He put on a cap, a coat, and gloves and walked outside, striding quickly down the sidewalk, the sun in his face. It was a beautiful winter day, and he cut across the park, admiring the silhouettes of the empty tree branches, and Freya surfaced in his thoughts. What was she doing now? He could almost sense her. It was a reassuring feeling, like a second heart beating in his chest.
At the store, he bought laundry detergent, paper towels, sponges, and three different cleaning products—one that was purple and had a whimsical Spanish name, Fabuloso. The pretty cashier batted her thick black eyelashes at Freddie. As he bagged his items, he winked at her. In turn, she licked her lips. Even if Gert thought he was lame, it was nice to know he still had it going on.
He stopped by what looked like a little hole-in-the-wall. The window read FOOD SHOP. The place was run by a chef who made delicious dishes he knew Gert loved. Freddie chose eggplant Parmesan, beet and goat cheese salad, quinoa with lentils, and green beans in olive oil and garlic. They had been eating so much junk food lately—maybe that was the cause of their foul moods. Too many French fries and milkshakes. Too many fried mozzarella sticks. Hadn’t his mother always said that eating well meant feeling well?
Last on his list of errands, he purchased a small chocolate cake, a bottle of Cabernet, and a bouquet of lilies. The flowers reminded him of Gert on better days. Suddenly, he felt terrific. He felt Fabuloso. The evening was going to be A-OK. He was going to win Gert back. It was ridiculous that their relationship had come to this so quickly. Their vows might have been exchanged at gunpoint, after he had blown his chance to be with her stepsister Hilly (Brünnhilde, whom Fryr had loved since time immortal but could never have), but he did love Gert. He was even monogamous for a change. He had just thrown away the receipt with the cashier’s number on it.
When he returned to the apartment, it appeared his wife had the same idea to get them back on track. A better idea, even.
“I’m so sorry, Freddie, I have been such a bitch lately. After you left, I cleaned up. I feel like an ass**le,” Gert said as she greeted him at the door in a satiny white peignoir.
“I’ve been the ass**le,” said Freddie.
“We both have been… It’s just having the pix—” she began, but Freddie didn’t want to be reminded of that, so he pressed a finger to her lips. He showed her what he had bought, thinking they could have an indoor picnic.
“Oh, Freddie!” Gert gasped, and she pulled him into a kiss, pressing her body against his.
Freddie became instantly hard again, aching to be inside his sexy, bitchy wife, for the hot, sweet sensation of their lovemaking. The force of their kisses sent them toppling onto the couch, groping, pulling, pushing at each other, panting heavily.
Gert’s peignoir had fallen to the floor at this point, and they couldn’t get Freddie out of his clothes fast enough. She tore off his T-shirt. Freddie bent over to pull off his shoes, as she gripped impatiently at his leather belt to get the big brass hipster buckle undone.
One of Freddie’s Chuck Taylors hit a wall, while the other flew into the air over the back of the couch.
“Got it!” came a hoarse voice, and the clap of a sneaker caught in midair.
“Erggggggh!” said Freddie, half undressed, grabbing the peignoir off the floor to hand to Gert.
“They’re here?” she said, sitting up, donning the robe. “I thought you said they went skiing!”
“They were supposed to,” said Freddie, glaring at Sven, who was holding up the sneaker, as the other pixies bustled into the apartment, carrying skis, snowboards, snowshoes, and what looked like the handles of a snowmobile. Freddie shook his head.
Sven, whose hair was now turquoise, looked as scruffy as he usually did, cigarettes tucked in the sleeve of his T-shirt, which featured the grim reaper holding a scythe standing among cute puppies and a penguin with a bow tie. Val sported a spiky crimson Mohawk, a blush in his cheeks from carrying five pairs of skis up the three flights. Irdick, the round-faced one with the pale platinum hair, cried out, “Hey, Mom, Dad, we’re home!”
The girls—fair-haired Kelda in Lolita heart-shaped sunglasses and dark, olive-skinned Nyph in star-shaped sunglasses—giggled. “Yeah, um, hi!” they said in unison.
“Oops! I think we interrupted something?” Kelda peered above her heart-shaped lenses at Gert, who was tying the belt of her short robe. Then she looked at Freddie, still shirtless, his hair mussed.
Gert shook her head but the pixies were not having it.
“We totally did!” Nyph snickered. The pixies were ageless and immortal, but had a childlike air, like a group of loud preteens.
“Gross!” said Sven.
“Sorry!” Kelda said, giggling even more.
“What are you doing here?” asked Freddie, disgruntled. “You promised to go on a ski trip! What the hell?”
Gert was incensed. “I lent you my car, for God’s sake! Can’t Freddie and I have the place to ourselves for once?”
“Yeah, about the car…” said Irdick.
“No!” said Freddie, knowing what was coming. “You didn’t!”
“Yeah, we did,” said Sven.
“T-t-t-totaled,” said Val.
Gert screamed, a scream that lasted forever, ending in a single sharp note that made everyone cover their ears.
The pixies, who had been Ingrid’s wards, had somehow become Freddie’s responsibility. He wasn’t sure how that had happened. Something to do with Ingrid having to concentrate on her research, and soon they were just underfoot. Ever since they had moved in a few weeks ago, his marriage had deteriorated. The pixies were supposed to have stayed away the entire weekend, finally giving them a little peace. But here they were again. It was a total nightmare.
Talented thieves who had gotten Killian in trouble in the first place, they were in charge of stealing back the trident from whoever had taken it (they swore they couldn’t remember who had assigned them the task of stealing it from Freddie originally), but after a few days on the yellow brick road, they claimed to have “lost the scent.” They were waiting to pick it up again. No one knew when that would be. They were useless, total mooches, not to mention the messes they made and that they never lifted a finger to clean. All they wanted, as Sven put it, was to have “some goddamned fun.”
And now they had totaled Gert’s antique Jag, the only thing Mr. Liman had ever given his adoptive daughter.