“Mmm.” With this noncommittal sound, he pressed his lips to her forehead. And the door opened.
“Hello. You must be Eve and Roarke. I’m Gillian, Charlotte and Dennis’s daughter.”
It took her a beat as she rarely thought of Mira by her given name. But Mira was stamped, clearly, on her daughter’s face.
Though her hair was longer, well past her shoulders and curling, it was the same rich sable. Her eyes were the same mild and patient blue, but they were homed in on Eve’s, looking deep. Her frame was longer, lankier like her father’s, and she’d draped it in some loose, airy top and pants that stopped inches short of her ankles.
One of those ankles carried a tattoo, a trio of connecting chevrons. Bracelets jangled on her wrists, rings jingled on her fingers. Her feet were bare with the toes painted a pale pink.
She was Wiccan, Eve recalled, and responsible for a couple of Mira’s grandchildren.
“It’s lovely to meet you.” Roarke was already taking Gillian’s hand, and smoothly stepping between two women who were obviously taking ea
ch other’s measure. “You favor your mother, who I’ve always considered one of the world’s loveliest of women.”
“Thanks. Mom said you were very charming. Please come in. We’re spread out”—she glanced back to where a baby’s strong wails poured down the stairs—“as you can hear, but most of us are in the back. We’ll fix you a drink, so you’ll be braced for the onslaught of a day at the Miras.”
There were a considerable number of them there already, gathered in the kitchen/activity room that was as big as a barn, and nearly as noisy. Through the two-story glass wall of the back, others could be seen on a wide patio decked with chairs and tables and some sort of large, outdoor cooking device that was already smoking.
She could see Dennis, Mira’s delightful and absent-minded husband, manning it with a long fork of some kind. He had a Mets cap over his explosion of gray hair, and baggy shorts nearly down to a pair of knobby knees Eve found secretly adorable.
Another man was with him, his son maybe, and they seemed to be holding an intense and spirited debate with a lot of laughter and beer-swilling from bottles.
There were kids of various ages milling or running around. And a girl of about ten who sat on a stool at the big work counter, sulking.
Food was spread out all over, and urged on them while introductions were made. Someone pushed a margarita in her hand.
When he opted for beer, Roarke was told he’d find them outside in a cooler. A young boy—Eve was already losing the names as they came at her like grapeshot—was given the task of escorting Roarke out and introducing him to the rest.
With the boy’s hand clasped on his, Roarke looked over his shoulder, shot a wicked grin at Eve, and strolled outside.
“It looks chaotic now, but . . . it’ll get worse.” With a laugh, Mira took a bowl of yet more food out of an enormous refrigerator. “I’m so glad you came. Lana, stop pouting and run upstairs. See if your aunt Callie needs any help with the baby.”
“I don’t see why I have to do everything.” But the kid scooted down and away.
“She’s irritable because she broke the rules and can’t have screen or comp privileges for a week,” Gillian commented.
“Oh.”
“Her life, as she knows it,” Gillian said as she bent to pick up a toddler—sex undetermined for Eve—from the floor, “is over.”
“A week’s an endless stretch of time when you’re nine. Gilly, taste this coleslaw. I think it could use a bit of dill.”
Obediently, Gillian opened her mouth, accepted the bite her mother held out on a fork. “Bit more pepper, too.”
“So, um . . .” Eve already felt as if she’d entered a parallel universe. “You’re expecting a lot of people.”
“We are a lot of people,” Mira said, chuckling.
“Mom still thinks we all have the appetites of teenagers.” Gillian rubbed a hand absently over Mira’s back. “She always makes too much food.”
“Makes it? You made all this?”
“Hmm. I like to cook, when I can. Especially when it’s for family.” Her cheeks were pink with pleasure, her eyes laughing as she winked at her daughter. “And I drag the girls into helping out. It’s shamefully sexist, of course, but none of my men are worth two damns in the kitchen.” She glanced out the window wall. “Give them a big, complicated smoking grill, however, and they’re right at home.”
“All our men grill.” Gillian gave the toddler a little bounce on her hip. “Does Roarke?”
“You mean, like, food?” Eve looked out to where he stood, apparently enjoying himself, picnic casual in jeans and a faded blue T-shirt. “No. I don’t think he has one of those.”