“Weeping Willow,” Willow volunteers, and my heart clenches. That’s the only nickname her mother could come up with? Suddenly memories of the scared kid who moved in with Ms. Angela, holding her books tight against her in the school hallways, come haunting me. It’s no wonder Emerald Creek felt like home to her. No one here gave her demeaning nicknames or made her feel unwelcome.
I make a noncommittal grunt as I scoop lasagna onto Willow’s and my plate.
“Do you know Chef Boyardee?” Marcy asks.
“Not personally, no,” I answer with a smile.
“Funny one,” Marcy answers with a straight face.
Well shit. Now I’ve insulted her with my sense of humor. “I’ve had it,” I lie. Mom had the luxury of time to cook for us from scratch, and it’s something I’ve continued. “Pretty good, if I recall.”
“The salad is from Cassandra,” Marcy says.
“Ah, with basil and parsley?”
She shrugs. “We’ll find out.”
Once Willow and Marcy have food in them, the tension releases partially. The bout of bad weather is an easy topic of conversation. Once we’ve milked it until there’s nothing more to add, Marcy says, “So, when are you due?”
I nearly spit out my food.
Willow is ashen. “We’re not pregnant.”
Marcy snorts. “Then why would you go and get married like that? And to a Callaway?”
I ignore the jab at my family, focusing my gaze on my wife.
“Mom,” she hisses.
“What?” Marcy takes a sip of apple cider, her hands shaking slightly, and I can’t help but wonder if it’s due to her condition or to something else.
I set my fork down and clear my throat.
Willow glances nervously at me. “Don’t. Just don’t.”
In a last-ditch effort to save the evening, I motion to the table. “Shannon’s lasagna, babe. You should have more.”
“You can take it home, big man,” Marcy says.
I take a sip of apple cider, load another forkful, and say, “Is this about the Callaway who didn’t want to marry you guys’s great-grandmother?” There’d been some scandal in the past century, the kind that gets passed down from generation to generation with no one ever caring about fact-checking, because where would the fun be in that?
The horrible realization finally strikes me. With gritted teeth, I ask, “Are you suggesting we might be related? Because now would be a good time to bring it up.”
She fakes a smile at her daughter. “See, that’s why decent people get married the good ol’-fashioned way, with advance notice, and a couple of minutes for folk to come forward during the ceremony and share their information.”
Willow makes a face. “Yeah, they don’t do that anymore.”
“Do you have any reason to believe we’re related?” I ask again.
Willow rounds her eyes at me, lifts her shoulder in a how-is-this-even-relevant way.
And she’s right. It’s not. There’s no law that says I can’t marry a distant cousin, and even if that would be icky, it doesn’t matter at all in this marriage.
It’s not like we’re going to get pregnant.
Or have sex.
Or even kiss. Although…
