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“Elisabeth told me you were quite the potter, and I can see she wasn’t exaggerating,” she said with something that nearly passed as a smile as she handed her son the jar for his inspection. “Tell me, what are your plans?”

“Mima, please. This isn’t the time—” Libby started, but Reagan flashed a smile in her direction.

“It’s okay,” she insisted. “For the last year I’ve been considering purchasing the pottery I’m in now. My landlord pretty much just breaks even with me in it, but it has so much potential,” Reagan said before explaining the sentimental value and connection she and her family had to the old place.

Mrs. Cassanova listened quietly as Reagan explained her plan to uplift the community and bring new life back to the

area. She also told them about wanting to o er more free classes to folks who needed the outlet but couldn’t a ord it.

Libby’s parents and brother peppered her with the same kinds of questions Libby first had. None of them had been to Hialeah either. Reagan’s heart warmed when Libby came to the city’s defense before Reagan had a half a chance to open her mouth.

“Tradition and family are critical cornerstones. Without them things have no meaning,” Mrs. Cassanova decided after a long pause. “So you want to make enough money from your art to give things away for free?”

“That’s pretty close to it,” she replied. “Money shouldn’t be the deciding factor for people to have access to creative outlets.”

Libby interrupted to tell her family about Freddie and his incredible talent. As she did, she pulled up the social media page Reagan didn’t know she followed and showed o his work.

As everyone looked at Libby’s phone, Reagan watched the eldest Cassanova. Her face gave away absolutely nothing.

Well after dinner had been served and eaten, Mrs. Cassanova leaned back in her chair. “Elisabeth, you should help her put together a fundraiser and create a marketing plan for her to implement. You’re so good at that. I’m sure you could get thousands of eyes on her work in no time.”

“That’s a great idea,” Libby replied, obviously taken aback by the unexpected compliment.

“I’ll talk to Emilio down at the TV station. I’m sure he’d love to showcase what you’re doing. They’re always looking for local human-interest stories,” Mrs. Cassanova added, and it was Reagan’s turn to be caught o guard.

After a pleasant conversation with Libby’s family, Reagan started to relax. On her dad’s prompting, they made a trip to the chocolate fountain.

“You know, I’ve never seen one of these in real life,”

Reagan confessed as she held a chunk of pineapple under the sweet cascade.

Libby laughed as she sipped the champagne she grabbed from the professionally tended bar on the way to the dessert table. “Imagine my disappointment as a kid when I learned the shocking truth that there wasn’t one at every party.”

Reagan popped the treat into her mouth before accepting the flute of bubbly Libby o ered. “So . . . no one dances at all?”

Libby shrugged. “My grandpa always used to start the dancing. Ever since he passed away, I guess no one wants to be the first, or maybe none of us are as much fun as the Sotos.”

Reagan eyed the large, empty square in front of the band.

“So, it’s not really improper? You guys just stopped doing it?”Eyeing her suspiciously, Libby took a sip of her drink.

“What are you thinking?”

“Don’t worry,” Reagan said before draining her glass.

“I’m not going to weird everybody out by dancing with you.

Unless . . . you think that’s okay?”

“I wouldn’t tempt the fates on our first outing. They hide it well, but I’m sure its scandalous that I’m suddenly a lesbian.”

Reagan laughed at the unexpected drama in her tone.

“You’re ready to slap that label on there?”

Libby chuckled. “I know it’s a spectrum and the question of my identity is something I haven’t begun to consider. I know I like you and you’re a woman.” She smiled. “But that doesn’t mean my extended family isn’t wondering what Davis did wrong to make me switch teams.”

“Fair enough. Who would be easier to lead? Your brother or your dad?” Reagan asked with a smirk.