“’Course,” she replied, but didn’t do that.She pushed ahand my way and said, “Hey, I’m Marte.And I’m the least annoying one, nomatter what Mo says to you.”
“That’s a lie,” Mo muttered.
I took her hand, smiling because this night was starting awhole lot different than I expected.
“Hi, I’m Lottie.”
“Jeez, Marz, what’s with the bar-the-door routine?”anothertall, blonde, built woman asked, doing this while physically shoving Marte outof the way only to take her place.“Hey, I’m Lene and I’m justgonnasay right now, Rick brought his poster of you.And ifyou don’t want to sign it, just don’t.I told him it was rude.Not at the firstdinner.Not when Mom’s making us dress up and demanded we get babysitters.Morelike when Paul has his Columbus Day barbeque.And heads up, Paul uses everyexcuse to barbeque.So that’s not weird,for him.Labor Day, MemorialDay, Veterans Day, totally Fourth of July.Even Halloween.He tried to barbequea turkey for Thanksgiving once, and Signe lost her mind.”
I couldn’t help but stare at her, but when she stoppedtalking, I asked, “Your husband has a poster of me?”
“Don’t be nervous,” she advised quickly.“He’s not a stalkeror anything.He’s just a huge fan of thoseRock Chickbooks.I swear,I nearly had to take him to the hospital, he was laughing so hard at the partwhere your sister goes to the poker games with her girls.”She leaned towardme.“He’sgonnaask you to ask them to sign hisbooks.Don’t feel weird about telling him to shove off about that either.I gotyou, girl.”
I kept staring at her.
They knew who I was.
They knew what I did.
And she was okay with her husband having a poster of me.
I had a variety of posters from back in my Queen of theCorvette calendar heyday.
And inmostof them I was clothed.
Albeit scantily.
“Do you mind if I actually take my womaninthehouse?”Mo requested, sounding beleaguered.“Or does one of youwannabring a plate of corn muffins out here?”
“Oh, right, sorry,” Lene said, then grabbed my hand, and Icould do anything in heels, but I nearly tripped at the strength of herdragging me inside, inviting, “Come in, come in.”She barely got me a foot intothe living room when she yelled, “Look everybody!Lottie’s here!”
There were no children, and I would realize later this wasabout Mo’s mom not wanting to bombard me with all that was her family.
What was in that living room was enough.
At first glance, it was innocuous.Women in lovely dresses.Men in trousers and shirts, like Mo.Classy platters of elegant-looking food.Candlelight.Sinatra on low in the background.
She’d gone all out.
The whole thing was the shit.
And every Morrison sister had the same look, so much so,they didn’t appear to be just sisters, but quadruplets.
They also had the same type.
Their men were all tall and huge (if not bald), like theirbrother Mo.
I met Signe, Trine, Paul, Taylor, Rick, and finally, Ingrid,Mo’s mom.
She folded my hand in both of hers and gently moved mefurther into the room, saying, “It’s so lovely to have you here, Lottie.Thankyou for coming.”
“Really, my pleasure,” I murmured.“Thank you for asking mehere.”
She nodded charmingly, giving me a graceful smile, andasked, “Now, what can Mo get you to drink?”
“I’m having a John Collins.Make her a John Collins, Mo,”Marte ordered.
“Sidecar,” Signe demanded.“Mo makesthe bestsidecars.”
