“What was your favorite Ruby present?” I ask Whitney.
“Her microphone,” Ruby answers with a sigh. “Which she didn’t use nearly enough.”
“I did use it,” Whitney defends, “when the occasion called for it.”
I hate the spotlight. I only sing for the people I love.
It was one of her first personal admissions to me when we started to get close. I’d catch her singing in the shower or while she was writing something, and she always shied away or distracted me, mostly with other impressive ways of using her mouth.
“It doesn’t have to be semimental,” Gracie informs me.
“Sentimental,” Thatch corrects.
“It can be a funny present, too,” she continues through a mouth full of eggs, pulling my attention away from the mouth prompting my perverse thoughts. “Uncle Brenden put poop as Grandpa’s present last year.” Gracie turns to Allen. “Remember that, Gramps? When Uncle Brenden put poop as your present?!”
“Let’s not repeat that, son,” Allen booms from his chair. “Fake turds, okay, actual deer shit,” he cuts a hand through the air, “not okay!”
“Language,” Ruby snaps from the kitchen, making baseball signals to Allen to get his hearing aids. Allen purposefully ignores her, and she mutters her own curse, which has my lips lifting.
“It was lovingly bundled in saran wrap—” Brenden defends as Allen talks over him.
“I would have preferred a new pair of slippers! Note to whomever my Rudolph is this year. I would like slippers, not animal feces!”
“It was attached to a gift card,” Brenden counters. “And it was reindeer crap, Dad. Magical!” Brenden shouts, giving him jazz fingers.
Allen nods and smiles in reply, no doubt not hearing a word Brenden said.
“We have to have Frosty’s hat!” Gracie exclaims. “Grammy! Where is Frosty’s hat?!”
“I’m right here, Gracie, and I think we have enough yelling going on.” Ruby sets down a buttered platter of toast and again attempts to signal to Allen to get his ears before returning to the kitchen.
Thankful for the coffee jolt, I struggle to keep up with the three conversations that start simultaneously as Peyton chants my name while smashing bananas into his highchair. Wyatt sits adjacent to him, looking oddly dignified in a Christmas sweater and what looks to be baby designer jeans and killer boots I wouldn’t mind owning a pair of, his hair perfectly combed back. He’s more stylish as an eight-month-old than I am at thirty-nine. I haven’t heard a peep out of either of Brenden’s children since they got to the table. Conner remains at her mother’s side, offering all of us shy smiles, and when her eyes land on me, I give her a wink which only has her burrowing further into Erin’s hip. It’s always easy hanging with Brenden at his house because his kids are both soundless and immaculate. Erin passed her soft-spoken nature down to both children, a stark contrast to Brenden’s no-shits-given repartee.
Serena seems to be weighing the difference in their behavior as well, her eyes darting to the circus on her side of the gene pool in comparison to the violin-type atmosphere on Brenden’s end. Suspicious and no doubt envious, she narrows her eyes on both Erin and Brenden before interrogating her brother. “What did you do to your children to make them behave this way?”
Brenden shrugs, and Erin grins. “We just got lucky.”
“Oh yeah?” Ruby chimes in with a grin. “Have another one. Have one more. I dare you.”
“What?” Whitney asks, instantly offended as third born. “I wasn’t that bad.”
“You were a nightmare,” Allen booms as I smirk at her from across the table. She sinks in her seat and folds her arms. “Here we go.”
“Vaseline,” Ruby says, “she was obsessed with it. Actually, anything in a tube. All of it had to be out and everywhere.”
“Let’s move on,” Whitney mutters into her coffee.
“Played with her own shit too!” Allen screams at my side, “smashed her diapers against the wall.”
“Grandpa!” Gracie chides. “Go get your ears! You’re yelling really loud!”
“Daddy,” Whitney scolds, a mild blush pinkening her cheeks.
“That was just her way of telling us she was an artist,” Ruby interjects, taking her seat and placing her napkin neatly on her lap, “she just needed better tools.”
“Can we not paint that picture at breakfast,” Brenden says, shoveling some jar oatmeal into his son’s mouth. “Some of us haven’t eaten yet.”