“I tolerate you,” she said haughtily. “And I was already going to make french toast for my wife but if you’re nice tome I’ll make some for you too.”
She paused just long enough to make him sweat.
She made her way to Arlo, kissing his cheek. “Now you, you I love.”
Arlo smiled at that, small and sincere, blushing to the tips of his elf-like ears. It still amazed her how easily kindness landed on him. Java lay at his feet, chin on her paws, watching Calliope with sleepy devotion.
“Wooow,” Dimitri said, but he was smiling.
“How’s Java?” she asked, crouching down to pet the dog briefly.
“She nervous for her procedure?”
Dimitri snorted. “We gave her enough Benadryl to take down a water buffalo. Or Gary Busey. I don’t think she’s gonna care about anything for the foreseeable future.”
Calliope stood, going to the sink to wash her hands before she started breakfast. “But you can pick her up later tonight?”
Arlo nodded, his anxiety about his dog palpable. “Yeah.”
Lola slipped in behind her, looping an arm around Calliope’s waist. Her chin rested between Calliope’s shoulder blades, familiar as breath. “Hello, boys.”
“Hi, Lola,” they chimed in unison.
“Creepy.”
The voice didn’t come from Lola but Cricket who waddled in wearing what looked—to Calliope at least—like a circus tent. It was a dress—maybe?—or a muumuu? The fabric strained valiantly around her belly, patterned in red and white vertical stripes that made her impossible to ignore.
“Damn, Crick, who designed that dress? Barnum & Bailey?” Dimitri chimed, smirking at her over his coffee cup.
“I can and will stab you with your own fork and they’ll let me off,” Cricket said pleasantly. “I’ll just claim the pregnancy hormones drove me to it.”
She smiled like she meant it.
Dimitri picked up his camera and took a picture of Cricket in her Ringling Brothers nightie and fuzzy bunny slippers, catching her mid-scowl with her hair standing on end like she’d been electrocuted by the holiday spirit. Then he showed it to her.
“This right here will be the only thing the prosecutor needs,” he said solemnly. “This is a crime against fashion. Felix would have a stroke.”
“Cricket, honey,” Lola said gently, resting her elbows on the counter like she was bracing for impact. “What are you wearing?”
Cricket huffed, then flopped down in the wooden chair opposite Dimitri, the chair protesting her dramatics with a faint creak. “The only nightgown that fits me right now.”
Itwasa nightgown. Thank God. Calliope didn’t care what she wore, but if the other Mulvaneys got ahold of that dress, Cricket probablywouldbe going to prison for mass murder. She was at that point in pregnancy where she had zero patience for stupid-ass questions likeyou haven’t had that baby yet?orhow many babies are in there anyway?Her poor ankles had disappeared entirely, her face was puffy, her eyes rimmed with exhaustion. She looked like someone who had reached the end of her goodwill for the human race.
“French toast?” Calliope asked, already knowing the answer but asking anyway because it felt like kindness.
“Please,” Cricket said.
Calliope smiled. “How many slices?”
“Is half the loaf too much?” Cricket asked wryly. “I’m starving today.”
“You can have anything you want until that baby makes an appearance,” Lola promised, voice soft but absolute.
As Calliope started pulling out bread and eggs, she glanced toward the window, watching snow drift lazily across the fields. The world outside looked hushed, wrapped in white. It felt like the calm before something—not ominous, exactly, just… full. Like clouds before rain, or that niggling sensation she got right before something big happened. The kind of feeling she’d learned never to ignore.
Dimitri appeared behind his mother, hooking his chin over her shoulder as he watched her coat bread in eggs. The smell of cinnamon and vanilla was already starting to bloom.
“What did you get me for Christmas?”
