After that, they slip into an easy rhythm—talking books, cats, and tour life.
I mostly stay quiet, chewing slowly around a knot of emotion I didn’t see coming.
“Tell me,” Nora says sweetly, digging into her food. “You used to work in the army, Mr. Donovan?”
Grandpa Sid perks up. “Damn straight. Radio operator. Also once punched a Nazi in the throat.”
Nora’s eyes go wide. “Oh! Wow.”
“His name was Gerald. Bastard stole my cigarette lighter.”
Mom doesn’t flinch. Just passes the bread basket like this is all perfectly normal. Which, to be fair, it is. For us.
“You know,” Grandpa Sid continues, peering at Nora over his wine glass, “you’ve got good birthing hips. Strong calves. Irish?”
Nora chokes on her sip of water. I reach out instinctively, patting her back while trying not to die of secondhand embarrassment.
“She’s, uh, mostly German and Scottish,” I mutter.
He nods, dead serious. “Excellent breeding. She’ll bear you twins.”
“Okay!” I clap my hands, hoping to derail this train before it careens into complete madness. “So, Grandpa, how’s that crossword book I sent you?”
He squints at me. “Full of filth. One clue said ‘bodily fluid.’ I wrote in ‘whiskey.’”
“You’re not wrong,” I mumble.
Nora’s still blushing, but now she’s laughing—shoulders shaking, napkin pressed to her mouth. My mom refills her wine with the practiced ease of a woman who’s raised a rockstar and survived decades of her father’s antics.
She glances between us, then gently steers the conversation. “Nora, tell me about that charity event I heard about—something for the library?”
Nora blinks, then beams. “Oh—yes. We’re hosting a benefit gala in a few days to raise funds for the library. After-school tutoring, literacy workshops, that kind of thing.”
Mom lights up. “That’s wonderful.”
“It’s… a lot of work,” Nora says, but I can hear the warmth under her words. “But worth it. We lost a chunk of our grant funding this year, and the gala’s our best shot at keeping some of those services alive.”
Mom leans in, chin propped on her hand. “And you're organizing it?”
“I am,” Nora says brightly, trying to keep her tone casual. “There are a few of us on the committee. We all pitch in—booking vendors, wrangling volunteers, designing flyers, and everything in between.”
She’s animated now, hands flying as she talks about local authors and how hard it is to get teenagers to show up unless you promise snacks.
My mom soaks it up like sunshine.
“She’s brilliant, you know,” I say—almost without meaning to.
All three look at me. Nora bites her lip. My mom arches an eyebrow. Grandpa huffs.
“She is,” I repeat, meeting Nora’s eyes. “When she talks about the library, it’s like… everything else just fades away.”
Nora shakes her head, clearly trying not to smile. “You’re making me sound like a Disney villain who hoards overdue books.”
“You do,” I say, leaning closer. “But you’d be the hot villain. The one who wears glasses and whispers threats in the stacks.”
My mom snorts into her wine. “Maxwell Donovan.”
Nora is blushing now, but she’s laughing too.
