Page 108 of Finding Home

“You want to go a third time?” Caleb asks excitedly.

“All done!” Bonham chokes out. “Sand.”

“You sure? Okay.” He calls to me. “He wants to play with his sand toys, babe.”

“I’ll get him settled!”

Caleb brings Bonham to me, and I get him settled with my father and some sand toys on the shore, at which point I accept my husband’s sexy invitation to return to the water with him for some “alone-time.” It’s a no-brainer to say yes. My husband’s only become sexier to me over the years, as we’ve settled into our happy life here on the lake. I’ve seen the whole world with this man by now, always with our family in tow, usually during short summer tours with the band. But those experiences never feel like real life to me. They always feel like a grand adventure. A vacation. While this place here on Lake Lucille always feels like home.

When we’re all the way to our chests in the cool water, and finally acclimated to the temperature, I straddle Caleb’s torso with my legs, slide my arms around his neck, and press my center into his bulging hard-on. For several minutes, we make out like horny teenagers, our lust consuming us.

“I was thinking we really should buy that house,” Caleb says. He doesn’t need to explain. The owner of the house on the other side of the guest house mentioned he wasthinking about selling the other day, when we ran into him in town while shopping for party supplies.

“Oh, yeah?”

“This party is only going to get bigger every year, right? And as our friends’ kids get older, we’ll need more and more room for everyone. We’re home for good, right? We’re never leaving. So, why not make this whole place into a Baumgarten Family Compound?”

I laugh. He's so cute. “You mean, like we’re a cult?”

“Exactly.”

I laugh again. The truth is, I already know he’s going to do it, no matter what we talk about today. But I’m happy to play along. “How much are they asking for the place?”

Caleb tells me the number, and I whistle. “That’s a lot of money,” I murmur. Again, I’m playing along. Caleb’s always done fabulously well with his band, of course. But after the Ralph Beaumont incident made worldwide news, his personal “brand” took off, without any intention or effort on Caleb’s part. Suddenly, even more money started rolling in from all sorts of licensing and sponsorship deals, in addition to all the usual income streams. At this point, it’s seriously like money grows on trees for this man.

“Seems kind of excessive,” I tease, even though I know it’s chump change to Caleb. I brush a lock of wet hair off his forehead and grin. “Although, I mean, I guess it might be kind of nice to know all four of our kids will always have a place to stay with us.”

“Well, maybe we shouldn’t do it, then,” he jokes. But he’s no sooner said the words, then his brain processes what I just said. “Wait. Allfourof our kids?”

I let my husband hold his breath and wait for confirmation for a long beat, just for the sheer fun of it. But when Caleb looks too cute to torture any longer, I laugh and say, “Sorry to tell you, babe, but you’re going to need to find yetanotheropen spot on your neck.” After our wedding in Billings eight years ago, Caleb got an “A” and an “R” inked onto his neck, both tattoos topped with lit fuses like the “C” that was already inked there. And then, with Page’s and Bonham’s births, Caleb added two more letters to his collection, the same way he’d added to the carvings on The Family Tree.

“Oh my fucking god,” Caleb blurts excitedly. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure. I took three tests this morning. All positive. Get ready to change even more poopie diapers, Dadda.”

He kisses me. “Can’t wait.”

“Also, you’ll need to carve another initial into The Family Tree. Let’s not forget about that.”

“Of course. Oh my god.” With a laugh, he kisses me deeply, as I press myself into his hard bulge again and enjoy the waves of euphoria rocketing through me.

“What’s another good Zeppelin-inspired name?” Caleb asks, nuzzling his nose to mine.

“I feel like we’ve reached the end of that particular road,” I say. “I mean, I don’t really want to name my child Robert, Roberta, or any variation of Plant, John Paul, or Jones. Do you?”

Caleb guffaws and agrees none of those options sound appealing to him, either.

Fun fact: the name of our four-year-old, Page, wasn’t actually inspired by Led Zeppelin’s famous guitarist, Jimmy Page. Everyone thinks that, but it’s not true. We both simply liked the name, for whatever reason—although maybe it was subliminal—and we went with it. But then, once Caleb’s musician friends, many of whom are also obsessed with Led Zeppelin, started assuming Page hadbeen named for the famed guitarist of Caleb’s all-time favorite band, we just sort of adopted that revisionist version of history and rolled with it. Which is why, when our son came along two years later, it felt natural and right to name him after John Bonham, Zepp’s legendary drummer and Caleb’s biggest inspiration.

“I actually have a couple name ideas,” I say, biting my lower lip flirtatiously.

He pinches my ass underneath the water. “Lay ‘em on me, baby.”

“So, if it’s a girl, I’m thinkingAdele.” True, that’s the name of one of my all-time favorite pop girlies; but she’s not my inspiration. Which is why, in case my intentions aren’t clear to Caleb, I add quickly, “After your mother.”

Caleb’s green eyes widen and prick with moisture. “That’s perfect. Thank you for thinking of that.”

“And if it’s a boy, I was thinking Hayes.” That’s Caleb’s mother’s maiden name. And not surprisingly, this next suggestion causes the moisture in Caleb’s eyes to morph into full-blown tears.

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