When Seline turned to Abigail, Sunny laughed. “Now you’ve done it. These two will tag you as referee in this battle. I’m going to save you, show you the gardens. Food’s going to be ready in a few minutes.”
“Maybe they should consider a Labradoodle,” Abigail murmured, as Sunny steered her away.
It wasn’t so difficult, she realized. For about twenty minutes, she walked and talked the gardens, talked with Brooks’s family and friends, answered excited questions regarding Bert from wide-eyed children.
By the time everyone crowded around picnic tables, she felt more at ease. And relaxed further when, with the food now the focus, the attention shifted away from her.
A backyard barbecue had its points, she thought. A casual setting for socialization, a variety of food prepared by a variety of hands. It was a kind of ritual, she realized, and somewhat tribal, with adults helping to serve or feed or tend to the children, their own and those belonging to others, with the dogs nearby and—despite her wince of disapproval—enjoying the food scraps tossed their way.
And she liked the margaritas with their frothy kick.
“Having a good time?” Brooks asked her.
“I am. You were right.”
“Hold that thought.” He leaned in to kiss her, then picked up his beer. “I think you’ll all be interested,” he began, without raising his voice over the conversations crisscrossing the table, “Abigail and I are getting married.”
And those conversations, every one, stopped cold.
“What did you say?” Mya demanded.
“It’s what she said that matters.” He took Abigail’s hand. “And she said yes.”
“Oh my God, Brooks!” Mya’s face went brilliant with her smile. She grabbed her husband’s hand, squeezed it, then leaped up to rush around the table and hug Brooks from behind. “Oh my God.”
Then it seemed everyone spoke at once, to Brooks, to her, to each other. She didn’t know who to answer, or what to say. Her heartbeat thickened again as, beside her, Brooks looked at his mother, and she at him.
“Ma,” he said.
Sunny nodded, let out a long sigh, then pushed to her feet. He rose as she did, as she reached out, folded him into her. “My baby,” she murmured, then closed her eyes. When she opened them again, she looked directly at Abigail, held out a hand.
Unsure, Abigail got to her feet. “Mrs.—”
Sunny just shook her head, gripped Abigail’s hand, pulled her into the fold. “I’m going to cry, just half a minute,” Sunny told them. “I’m entitled. Then I’m going in and getting that bottle of champagne we had left over from New Year’s Eve so we can toast this proper.”
She held tight, tight, then slowly eased back to kiss Brooks on both cheeks. To Abigail’s surprise, Sunny took her face in her hands, laid her lips on each of Abigail’s cheeks in turn.
“I’m glad of this. I’m going to get that champagne.”
“She needs a minute.” Loren stood, walked to his son. “She’s happy, but she needs a minute.”
He embraced his son, then turned to embrace Abigail. “Welcome to the family.” He laughed, then squeezed, lifting her to her toes.
Everyone talked at once again, and Abigail found herself whirled between hugs, stumbling over the answers to questions about when, where, what about her dress.
She heard the pop of the champagne cork over thequestions, the laughter, the congratulations. She let herself lean against Brooks, looked up, met his eyes.
Family, she thought.
She could have family, and understood, now that she could touch it, that she’d do anything, everything, to keep it.
28
Wedding plans. Abigail saw themas a small, shiny snowball rolled down a mountain. It grew, and grew, and grew, gathering weight, speed, mass, until it produced an immense, messy, thunderous avalanche.
In the sunstruck afternoon in the Gleasons’ backyard, that avalanche roared over her.
“So, are you thinking next spring?” Mya asked her.
