John and Marsha Weathers’ marriage survives the war—literally. Unfortunately, John’s battle scars mar their second chance marriage, and it becomes a casualty. Through separations, renovations to the beloved Lodge, interaction with their grown daughters, and the births of their grandchildren, John and Marsha discover another chance at love. Is their third connection the charm, or is it three strikes and you’re out?
Marsha Weathers replayed Dr. Mazuk’s words in her head. Two heartbeats? I’m pregnant? Crazy…
Marsha didn’t know if she should laugh? Cry? Or what? So she did both. Now, after finally reuniting with John, she just found out she was finishing her first trimester of pregnancy!
When the Vietnam War had separated her and John after their Woodstock wedding, she had earned her degree at Berea College. Then she had served various stints around the world with the Peace Corps, honing her apothecary skills. She spent some time connecting to her heritage and researching numerous blends of herbs, spices, and flowers. She had barely reunited with her husband, and here she was, thirty-something and pregnant. Not only pregnant, but possibly with twins!
War, travel, and time brought many changes. Her life was colored by the Vietnam War, separation from John, and her own strong desire to learn how to heal and help others through her interests, passion, education, and experiences.
John had served as a medic in Vietnam, and she served through healing notions, lotions, and potions she created. She’d even developed a potent serum that many called Marsha’s Magic Love Potion. She had toyed with the idea of using it on John to ease any possible awkwardness caused by their decade-plus separation, but it hadn’t been necessary.
They had no problems picking up where they’d left off, and nature took its course.
No potion was needed.
“Honey, I’m home,” John called out in his best imitation of Ricky Ricardo of the I Love Lucy TV show fame. “What’s up?” He was just getting home from his Arts and Crafts Community project. “How’d your day go?”
Marsha hiccupped, caught between a sob and a laugh. “There’s a bun in the oven.” She frequently treated him to homemade, organic foods, using the herbs, plants, and flowers from the garden she’d helped his ma, Emma Jean, start. She also made fabulous brownies. So she wasn’t surprised by his reaction.
John walked over to the stove and peered inside the oven. “Cinnamon buns? There’s just pots and pans in here. I don’t see any buns.”
Marsha laughed, stood, and patted her lower abdomen. “Not that oven. This one.”
John stood there. His mouth hung open, making an O in surprise. “You’re kidding me.”
“Nope, I’m preggers.”
In a heartbeat, his blue eyes crinkled as surprise, shock, joy, and wonder crossed his finely chiseled face. “Wow!” He grabbed her and twirled her around just like they did in the movies—and in every woman’s dreams.
She giggled like a young girl. Although she was a college-educated woman who had taught with the Peace Corps in Malaysia, deep down, she was still the girl John had left behind to go to war. Still the gal who had made the trek to Woodstock with him. Still the one who had laced flowers in her hair on their wedding day. Only now she’d be a mother. It blew her mind.
To calm herself, she rolled a joint and lit it. Pot was a carryover from the Woodstock days of their late teens.
Concern crossed his features. “Should you be smoking pot? Will it hurt the baby?”
Marsha giggled. “I’ve been studying cannabis since Woodstock and have smoked the world’s best.” She cocked her brow at him. “As I’m sure you have. The army‘s resourceful. I hear you guys found primo stuff.”
John guffawed. “Yes, and I indulged.”
“And still do.”
He acknowledged that as he took a toke.
She snapped her fingers. “That’s what’s been missing. No wonder I’m so nauseated.”
“You sure it won’t hurt the baby?”
“Lord, no. Street stuff might, but I grow my own blend. This climate, and most I’ve been in, lend themselves to grow good weed. Easy to grow, and it blends in well with its surroundings. Mine has a low THC content. It’s medicinal, not recreational. I’d never hurt our babies.”
John looked out the window nervously. “You don’t have any in the garden here, do you?”
Marsha laughed. Then she gave the thought some consideration. “Uh, that would be a no.”
John relaxed. “The risks are too big here. It’s a national park.”
“I think pregnancy is the cause of your nausea.”
She swatted him.
“Wait a minute. Babies? As in two?”
“Wow!” He flopped into a chair, looking stunned but pleased.
Marsha smiled, then sat in his lap and handed him the joint. He indulged with a couple tokes, then set it aside.
From that point, John started his seduction, and they made love right there in the kitchen. Their lovemaking took on a dreamy, somnolent, gentle nature. John peeled her clothes off—almost reverently—then kissed her and rained a thousand feathery kisses from her neck to her toes.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispered, then he dipped to kiss her belly, “or hurt you either, little ones.” He kissed his way up to the shell of her ear. And then he went to the other side of her neck and sucked a kiss so strongly she knew she’d have a hickey, but she shivered with pleasure.
Marsha laughed gently, followed with a drawn-out sigh. “Sex releases good hormones. It’s good for what ails ya.”
John gave a sexy-as-sin grin. “Then we must make sure you have plenty.” His hands gently kneaded her hips, making her skin tingle, and her juices run down her thighs. He hoisted her to the kitchen counter, parted her legs, and gently licked each and every drop, then laid soft kisses on her center.
Her hands gripped his hair as she eased back and let him eat his fill.
His package sprang to life, and he teased her with the tip of it.
“What’s so funny?”
“You, your cock plumps when you cook it or in this case…” She couldn’t go on, because he lifted her down to the floor and showed her what a plump cock could do. Her orgasm ripped through her, and her clit shattered as it clenched and released her into the stratosphere. She panted, then lay spent in his arms while she played with the fine dark curls covering his hands and arms. “You like that, babies?”
“Oh boy, do I,” John said.