the time and money not only to assemble stylish outfits, but accessorize them too. She’d pull off in her luxury sedan, turning the wheel with her French manicure, which she somehow afforded along with the camp fee I struggled to pay, probably off to get her hair done. Or maybe to go home and cry about her miserable, shallow life. No, that’s horribly petty, I’d correct myself. I hope she’s happy and fulfilled and inspiration for me to get myself together.
    Today I looked presentable enough, so I used the opportunity to greet everyone I knew with confidence. Most of the counselors were experienced teachers I’d known for two years. Their assistants were college or high school students with refreshing enthusiasm. I admired their dedication to working hard instead of lounging around all summer, which is what I wished I could do. Hopefully they were having fun with the kids.
    Jack kissed me goodbye and ran into class, where friends were constructing Lego spaceships. Sophie wouldn’t even grace me with a kiss, demanding, “Go home, Mom!” I hid my disappointment and reminded myself that independence was one of her best qualities—one I could use more of. It would serve her well in life.
    I wished everyone a good day and made my way back through art-covered walls. I scanned them for Sophie and Jack’s work but didn’t see any. As a passing toddler sneezed into his hands, I casually wondered where there were more germs. Here? Or in the hospital I was about to visit?

      
    These days, when a baby is born, you might as well treat the parents for OCD. Is it possible to become a parent and not a compulsive, hand-washing germaphobe? For the first several years, you spend every day wiping snot and poop, watching commercials about the horrors of not using antibacterial soaps, wipes, and cleansers. When both kids were in diapers, I was sure our family could cause an E. coli outbreak. Finally, I rebelled, trusting good old soap and water. And what do you know? It worked!
    With determination not to fear germs in mind, I walked into the hospital and allowed myself to breathe normally and press elevator buttons with my bare hands, although I