There are also lots of pictures of family in New York at Christmas time, and more wedding pictures from the next generation, Ayla’s great-aunts and uncles.
“That’s Grandpa,” she points out in one. “Ernie.”
“Oh yeah. That’s cool.”
It’s fascinating following the generation of the family through births, weddings, funerals. And there were a lot of births. Out of the seven children, six married and had more kids. Only Ayla’s great-uncle Antonio did not marry, though he was in a long-term relationship with his partner, Victor. They’ve both passed on.
“You have a lot of material to work with.”
“I sure do. Ninety-nine years’ worth.” Ayla grins.
We pass the rest of the evening doing that, and then making a playlist in Spotify that she downloads and adds to the slide show. Picking appropriate songs is tough. We listen to so many, old songs from the fifties like “A Teenager in Love,” James Brown’s “Please, Please, Please,” and “All I Have to do is Dream.”
Dammit, that song is fucking romantic. It makes me want to pull Ayla out of her chair and slow dance her around the room.
I give my head a shake, a weird ache pressing behind my sternum.
“I’m hungry,” I say.
She smirks. “Of course you are.” She always liked to give me a hard time about how much I eat. She stands and walks over to the small kitchenette. There’s a bag sitting on the counter, and she pulls out a couple of boxes of crackers, then opens the fridge. She emerges with cheese and a bunch of grapes.
“It’s magic,” I say, making her laugh.
“I knew we’d need snacks. I also have a couple of bottles of wine. Should we open a red?”
“Hell, yeah. I’ll do it.” I find a bottle and luckily, it’s a screw cap because I have no idea if there’s a corkscrew here. I locate glasses in a cupboard and pour wine into them. When I hand one to Ayla, she balks and makes a face.
“Eeeew. Is that the best glass they have?”
I look at the glass. It’s old and small, with a thick stem. She was always so picky about wine glasses. They had to have the right shape, a skinny stem, and be made of thin glass. I can’t hide my amusement as I say, “Come on. The wine tastes the same whatever you drink it out of.”
Her lower lip pushes out. “You always say that. But it’s not just about the taste. It’s about the sensory experience. The feel of the glass in your hand. But fine, I’ll drink it.” She takes the glass I’m holding and chugs back a mouthful.
Yeah, I feel like that, too.
We take a plate of crackers and cheese over to the couch, where we sit in front of the fire. Snow falls outside the windows, slow and fluffy against the darkness.
“Thanks for your help,” Ayla says.
“I don’t know how much help I was, but you’re welcome. What’s your plan for tomorrow?”
“The calendar. I’ll get things ready for the genealogy display table.”
“The what now?”
“I’m setting up a table in the pavilion with a display of the family tree, some of the old photographs and heirlooms. Stories about our ancestors. I asked everyone to contribute to it.”
“Cool.”
“Then I have to meet with Norm to go over everything.”
I scowl. “Oh fuck.”
“What? He’s the manager of the resort! I have to deal with him.”
“He’s hotter than a six-peckered alley cat for you.”
She chokes on a laugh.
