I laugh. “Not sure I believe that, but we’ll get you there.” I lead him to the kitchen, which is the beating heart of the home, the locus of all activity. Mom is there, as always, pouring more chips into a bowl, refreshing salsa, slicing more watermelon—doing a thousand things at once all while having four different conversations.
There’s an open stool at the island, and I guide Rev to it. “Sit here, baby.”
Rev sits, bolt upright, hands on his thighs—tensed and ready, as ever.
Mom’s eyes flit to me, hearing me call Rev “baby,” her brows lowering briefly. I know she hadn’t missed me holding his hand, either. I mentally resign myself to an interrogation, at some point—meaning, she’s going to find an excuse to send Rev off with the men so they can get a feel for him and report back, while she and the other women interrogate me.
I’ll have to give Rev a heads-up that this is happening.
I stand behind Rev and sling my arms around his neck, hands on his breastbone. “Hungry?”
A slight lift of one shoulder. “Could eat.”
I gesture at the spread of food. “We have just about everything you can think of.”
He eyes the spread—three kinds of cold cuts, slices of cheese in four varieties, four kinds of chips, three varieties of salsa, hummus, sour cream and onion dip, three kinds of melon, a fruit salad, potato salad…it’s endless
“Not picky.” He juts his chin in gesture. “Potato salad looks good.”
I kiss his cheek. “I’ll get it for you.”
He moves to rise. “I can.”
I press on his shoulders gently. “I got it. Sit. Relax.”
Mom doesn’t miss a moment of this exchange, either, even though she’s ostensibly discussing with my aunt Tam the latest gossip, namely Deacon Steve Dixon from their church having an affair with a pianist from another church across town.
I pile food on a plate—a huge helping of potato salad, some cold cuts and cheese, some fruit, some chips. I place the plate in front of Rev. “We have Coke, Sprite, Mountain Dew, and iced sun tea—both sweet and not.”
“Unsweet tea is good. Thank you.”
Rev digs in while I fix him a glass of tea, and then stand beside him, picking at the plate with him.
“Seems more like a party than anything,” he remarks.
I laugh. “Yeah, this is how my family is. Everything’s an excuse to get together.” I roll some pastrami in a slice of cheddar. “Truth is, this is absolutely normal. It’s like this just about every weekend, although it’s not alwayseveryonelike there is now, but weekends especially, there’s always someone here.” I gesture around. “Everyone’s worried about Dad, so they’re all here so they can be here when they let him come home.”
“It’s like a whole village in one house.”
I laugh, covering my mouth as I laugh and chew. “It very much is. Everyone lives within a twenty-mile radius of this spot. My great-grandfather built the core of this house back around World War Two. My dad and his siblings all grew up in this house, and my grandfather added onto it and updated it, and so has my dad. Angus and his wife, Lou and their kids live in a cottage over in the back forty. Eventually, Mom and Dad’ll switch with Gus and Lou, who’ll take over handling the property while Mom and Dad more or less retire. But that won’t happen for another few years, yet.”
Rev puts his fork down and stares at me. “Mean to tell me your family has lived in this house, in this exact place, for seventy years?”
Mom slides across the island to join our conversation; she’s short and somewhat plump, with generous hips and bosom—traits she’s definitely passed onto me—and a thick mass of once-blond hair now gone mostly gray, always done up in a messy bun. “Oh, no, my husband’s family has been on this property since eighteen-forty. It was just this particular structure Grampy Alan built after the war, seein’ as the first farmhouse got burnt down.”
Rev just blinks for a long moment. “Holy sh—shoot.”
“So. Mikey says your name is Rev?” Mom leans her elbows on the counter—settling in to question.
“Yes.” He indicates her with a tilt of his head. “And you’re Mrs. Donovan.”
Mom smiles. “I’ll answer to it, although I’m more partial to answering to my name, which is Faith.” She idly passes a folded piece of paper towel across the island counter, more for something to do with her hands than because the counter needs cleaning. “Is that short for something?”
“Nope. Just Rev.”
Mom presses on gamely, trying to lure Rev into conversation. I just watch, amused, but ready to step in if Mom getstoocozy and nosy. Which she’s prone to, sort of how fire is sort of prone to being hot. “Rev…?” She nudges.
“Just Rev.” He forks potato salad, and I can tell he’s antsy with the questioning. Unfortunately, Mom hasn’t even gotten warmed up.
