Mitch maneuvered his truck to a spot in front of the garage and killed the engine. For a few moments we sat in silence. Finally he sighed, and it sounded so unlike him I turned to him in surprise. A muscle jumped in his cheek, and his brow furrowed as he stared at the house.
This was new. I’d never seen Mitch without a smile on his face and a good word for everyone. And I’d certainly never seen him with his forehead creased with worry. My own worry and nervousness waned as I became more focused on his. He hadn’t asked me along on this weekend for fun, or to mess with me. There was something he was dreading about this weekend and he’d asked me along because he needed my help. It was time to start helping.
I laid a hand on his arm, and he jumped a little at my touch, obviously brought out of some deep thoughts. “Come on,” I said, with a lightness I didn’t feel. “Let’s go win a guacamole contest.”
I held his gaze with mine, and after a few moments some light came back into his eyes. “Yeah,” he said. “Let’s do this.”
Given Mitch’s unexpected anxiety, I wasn’t sure what to prepare myself for when we walked up the wooden steps onto that broad porch. He didn’t knock on the door right away; instead he took a breath, settled his shoulders, then grasped my hand. I wasn’t sure if he’d reached for me for reassurance or to illustrate our relationship to his family. But I gave his hand a squeeze as he opened the door, in case he was looking for that reassurance. He squeezed back and led us inside.
A wave of noise hit me once we were in the foyer. Lots of raised voices, and my first instinct was to wince at the sound. It took a moment to realize the voices weren’t raised in anger. They were just talking. Loudly. I reminded myself that these were Mitch’s people. They were not going to be quiet. I could handle this. Probably.
The inside of the farmhouse was much like the outside. Old. Lived in. Comfortable looking. Not fancy, but tidy. I shook my head and looked up at Mitch. “I don’t get it.”
“Don’t get what?”
“All those houses we drove past on the way here . . . it’s like we’re not even in the same neighborhood.”
“That’s because Grandma is stubborn as hell,” a new voice said, and we both turned to see a woman had joined us in the foyer. She was roughly our age—well, Mitch’s age—and a little taller than my five and a half feet, her strawberry-blonde hair was bound back in a long braid that fell over one shoulder, and she was dressed casually with an apron over her jeans and white blouse. Mitch burst into a grin when he saw her.
“Lulu!” He dropped my hand to embrace her, and I missed his heat. I missed that little bit of connection, and I told myself to get a grip. Instead I folded my hands in front of me, letting him have this moment with his cousin. He would introduce me soon enough.
“How you doing, big guy?” Lulu grinned up at him as she leaned back in his arms, her hands flat on his back, holding him close. “You check into the hotel okay?”
Mitch only hesitated for a fraction of a second. “Oh, yeah. The room’s great. Thanks for the, uh . . .” He glanced over at me, and the ridiculousness of the hotel room made me want to burst into nervous laughter. His smile widened before turning back to his cousin. “Thanks for that.”
“No problem at all.” Her grin was wicked as they broke apart, and then she turned her attention to me. Her smile was like the sun, and that must have been something in the Malone DNA, that bright happy smile that felt like it was just for you. “You must be April.” She took a step forward, hand extended, and I returned the gesture.
“I am.” I found myself smiling back at her, feeling like we were old friends already.
“It’s so great to meet you. Mitch has told me so much about you, and—”
“He has?” I turned alarmed eyes up toward Mitch, who shrugged with a smile.
“Of course,” he said easily, slipping an arm around my shoulders like it was something he did all the time. “I’m not gonna tell my favorite cousin about my girl?”
I had to fight to keep a straight face. When was the last time someone had called me their girl? High school? That was a long time ago. “It’s great to meet you too,” I said. “If only to make you see the absolute wrongness of adding mayonnaise to guacamole.”
She burst into a laugh, the kind of honest laugh that had her throwing her head back. “That’s right! He said you wanted in on this. Come on, let’s get you into the kitchen.” Her tug on my hand was firm, and I looked over my shoulder in alarm at Mitch, who shrugged easily and let me be dragged away.
Eight
Don’t worry,” Lulu said, tucking my hand into the crook of her arm. “I promise we’re not scary. And I will convert you to the truth of my guac recipe.”
“Not likely,” I said, my courage rising. I liked Lulu, and if the rest of Mitch’s family was like this I would be okay, boisterousness aside.
The kitchen was full of people, and I was introduced around with a speed that made it impossible to remember who anyone was. But I was handed an apron and directed to a corner of the kitchen island, and before long I was halving the avocados I’d brought. There were four other people, each making a slightly different version of guacamole. The Malone genes were strong, producing almost Nordic-looking specimens: tall, fair-haired, and genial. Next to them I felt short, frizzy-haired, and surly. There was a lot of laughter in this kitchen, though, mostly trash-talking each other’s recipes although the resulting bowls of guacamole frankly looked all the same to me. A smile tugged at my lips as I seeded a jalape?o, and Lulu appeared on my right with a frosted glass.
“Margarita?”
“Oooh.” I finished with the jalape?o, then washed my hands thoroughly before reaching for the glass. “Thank you.”
“There’s chips and salsa over there too if you’re hungry.” She surveyed the rest of the ingredients I’d brought with me: red onion, limes, a few tomatoes, and a small bunch of fresh cilantro. “You know, Grandma made some pico de gallo for hers, and she made way too much. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if you used it in yours.”
“No, that’s okay . . .” It seemed like a strange offer, especially for a recipe contest, but her ulterior motive became clear as she dragged me across the kitchen, margaritas in hand, to meet Mitch’s grandmother: a small, round, elderly woman who looked both fragile and solid at the same time. I wanted to sit her down and bring her some tea, but I also worried that she might kick my ass if I made it wrong.
“Of course, of course!” she said in response to Lulu’s request, pushing a small yellow bowl into my hands. There was more than enough pico in there for my needs. But I still hesitated.
“If you’re sure you don’t need it?”
She shook her head emphatically. “Not at all. Mine’s already made and in the refrigerator, see?” She opened the door, indicating a larger bowl in the same yellow as the one I held. “Not that it matters. It’s nothing fancy. Something I threw together. I’m sure yours, or maybe Louisa’s, will be much better.”
Louisa . . . ? Oh, Lulu. Right. “I wouldn’t say that necessarily.” I gave my margarita a longing glance, but figured it probably wasn’t polite to swig alcohol in front of Grandma.