"Won't be ready for at least thirty minutes, knowing your timeline," Robert said fondly. "You'll fret less with us out of your hair."
As the men disappeared, Linda immediately grabbed Libby's arm with the grip of someone who'd waited years for this moment.
"He's even more handsome in person! Those shoulders! That jawline! And so thoughtful with the gifts—do you know what peonies cost this time of year?" She was already leading them toward the living room where family photos covered every available surface. "Come, you can show him your hockey photos while I check on dinner. The good albums are in the cabinet."
"Mom, no?—"
"Oh! I should warn you, Calvin Middleton might stop by. He heard you were coming for dinner."
"What? Mom, you didn't invite him?—"
"I might have mentioned it when he called earlier." Linda had the grace to look slightly guilty. "Why, as soon as he heard the name D'Arcy I would've had to hire security to keep the man out, and you know he's always been sweet on you, darling?—"
"Mom!"
"What? Options are good! Not that Liam isn't wonderful, but we have to be realistic here..."
Libby wanted to dissolve into the floor. "Please tell me you didn't actually suggest he was an option."
"I may have implied that things were getting serious between you and Liam." Linda patted her cheek. "Competition is healthy in relationships! Keeps men on their toes!"
Before Libby could explain the seventeen different ways this was mortifying, Jane appeared from the kitchen, flour in her hair.
"Mom, your béchamel is doing something weird."
"Oh God, not again." Linda rushed toward the kitchen. "Libby, set the table! And use the cloth napkins from the dining room drawer!"
Left alone in the living room shrine to Bennet-Cross family history, Libby contemplated escape. Every surface held photographic evidence of their chaotic, loving, decidedly unglamorous life. School photos with unfortunate haircuts, family vacations to decidedly non-exotic locations like Lake George and Cape Cod, and so many pictures of her in various stages of hockey obsession it looked like a sporting goods catalog had exploded.
"Mom's lasagna's trying to escape," Jane reported, returning from the kitchen. "She's wrestling it back into submission."
"Please tell me you're joking."
"The cheese made a break for it. Very dramatic. Also, Lydia just texted that she'll be late because—and I quote—'something AMAZING happened with my fitness brand that requires immediate documentation.'"
"Of course she did."
"And Mary's upstairs recording her podcast episode about statistical probability in professional sports relationships."
"Naturally."
Jane studied her with those too-perceptive eyes. "You okay? You look like you're about to vibrate out of your skin."
"I almost kissed him, Jane. Yesterday morning at the rink."
"You told me. Proximity and cold air, you said."
"I lied." Libby sat heavily on the couch. "It wasn't proximity. We were about to full-on kiss on the TD Garden ice because we wanted to. Because I wanted to. Because he definitely wanted to."
"I know," Jane said gently.
"And now he's here, charming Dad with expensive scotch he researched specifically for him, and not batting an eye at Mom's insanity, and being just likeable in general and..."
"Want my professional medical opinion?"
"That I need to breathe into a paper bag?"
"You have a lot in common. Shared interests. Shared values." Jane's smile was gentle. "More than you think."
