Forever Wilde in Aster Valley (Forever Wilde 9)

The two of them took off again, argue-flirting like I’d seen many of my other cousins doing. I stared after them with mixed feelings. Was I really family? Technically, yes. According to the DNA, I was most definitely Tilly Marian’s biological grandchild. I was as much a Marian as anyone else staying at the lodge this week, and there was no doubt in my mind, Maverick’s teasing had been a sign of his acceptance of me.

But that didn’t make the good-natured teasing easy for me to take. I had to actively talk myself around it, reminding myself it was meant well and done with affection.

Growing up, our household in Bakersfield had been quiet and peaceful. And for all her sweet, loving nature, my mom had been raised by a conservative adoptive family. While she’d supported me unconditionally when I’d come out, she’d also have burst into flames if I’d ever tried to talk to her about sex, let alone make dick jokes.

“Keeping sex private,” she’d said, “is a sign of respect to your partner.”

Once I’d gone to college and gotten well-versed in gay culture, I’d dropped some of those uptight traits, but it was still hard for me to get used to sharing my sex life among family. I was trying, but being among the laughing, teasing Marian and Wilde family was like a trial by fire where no subject was inappropriate for sharing in mixed company. They didn’t even hold back much from cursing around the kids, and they sure as hell didn’t hold back from making dirty jokes around anyone and everyone.

It was taking some getting used to.

But I wanted to get used to it, and I wanted to become more and more comfortable among them. Escaping to my room to nap wasn’t the way to go about it, so I vowed to spend quality time with the family instead. As soon as I got back to the lodge, I joined Tilly, Granny, and Harold at the card table for a couple of hours and let Granny spank us all in whist. Thankfully, they didn’t try to talk me into trying to play bridge again, because I was terrible at it.

As we sat at the card table in the large sunroom, people came and went, enjoying the now-decorated tree and taking advantage of the table in the corner that still held gift-wrapping supplies.

Outside the windows, snow began to fall in a light flurry. It was the kind of afternoon my mom had always called “a Norman Rockwell day.” It had taken me a while to figure out what that meant. Something out of a perfect life or a storybook.

But this was real life, which meant not quite so perfect.

“Did your mom play cards?” Harold asked.

Tilly answered before I could. “She was a junior master in bridge.”

Harold glanced at his wife in surprise. “Was she?”

Tilly kept her eyes on her cards. “She said she was active in tournaments until she was married. Only got back into it a few years before she got diagnosed.”

Harold seemed upset. “How did I not know this? I spent so much time trying to get to know her.”

I cleared my throat. “She didn’t like to talk about it since she couldn’t play anymore by the time you met her. One of the meds gave her brain fog.”

Tilly smiled softly at her cards. “She only mentioned it to me because I was complaining about trying to use the Blackwood convention at a bridge party with absolutely no help from my partner.”

Irene spoke up from where she sat crocheting on a nearby sofa. “Which would have been fine if you hadn’t claimed to be using ACOL at the beginning of the round.”

Tilly ignored her. “We made a small slam on a slam bid. You can imagine my distress. Your mother laughed and suggested hearing aids next time. The gall of that woman.”

I choked on the sip of water I’d just taken, and Harold barked out a laugh. “Like mother, like daughter.”

Tilly sniffed. “Yes, well, I responded I’d rather get a new partner than fuss with something so unnecessary as hearing aids. I’ve never had a hard time hearing anyone before. And besides, since when does Blackwood sound like ACOL? Ridiculous.”

Harold patted her hand. “There was that one time recently at the gallery opening when you called Marjorie Tudwell ‘Margerine’ for the better part of ten minutes…”

The look Tilly shot him could have cut glass. “That was a judgment call rather than failed hearing. The woman is slick as a whistle and full of plastic and trans fats.”

Harold bit back a laugh and turned away. “Yes, dear.”

“Mpfh,” Tilly said before taking the next trick.

“She also played Hearts,” I added for no reason in particular. “And she delighted in sloughing the queen on any unsuspecting idiot regardless of their inexperience with the game.”