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Praise for Jennifer Archer
On My Perfectly Imperfect Life
“A highly emotional story about sisters learning to see each other and the past through adult eyes…4.5 stars.”
—Romantic Times BOOKclub
“My Perfectly Imperfect Life is a deeply emotional family drama…. There is a lot of humor in this tale…add[ing] to a wonderful, affecting character study.”
—The Reader’s Guild
On The Me I Used To Be
“All the characters are vividly brought to life as they struggle to balance past and present.”
—Romantic Times BOOKclub
“A poignant novel that explores the issues and emotions associated with family, adoption, and love. Archer has a talent for developing interesting, ‘real’ characters.”
—“Curled Up with a Good Book” at www.curledup.com
On Sandwiched
“Archer captures the voices and vulnerabilities of her characters with precision.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Jennifer Archer’s a smart writer.”
—Michelle Buonfiglio, NBC11.com Entertainment
Jennifer Archer
As a frequent speaker at writing workshops, women’s events and creative writing classes, award-winning author Jennifer Archer enjoys inspiring others to set goals and pursue their dreams. She is the mother of two grown sons and currently resides in Texas with her high school sweetheart and their neurotic Brittany spaniel. Jennifer enjoys hearing from her readers through her Web site, www.jenniferarcher.net.
Off Her Rocker
Jennifer Archer
MILLS & BOON
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From the Author
Dear Reader,
A new generation of mothers has been in the news recently. Labeled “helicopter moms,” they hover over their children long after the kids are grown.
In the past four years, I’ve left both my “babies” more than eleven hundred miles away from home at college and, upon reading about these parents, I worried that I might fit the mold. As I researched the topic further, I learned that most true “helicopter moms,” if there are such beings, are much more obsessive than I am. Still, I recognized a hint of their overprotectiveness in myself.
The news stories were pushed to the back of my mind until a summer day when my husband and I decided to extend a stay at our mountain cabin longer than we’d planned. We drove into a tiny nearby town to do laundry, but almost every business on the main drag either had a closed sign on the door or boards nailed over the windows. I’d hate to get stuck in a town like this, I thought. And then, What if a helicopter mom as spoiled as her children became stranded here? That question gave birth to the Logan family. They all had a lot to learn, about themselves and about each other. They did so with frustration and confusion, tears and laughter. I fell in love with them, despite their faults. Or maybe because of them. I hope you will, too.
Happy reading!
Jennifer Archer
For loving mothers who hover too close
to their children too long.
And for the children who love them back, in spite of it.
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
PROLOGUE
“Push, Dana. Push!”
Holding my breath, I bear down with all the energy left in me. This kid is stubborn compared to Taylor Jane. After only an hour of labor, she popped into the world four years ago like a kernel of kettle corn. Tiny, pale and sweet, butter-yellow hair and an airy disposition.
Not this one, no. Eight hours, forty-three minutes and counting.
“That’s it, honey.” Carl squeezes my hand.
A shift, a loud grunting moan, sudden relief, exhaustion. The breath rushes out of me, my muscles go limp, my head drops to the pillow.
At the end of the table, from between my upraised knees, I hear Dr. Lattimer say, “Good girl, Dana.” Then, a squeaky, furious cry sounds and he adds, “It’s a boy!”
“A boy…” Carl’s eyes fill with tears as he leans down to kiss me. “We have a son. I love you, honey.”
I decide to forgive him for his behavior in the labor room earlier. The photo he had the nurse take of us together between contractions. The two times I caught him smiling at some program on the television in the corner, instead of suffering with me. His cheery encouragement while I panted like an old dog on a hot day, my attention fixed on my Lamaze focal point, the eyes of the child in the famous painting across from my bed. Mother and Child. In it, the mother hugs her toddler, her face turned into his neck, while the child’s arms hang loose, and he stares into the distance beyond her.
Carl moves aside, and I catch my first glimpse of our little boy. Bald and squealing, purplish red from the top of his misshapen head to the tips of each of his tiny long toes.
Sounds diminish. The room blurs around him, the people in it. I’m blind and deaf to anything except my baby, consumed with a fierce love for him, with adoration of every detail about him, perfect and otherwise.