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Doug nodded. “That’s good.” He took a sip from his drink. “Cuz it’s important that you keep thinkin’ that.”

I arched an eyebrow at him, rather confused about where this was going.

“Whoever you marry. Better if you think they’re the prettiest girl—or guy, I guess. Like Marian.” Marian was Doug’s wife. She was a tiny, slight little thing, with brown curls that had gone grey long ago. I wouldn’t have called her pretty, personally—not that she was unattractive, just… well, not my thing. But I like guys, so that should come as a shock to nobody.

It was kinda sweet that Doug still thought she was the prettiest girl he knew, even though it had been a long time since Marian could realistically have been called a girl. But I also didn’t really want to continue this conversation because it was totally heading in thewhen-are-you-getting-marrieddirection, and I wasn’t ready for that yet.

At least Taavi had gone upstairs so that this horrifically awkward conversation wasn’t happening in front of him. “When did you and Marian meet?” I asked Doug, attempting to use deflection to get the focus off me.

“Oh, high school.” He grinned at me. “I knew then she was the girl for me. She didn’t, though.”

“No?” This was not a story I knew.

“Nah. Didn’t want anything to do with me, not until I did some growin’ up.”

I wasn’t sure what that meant. “When did she change her mind?” I asked.

“Couple a’ years after high school,” Doug replied, settling back on the couch and revving himself up for a good story. “I was workin’ over at Qualheim’s, and she came in askin’ about what she’d need to build her mom a new deck. Her dad died when she was a kid, so I offered up my services.”

“You built her mom a deck?”

“Sure did. Came over some nights and every weekend for the month it took to get it right. At the end of it, she let me take her out. The rest is history.” He grinned at me. “Damn good history.”

I smiled back at him. “That’s sweet.” I wondered if Marian would tell the story the same way. Probably not.

“So how long you been seein’ your boyfriend?” Doug asked. So much for deflection.

I did some quick math in my head. “About three months.” It felt like so much longer—in a good way.

“So not quite there yet,” Doug replied, nodding. I was about to agree with him, but then he kept going. “Although my guess is that you probably already know, eh?”

I couldn’t answer that. I mean, okay, yes, Icould. And, yes, I did know. But I wasn’t ready to say it. And certainly not to my slightly weird Uncle Doug.

But my goddamn ears decided to answer for me, heating up and drawing a laugh from Doug, who patted my shoulder and stood, laughing. “Don’t worry, Valley Boy. I won’t tell anyone.”

And then he took his drink glass and headed back to the kitchen, whether in search of another Old Fashioned or something else, I didn’t know.

As long as he kept this revelation to himself, I didn’t particularly care, either.

“Dinnertime, everyone!” My mother announced, clapping her hands together.

At least if I was stuffing food into my face, I’d have a plausible excuse not to talk to people.

* * *

The day could have gone so muchworse.

Elliot came back down to join us for dinner, sitting on my right to protect my side, Taavi running interference onhisright. I’d rather have sat next to Taavi, but I saw what he was doing, and I appreciated it. Elliot did, too, even if he didn’t say anything to either one of us about it.

The family members with long drives left not long after—even though we’d eaten around two—which cleared out about half the guests. Those who were more local, traveling from Green Bay or Appleton or Stevens Point, stayed into the early evening, snacking on leftovers and the metric fuckton of cookies that hadn’t yet gone home with people.

I was fairly certain that Christmas cookies possessed the ability to self-replicate, since despite eating more than could possibly have fit into my stomach, there always seemed to be as many if not more of them as there had been at the beginning.

It was almost eight by the time everyone left, and Elliot and Taavi took over cleaning the kitchen again—this time, I settled myself on a stool to help dry. My dad was downstairs maneuvering the furniture back into place, and Mom would take the dry plates or platters or whatever was handed to her and either pack them back in the special storage boxes for the holiday china or put them in a cupboard somewhere or in one of the drop-off boxes that she and Dad would use to return them to their owners sometime over the next few weeks.

My mother kept yawning, and when Dad came back upstairs, he had a hand on the small of his back. “Go to bed,” I told them. “We’ll leave a stack on the counter you can put away in the morning.”

My mother tried to insist on staying up, but Dad took over and ushered her upstairs. “The dishes will keep overnight, Jude, and we’ve been up since four-thirty.”