It hasn't been easy, of course, but things are continuing to improve with my father. He made a permanent move to Washington, D.C., never really wanting to give up a political career, but he's involved with Anne in a way he never was with me.
It's bittersweet, but I guess that's life. You can't change the past -- the only thing you can do is work toward the kind of future you want to have. So my father and I are working toward that.
Ella has stepped up, too. Despite her "don't ever let the baby call me grandma; I'm not old enough to be a grandmother!" protests, she's absolutely enchanted with Anne. Her television series is doing well, and she visits from New York all the time. She and my father get along now like old friends, although they swear there is nothing going on between them. At least this holiday season we haven't caught them playing Santa and his naughty elf again.
Yet.
Libby and Bailey got married, and Libby is pregnant. They're giddy and ridiculously happy.
Joe did indeed follow the monkey around last year at the wedding, as penance for bringing what's-her-name to the wedding, until the monkey pooped out the wedding rings twelve hours later. We decided to get new wedding rings – not straw and straw-wrapper ones – anyway.
Photos from the wedding – the first one, not the hospital one – made their way all over the internet afterward ("Wedding Disaster!"), but Caulter and I were too busy with Anne to care. It's funny how our priorities were instantaneously rearranged the day of her birth.
Caulter comes up behind me, and stands there silently with me for a moment, watching her. His arm snakes around my waist and he pulls me tightly against him. "You look deep in thought," he says. "She looks so peaceful."
"I know," I say. "I still haven't gotten tired of watching her sleep, all cuddled up like that."
"Me neither," Caulter says, his voice soft. We stand there for a minute before he whispers, "Now let's get out of here."
I stifle a giggle as he takes me by the hand and pulls me out of the nursery, stopping in the hallway to immediately bend down and toss me over his shoulder. "What are you doing?"
"It's our anniversary," he says, slapping me on the ass. "And I'm taking you into the bedroom so I can defile you."
"I think you've already defiled me," I say, laughing.
"Then I want to debauch you."
"That’s the same thing."
He slaps me hard on the ass, and I laugh, hitting him on the back. "Put me down," I say. "You can't spank me just because your command of the English language sucks."
He slides me down the front of him, and pulls me tight against his hardness. "Oh yeah?" he asks. "What can I spank you for, then?"
"Our anniversary," I say.
"That's what I was hoping you'd say," he says, spinning me around, his hands immediately on the button of my pants, pulling them down in one swift motion.
And I see the bedroom – decked out with candles, rose petals strewn across the bed and trailing along the floor. And in the middle of the bed, sex toys and lingerie. And a gift-wrapped object in the middle, rectangular-shaped, something in a frame.
"Is that a piece of art?" I ask, as Caulter yanks my pants completely down my legs. "First anniversary is supposed to be paper. And I thought we said we were holding all gifts until Christmas Day."
I leave out the anniversary surprise I'm keeping from him.
"It is a piece of art," he says, sliding his hands up my naked ass, then along my back before pulling my shirt over my head. "Paper just seemed too boring."
"Please tell me that's not a painting of your cock or something," I say, spinning around to look at him.
"Says the girl who drew sketches of my dick and put me in an art exhibit titled 'Prick'." He brings his mouth down on mine, and my body comes alive as he touches me, running his fingers up my back until he finds my bra and deftly unhooks it.
"There were no actual pricks in that exhibit," I say, laughing. "Well, until you showed up."
Caulter smacks my bare ass. "So witty."
"Are you going to let me see it?" I ask.
"I'm definitely going to let you see it," he says, unbuckling his pants.
"That too," I say.
"Go open it."
I tear the paper from the package like a kid on Christmas morning, and look at the photo. "Oh my God."
Caulter grins at me, totally naked, his clothes discarded on the floor. "It's the first photo ever taken of us."
It's that photo. The one of Caulter and I that caused all of the problems. Caulter and I, standing in the front yard of my father's house in Washington, D.C.
Facing off and giving each other the finger.
That photo was plastered all over the internet.
"I got a copy of the original from the reporter who shot it," Caulter says. "Told him it was a memento."
"I can't believe you," I say, laughing. It's ridiculous, yet in a very Caulter way, it's so thoughtful. I'd have never remembered that that was the first photograph taken of us.
"I know," he says. "I'm so romantic."