My brother-in-law smiled his slow, attractive smile. “Same to you.”
DJ regarded me suspiciously as I swooped in for a kiss.
Meg handed over my niece, a warm, lovely weight in my arms. “He’s still tired. They just got up from their nap.”
Amy emerged from her room. “Hey, me, too.” She kissed our sister, John, the twins. “Cute socks,” she said to Daisy. “Very fashion forward.”
Mom came downstairs, holding tightly to the banister. The rest had done her good. There was color in her cheeks that hadn’t been there before. Or maybe that was makeup. “Meg, are these your pies? They look gorgeous.”
We swept to the kitchen on a flood of hugs and greetings, carrying the twins and dessert along with us. The rise and fall of our voices filled the air along with the scent of roasting turkey.
“I love your sweater.”
“Here, taste. Do I need more salt?”
“Where should I put this?”
“Don’t touch, DJ. Hot.”
I leaned against the counter, immersed in family, feeling the tug and strong flow of love. All of my sisters together at last. “Get you a beer?” I asked John.
Smiling, he shook his head, a rock in the chattering stream. “I’m good, thanks. I think I’ll turn on the game.”
Itwasa little noisy in the kitchen, I admitted, watching his retreat to the living room. Where was Dad? Shouldn’t he be home by now?
The doorbell chimed. Aunt Phee with her little dog, Polly, and her sidekick, Wanda Crocker.
“The Croaker,” Amy murmured in my ear.
I suppressed a snort. “Because one old lady criticizing your hair and life choices is never enough.”
“Puppy!” Daisy cried, toddling forward.
Polly promptly squatted and peed on the rug.
“She’s not used to children,” Aunt Phee announced.
Meg grabbed Daisy protectively.
“I’ll get some paper towels,” Beth said, escaping to the kitchen.
Smart move.
“Why are you standing around half-naked?” Aunt Phee asked Amy. “Go put on a sweater before you catch your death.”
“This is a sweater, Aunt Phee,” Amy said.
“Half a sweater, maybe. I’m getting cold just looking at you.” She turned her attention to me. “Don’t stand there like a beanpole, girl. Give me some sugar.”
Obediently, I stooped to kiss her moisturized cheek.
“Well?” she demanded. “Did you bring your boyfriend home to meet me?”
My eyeball twitched. “I don’t have a boyfriend, Aunt Phee.”
She sniffed. “What’s the matter with those men in New York City? You’re not bad-looking. Or you wouldn’t be, if you fixed your hair.”
I had my father’s hair, thick and curly. Momma cut it once when I was eight or nine, creating a giant brush, an uncontrollable explosion of hair. Ever since middle school, I’d worn it long, bundled out of the way.
