Page 19

Julie turned from the oven. She wore a pink dress printed with tiny white flowers. Yellow hoop earrings swung from her earlobes at the movement, and her pink lipstick had somehow survived an entire afternoon of cooking. Her blonde hair had been pinned into a high ponytail with a ribbon. She looked ready to attend a garden party, which was her preferred aesthetic for nearly every domestic activity.

She was the femmiest femme to ever femme. That’s why some people thought she was an odd match for Mom, our fiercely protective alpha, but they complemented each other well and had a deep respect for one another.

“There he is,” Julie said. “Our exhausted woodland hero.”

I waved a hand in the air dismissively. “I climbed one tree.”

“You rescued a child.” She wiped her hands on a floral towel and held one fist toward me.

Without hesitation, I tapped my fist to hers, turned my hand, caught her fingers, then finished with the small shoulder bump she had insisted on adding years earlier.

We’d developed the handshake when I was fifteen and deeply uncomfortable with maternal affection that might be witnessed by my friends. Julie had suggested we invent something less emotionally threatening than a hug. Neither of us acknowledged that the finished sequence was more elaborate and drew significantly more attention.

Jason stopped wrapping his hand long enough to watch us. “That gets worse every time,” he said.

Julie placed a hand over her heart. “Jealousy is ugly on you.”

“I’m not jealous. You can have your own handshake. I would rather shift in public when greeting family members.”

Mom looked up from the cutting board. “Don’t even joke about that.”

Jason returned to his wrapping. “I know.”

I leaned toward Julie and kissed her cheek. “What are you making?”

“Rosemary chicken, whipped potatoes, salad, and rolls.”

“Are the rolls homemade?”

She looked offended. “What do you think?”

“I think the last time you said they were homemade, you meant someone made them in a factory, and you warmed them at home.”

Byron lowered his book. “That sounds like a flat-out lie to me.”

“It was a joke,” Julie said, playfully pointing a knife at her sixteen-year-old son.

Mom slid the chopped vegetables into a bowl. “How bad was Levi?”

“He was scared, but he’s fine now.”

“He should be grounded,” Mom said.

“That’s a bit severe. He just climbed a tree.”

Mom didn’t relent. “He climbed above the ladder line after being told not to.”

Caldwell pushed his drawing across the island toward me. It showed several figures standing beneath a tree, and one person standing on a ladder. The person on the ladder had shoulders wide enough to require architectural support.

“Is that me?”

Caldwell nodded.

“I look powerful.”

He smiled.

Jason leaned over. “You look rectangular to me.”