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After a car crash kept them on the highway twice as long as anticipated, Reagan was back to her nearly perfectly composed state just in time to pull up to the young men in red vests standing outside an impressively stately home.

“Your family has valet service?” she couldn’t help but ask as Libby stopped the car and one of the guys sprang forward to open the door.

“Just for special occasions. My grandmother hates when cars get blocked in by latecomers, and she really hates the possibility of someone parking on her very high maintenance lawn,” she explained as they retrieved the remaining two packages from the backseat.

Reagan looked out at the sprawling front lawn. It was so perfectly green and soft looking it put high-end golf courses to shame. Walking up the long, stone driveway flanked by impressive rose bushes, Reagan followed Libby’s lead and didn’t reach for her hand. Judging by her surprise at her house, PDA was probably not the Cassanova way. Reagan ignored the irony.

“Do we get announced by a man with a horn and coat tails?” Reagan joked as they neared the large wooden double front doors. She wished there was something she could do to ease the palpable anxiety choking the life from Libby’s body.

Forcing a smile, Libby shook her head. “Not quite but do be sure and curtsey.”

Reagan rubbed the small of her back as they climbed the two steps up to the doorway. “It’s going to be okay, okay? I promise.”

“You can’t promise that,” she responded as she rang the doorbell.

Before Reagan could assure her that she could handle anything her family threw at her after having dated more than a few girls from highly conservative families, the door opened as if someone had been waiting behind it.

“Libby,” a middle-aged woman dressed in a simple black dress greeted them with a broad smile.

“Marta, so good to see you. Happy Thanksgiving,” Libby replied in Spanish as she bent forward and hugged her. “I want to introduce you to my . . . uh . . . to Reagan Soto.”

The woman’s face tensed as she regarded her, but Reagan tried her best not to drop her smile. “A pleasure,” she said in

Spanish as she extended her hand.

“Marta has been with our family for years. Since I was baby,” she added, her eyes shifting between the stoic woman and her.

After an eternity, the woman finally returned Reagan’s handshake. It was a cold, limp thing. “I’ve heard so much about you,” she said in such a stilted tone that Reagan was sure it was not meant as a word of welcome.

Stepping inside Libby’s grandmother’s house was like walking into a museum. Spacious and beautiful, but with the obvious message that nothing should be touched. There was no loud music, no family yelling over each other as they told stories or jokes. She could only describe it one way. Sterile.

Even the strip of black carpet that had been placed to guard against footprints on the white marble floor extinguished any evidence of humanity.

As they passed a formal sitting room full of posh antique furniture Reagan was sure no one had ever sat in and a staircase more suited to Gone with the Wind than real life, they entered a sprawling kitchen. Instead of the gaggle of grandmas and aunts Reagan expected, she saw a catering crew all in white working in near silence.

Reagan kept her thoughts to herself as they followed the carpet toward a set of French doors but stopped when they reached another living room with a huge oil painting above a mantle. “Is that your family?”

Libby stopped but didn’t step o the carpet, so Reagan didn’t either. “Yup. My grandparents. My uncle and his wife and their twins, and my parents and my brother and that’s me,” she said pointing to the shortest person among everyone wearing white.

“You’re the only girl among the kids, huh? No wonder you’re so girlie. They probably took every opportunity to dress you like a Barbie.”

Libby o ered a half-smile in return. “You’re not wrong.

Come on. We can’t keep the Grande Dame waiting.” The dread in her voice was contagious.

Outside, Libby’s family was arranged around linen covered tables in a tented courtyard. At one end of the space was a long table filled with silver bu et servers kept hot by little cans of flameless heat underneath. At the end was a massive chocolate fountain right out of an 80’s movie. On the other side of the courtyard was a full band playing low while people listened politely.

Reagan gripped the box in her hand and regretted her choice of gift. She should’ve gone with the fancy bottle of wine she’d initially selected. Libby’s grandmother wouldn’t appreciate the trinket.

Stepping out from under the weight of impending awkwardness, Reagan followed Libby as they headed straight for her grandmother’s table. Recognizing the people from the painting, she noted that Libby’s parents sat to her left followed by her brother, a woman she didn’t recognize, and then Libby’s uncle and his family.

At least we’re ripping the band-aid o real quick.

“Happy Thanksgiving,” Libby said as she approached the table.

Much like a record-scratch moment, the clan turned their attention on them all at once.

“Hey, baby,” her mother, a carbon copy of her daughter, stood and kissed Libby’s cheek before turning toward Reagan. “And you must be Reagan,” she said before