“Sorry,” she whispers. I lean down until her lips come closer to my ear. “My family is a little overwhelming. We won’t give you a quiz on their names, I promise. Though you probably met most of them at the wedding—or at least, they remember you.” Her hazel eyes twinkle. Her dress is the dark yellow of fall leaves. It dips into a deep V that pulls my gaze.
“Poppy!” Her mom bounds back into the hallway with a playful slap to her daughter’s arm. “Why are you keeping this big hunk of a man to yourself? You, my girl, are needed to sort out your aunts’ mashed-potato debate. And Ronan needs to relax.”
I follow Poppy’s mom. Or, more accurately, Poppy’s mom drags me into the heart of the living room, where I’m pushed down into a sofa that engulfs even me. My legs, though, stick out so far that they attract a group of young children who decide that I’m some sort of human jump rope, or perhaps a limbo stick. They jump over my legs on one side, then crawl under them from the other, giggling the entire time.
One small child crawls up my leg and launches herself onto the couch next to me. She reaches up and tugs at my sleeve. I look at her.
“Hello,” she says. She has Poppy’s red hair and freckles. The genes in this family are strong.
“Hey.”
“You’re really big.”
“I know,” I reply, not sure what else to say about that.
It seems to satisfy her. She scampers off.
I turn to watch Poppy. She’s in the corner of the living room, presiding over an argument between two older women, whose hands are flying in passionate gestures. She sees me and grins, then follows the women into another room.
“They’re going into the kitchen,” a husky voice says next to me. It’s Poppy’s father, who I recognize from the wedding. I didn’t meet him that night, but she pointed him out. Poppy favors her mom, with her red hair, deep dimple, and vivacious smile. But her bright hazel eyes are just like her dad’s.
“Her aunts argue over the mashed potatoes every year. One insists they’re too lumpy, and the other gets mad and says they shouldn’t be whipped any more. Then they both complain that we don’t own a potato ricer, whatever that is. Every year, we get lumpy, glue-like potatoes, but we never buy the damn potato ricer.” His grin is mischievous, like a little boy’s. “We take bets each year about who will win.”
“What do they need Poppy for?”
“What everyone needs her for. To keep the peace and make people happy.”
“And who keeps Poppy happy?” I can’t help asking.
“She’s always happy,” her dad says, his bushy eyebrows forming one line.
I think about his answer. Is she? Poppy gives that impression. But in my experience, people aren’t that simple. At her sister’s wedding, she drained glass after glass of champagne to cope as the man she thought she’d spend her life with danced with another woman. That he was there at the invitation of her family was a betrayal. Did her parents think she couldn’t be hurt just because she hid it so well?
“She wasn’t jumping for joy when you invited her ex to her sister’s wedding. You didn’t invite him today, did you? No disrespect, but if he comes and makes her upset, I’m throwing him out. Just thought I should warn you.” I have no authority to say that. I’m not her family. I’m not her anything, except for her employer. But that doesn’t matter. I stand by my words.
Her dad’s eyes widen. I turn back to the kids, who are now playing some version of hopscotch across my feet.
“No. We didn’t—We just thought—” He takes a quick breath. “He won’t be here.”
“Good,” I grunt.
Her father shifts back into the couch. “I agree it wasn’t the best decision to invite him to the wedding. We thought they might get back together if they were at a romantic event. They’d been with each other for so long. We all assumed that the breakup was temporary.”
“He’s an ass. Poppy deserves better.”
“Y-yes. He’s out of the picture.”
“Good,” I say with satisfaction, folding my arms over my chest and watching for Poppy to reappear from the kitchen, as if I can make her show by sheer will.
“So.” Poppy’s father clears his throat. “You’re leaving in a few weeks?”
“We leave on December 23, so you’ll get your daughter back for the holidays.”
His shoulders relax. “That’s good. That will give her a little time off before the next school session starts. There’s a fourth-grade position opening at the elementary school. Being a full-time art teacher was never viable in this small town,” he continues. “We tried to tell her that in college, but she insisted on doing a dual major and keeping art.”
“It’s what she loves.”
His eyes glint. “That may be true, but it’s not practical. The arts are disappearing at most schools. Luckily, there’s always a need for classroom teachers. She’s a little confused now, after losing her job and then what happened with Derek. It was a double blow.” He sighs. “What she needs is a steady position and to find a nice fellow here in Snowflake Harbor, and she’ll be right back on track.”
