“Enough, ladies.” Bunny’s voice grows increasingly strained. “If everyone could please just stand still?—”
“Standing still is for quitters!” Carlotta declares. “Embrace thechaos! This is what true wellness looks like—messy, unpredictable, and slightly embarrassing!”
That’s basically Carlotta’s version of live, love, laugh.
Bunny cups her hands over her mouth. “Attention, ladies! Let’s begin the lecture on the benefits of castor oil!”
“Don’t worry, Funny Bunny,” Carlotta shouts her way. “I’ll help you out.” She trots over to a table where the castor oil is displayed and promptly picks up an armful of the dark blue bottles, and I’m pretty sure she doesn’t realize each of those bottles is uncapped. That was the sample table where women were testing out the slippery substance and rubbing it over their arms and faces.
But before I can warn her of the impending danger, in typical Carlotta fashion, she trips, falls, and inadvertently bathes herself in the oily goo.
Bunny’s face goes pale. “Oh, for goodness’ sake?—”
I nod because that’s usually my standard reaction.
Carlotta tries to grab ahold of the dark bottles, and yet they one by one seem to squirm right out of her hands, and soon she’s juggling them while pouring the castor oil over herself with the enthusiasm of someone performing the slipperiest baptism on record. The oil splashes onto nearby attendees, who shriek and slip as the vicinity becomes an impromptu skating rink.
Oil splashes everywhere. Women shriek. The tent grounds turn into a full-contact slip-and-slide. Someone loses a shoe. Someone else loses their dignity. A purse skids past me at forty miles an hour. Complete chaos erupts as bottles topple everywhere, and the scent of lavender mingles with panic.
“Your so-called friend has turned a wellness seminar into a full-contact sport,” Lenny comments with a touch of admiration.
I waddle over and try to wrangle Carlotta while nursing twins, which is about as effective as trying to herd cats while juggling flaming torches. “Carlotta! Stop helping!” I turn to Bunny. “I’m so sorry about this.”
“Don’t apologize,” Bunny says, actually smiling. “This is the most excitement we’ve had at a wellness seminar in years.”
She slips her business card into my purse. “Please call me if you want to continue our conversation. And seriously, think about those monk fruit desserts. The world needs more bakers who care about both taste and health.”
“I will,” I promise, while watching Carlotta attempt to help someone up and instead causing a three-person pile-up.
“Well, this is more exciting than my days at the zoo,” Lenny grunts as he prepares to follow me out of the increasingly slippery tent. “At least now you know where to start looking for answers.”
I need much more than a few answers right about now.
I gather the oil-covered mess known as Carlotta and go in search of Lyla Nell and my mother, who are probably wondering if I’ve been swallowed whole by the wellness community chaos.
We make our escape from the increasingly slippery tent, though I make a mental note to verify that cruise alibi as soon as I’m not juggling twins on my boobs, managing a human oil spill, and trying to locate the rest of my family—assuming Carlotta’s next wellness demonstration doesn’t turn deadly first.
And knowing our track record, there’s a very good chance of just that.
LOTTIE
Monday evening at our house smells like a delicious yet odd combo of Mangia’s pizza and the lingering scent of Easter lilies from the arrangements scattered throughout the great room.
The warm air carries hints of melted mozzarella, garlic, and just a touch of whatever organic essential oil Carlotta has decided to douse herself with from the Wellness and Wisdom from the Wild Side lecture we attended—and systematically destroyed. Sounds of contentment fill the space with pizza boxes shuffling, babies cooing from their swings, Lyla Nell and Evie playing with the cats, Carlotta and Noah stuffing their faces, and it’s all a part of the gentle hum of family chaos that I’ve learned to call home.
Our great room looks like the upcoming holiday exploded in the most beautiful way possible. Pastel garlands drape across the mantel, spotted with silk daffodils and tiny ceramic bunnies that hop every which way. Crystal bowls filled with painted eggs sit on every surface, and an enormous Easter wreath hangs above the fireplace, complete with ribbons and glitter, and a few of my sugar cookies that Lyla Nell flung into it, thinking it was the exact finishing touch the wreath needed. She was right, of course. My sugar cookies could brighten justabout any space or mood. Unless, of course, Bunny Whitmore was there to see them.
The afternoon turned out better than I expected, once my mother found us at the wellness disaster zone and helped pluck the twins off my chest. She rocked them to sleep in the stroller with the expertise of a Glam Glam who’s survived raising children without losing her sanity—a skill I’m still developing. I hope.
We went back into the tent and listened to Bunny sing the praises of castor oil and coconut oil for everything from hair growth to spiritual enlightenment, and honestly, I’m starting to think the woman could convince me that motor oil has healing properties, too.
Then Lainey, Meg, and I attacked what was left of the dessert table with the determination of nursing mamas who’ve discovered that healthy food doesn’t have to taste like punishment. We demolished date and walnut energy balls that actually tasted like candy, coconut flour brownies sweetened with monk fruit that could fool any chocolate addict, and chia seed pudding cups with cacao that made me question everything I thought I knew about dessert.
There were raw almond butter cookies that melted in your mouth, avocado chocolate mousse that seemed too good to be legal, and sweet potato cinnamon bars that made me wonder if I’ve been living my entire baking career as a lie.
Who knew eating healthy could taste so sinfully delicious?
Afterwards, we caught up with Evie on the beach, where she was sporting what could generously be called a swimsuit but more accurately resembled dental floss with delusions of grandeur. I won’t be mentioning that particular fashion choice to Everett. We need his heart to keep beating, and envisioning his teen daughter in what amounts to strategically placed string might send him into cardiac arrest.
