Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
GAVIN
I haven’t told Callie that we’re having guests for dinner tonight—not with the thickening snow and the good chance they’ll not make it.
Her sore back gave me a good excuse to thaw out bags of potatoes, onions, and carrots I grew in my garden, then chopped and kept in the freezer.
She’s claimed the pain is gone, but Rory wanted her to keep icing it, so I’ve pushed the icing as long as she’s let me.
By the time evening rolls around, all the ingredients are set simmering on the stove.
The warm yeasty smell of baking bread mixes with the hearty, savory stew to fill the house with the smells of comfort food.
It’ll draw her down from the attic soon, I reckon.
I’ve noticed she tends to appear when the kitchen smells decent. Like clockwork.
Brilliant. Treating her like a dog, aren’t I?
The front door swings open, the hinges squealing through the air. I really ought to fix that.
“Knock knock,” Granny calls.
They’re here. Is it odd for me to feel minor disappointment that my parents have arrived when I haven’t seen them in months?
I’m glad to see my grandparents, but I know with my parents comes a myriad of feelings and potential drama and, at some point, inevitable disappointment.
Part of me wants to skip to the bit at the end where I’m let down so I can travel through the stages of depression and move on already.
But that’s not an option.
“In the kitchen,” I call back, stirring the pot.
I move down the counter to chop fresh basil, glancing over my shoulder when they push the door open.
My family files in together, and my chest gives an impromptu jolt when I see my parents.
I am happy to see them, but it’s mixed with a minor thread of foreboding I can’t shake.
This is how I always feel around them, and I wish it was different. “Hello, everyone. Mum. Dad.”
My hands are covered in bits of dark, pungent basil, so I lean near to kiss their cheeks.
“Gavin, this smells delicious,” Mum says, tugging at the sleeves of her thick maroon jumper. Is she uncomfortable? It’s the first time my parents have stepped foot in this house since selling it to me. Mum smiles. She doesn’t look uncomfortable.
“Where’s your guest?” Granny asks, her white hair twisted back in a clip and dark jumper.
She nudges me aside and takes the spoon off the counter.
The lines framing her eyes and bracketing her lips speak to how many years she’s been stirring pots like this, so I let her take over and keep chopping the herb.
“I can’t remember her name,” Mum cuts in. “I remember Ruby, though. Lovely girl.”
“Ruby is married to Hamish,” Granny corrects.
“Eh?” Grandad asks, taking a seat at the table with a large exhale and a groan.
Dad sits beside him, sliding his reading glasses down his nose to look at his phone.
Grandad’s hair is thick and gray, but Dad’s is going white.
When did he age like that? I don’t recall his salt-and-pepper having so much salt.
If he had more wrinkles, he’d look older than Grandad.
“Not you, Hamish. Ruby is married to Young Hamish.”
Grandad looks at Granny over his thin wire glasses like she’s telling him the sky is up and the ground is down.
Granny leans against the counter and rolls her eyes. “Anyway, this woman is Luna’s sister. Luna is married to Rhys, who is Hamish’s—”
“Eh?” Grandad asks.
Granny ignores him and turns down the boiler. “Young Hamish’s friend.”
“The American,” Mum says.
“That’s me,” Callie says from the doorway.
The women turn in unison, and I glance up quickly, wondering how the devil I didn’t sense Callie standing there. How long was she watching this mess of an explanation? My family must seem like an episode from one of her American sitcoms. Cue the laugh track now.
“Callie, come meet my family. This is my mum, Jean Mackenzie, and my granny, Nessa Craig.”
“Vanessa,” Granny says. “But everyone calls me Nessa.”
“And my grandad, Hamish—”
“I heard,” Callie says.
I fight a smile. “And my dad, Donald Mackenzie.”
“Just Don is grand,” Dad says.
“Nice to meet you all.” Her brown eyes rise to meet mine. “Anything I can help with, Gavin?”
“Set the table?” I offer. I can tell right away she wants something to busy her hands.
She gives me a grateful nod and moves around me to pull down a stack of bowls and plates.
Her walk looks normal, no noticeable limp.
I might have overreacted when she fell, but I’m alone with this woman in my house for who knows how long, and I’m responsible for her well-being.
When she hissed in pain, her face crumpling, it unlocked something deep within me.
“You must be eager for your sister to arrive,” Granny says.
“It’s been hard living so far away from her and Rhys, but now that they have a baby, it’s horrendous. I haven’t seen them in over a year, so Oliver is practically a different person.”
“Our good friend moved to America many years ago,” Granny says. “Hamish and I understand some of that pain.”
“It’s tough, isn’t it?” Callie asks, setting plates on the table.
Granny nods compassionately. “You won’t like hearing this, but my elbow is acting up.”
Callie’s eyes shoot to me, her eyebrows inching together in confusion.
Heaven help us. “She doesn’t know what that means, Granny.”
Mum steps in. “Granny believes she can sense terrible weather through her bones.”
“As though all my bones can just phone the clouds.” Granny frowns. “No, I can assure you this storm is going to be a doozy. This broken elbow never fails me.”
Callie glances at me for confirmation, so I give her a minor shrug. In Granny’s defense, she hasn’t been wrong yet.
A ding goes off on the counter, signifying the bread is finished.
“Oven?” Mum asks.
I nod, so she retrieves hot pads from the drawer, pulling out the rounded loaf and letting it rest on the bread board.
The kitchen smells wonderful, which almost makes up for the four extra people making Callie look like she wants to crawl into her own chest. She seemed like such a people-person that first night in the pub.
I realize I may have messed up a little, but that doesn’t explain what is making her uncomfortable with my family.
They never told her they were too selective to kiss her.
“Mum, butter?” I ask. “Granny, stew can go in the bowls. Callie, help me out here?”
I move toward the living room before I can think twice about how this looks, and I don’t wait for Callie to answer. I’m happy when she follows me and closes the kitchen door. Every room in this house has a door, and currently I’m glad for it.
“What do you need?”
“Alright?” I ask.
“What?”
What part of that was confusing? I drag a hand over my chin. “You’re acting like the good kid trying to hide contraband from the teachers. What’s going on?”
“Did you tell them?”
“Tell them what?”
She gestures between us. “About my stupidity?”
Everything clears in an instant. She thinks my parents and grandparents know she tried to kiss me on night one. As soon as I receive clarity, it’s swiftly followed by outrage. “You think that poorly of me?”
“How would I know what you choose to be selective about?”
Well, that’s low. “Of course I didn’t tell them. I’m not cruel.”
She dips her head to the side, crossing her arms over her chest and lifting her eyebrows in a challenge.
“I’m not,” I repeat.
“We’re entitled to our own opinions,” she says mildly.
Something about that gets under my skin, which is incredibly strange. I don’t typically get rattled. Maybe it’s the series of events over the last few days or the myriad emotions that have come up from all directions, but Callie has effectively worked her way beneath my calm exterior.
“Shall we eat now?”
“No,” I say. “We need to settle this. It’s important to me you know I never intentionally—”
“Yes, I know. We can go. You never meant to hurt my feelings. It just happened.”
Hurt her feelings? That floors me. I feel like a right daft eejit. “Callie, can we call a truce?”
“I didn’t realize we were at war.”
I roll my eyes, which only makes her smile. “I want to be on the same team.”
“What team is that?”
She hasn’t turned me down yet, so this is good progress. If I’m going to make this woman my friend, having her agree to be on my team is a large step in the right direction. “Team Christmas, if you’re game?”
She looks amused. “Are we in a daytime TV special?”
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“Nothing. Sure. Team Christmas. Ready? Break!”
“Callie,” I say, drawing out her name.
“Yes?”
“I want to be your friend.”
She pauses and looks up at me, her brown eyes blinking softly. I’ve caught her off guard, which is slightly thrilling, but I’m burying that feeling so deep she wouldn’t be able to detect it with a ten-foot pole.
“We’re friends.” Callie swirls her hand to indicate my entire house. “After all this, I think we’re going to be besties.”
I chuckle, but it’s enough. Despite the odd temptation I have to continue this conversation so I don’t need to return to the kitchen, the food is ready, and I know she’s probably hungry. “Great. Then let’s eat.”
Dinner is set, the bread is sliced and placed in the middle of the table, and bowls are filled with stew and waiting at each chair. Snow falls on the other side of the long kitchen window. Everything is cast in an eerie shade of blue as the sun slips behind the distant mountains.
Callie and I take our seats and Mum starts the bread around the circle. When it reaches Callie, she inhales and closes her eyes. “This looks amazing. Who made the bread?”
“Our wee Gavin’s not bad in the kitchen.” Granny beams. “Knows his way around a rolling pin.”
Callie gives me a look that I can immediately read. She wouldn’t classify me as wee. “Impressive.”
“It’s just bread,” I argue, taking the plate from her. I slather my slice with butter and take a bite.
“He’s always been humble,” Mum says. “Wonderful in the kitchen, and excellent at cleaning, too.”
What is she trying to do, advertise me?
“My house was never this clean before he took over, I can say that much. I don’t think my boy ever stops moving.” She looks at Dad to corroborate her story. “Right, Don?”
“We’re messy,” Dad says around a full mouth. “Gavin was always the tidy one.”
“This was your house?” Callie asks, eyebrows inching up.
Oh, joy. The exact topic I hoped we’d all recall.
“Used to be,” Mum says brightly, but I can sense the strain around her eyes.
“Now we travel. Don decorated a campervan just for me. He upgraded the entire thing exactly how I wanted it, and we’ve been on the road for years.
We come home occasionally and camp for a while, but we don’t stay for too long. ”
“Vagabonds,” Grandad says gruffly.
“Respectful ones!” Dad argues. “We’re communing with nature. It’s been an incredible journey. I’m even considering writing a book about our experiences.”
“Oh,” Granny says, taking another slice of bread and scooping butter onto her knife. “What an idea. A how-to book? You can teach other retired couples how to decorate their campervans and all the little tricks you’ve learned on the road.”
“Exactly that, Nessa. I’ve already written the foreword.”
Granny seems intrigued. “Ooo.”
I clench my teeth. Surely they all know that Dad will work on this project for the next twenty years.
He’ll probably only have the foreword written for the next twenty years.
This is what he does—obsesses over an idea, puts endless thought into it, do a little toward it, then give up and move on to the next thing.
Dad puts his reading glasses on his head and takes a bite of his stew. “Might as well. Gav has the connections.”
A slick feeling coils in my stomach. Here it is, the way Dad expects me to step in and finish the project for him.
“Children’s books and memoirs are nothing alike,” I say, dipping my bread in the stew. “I’m not sure how much help my connections would be.”
“So you’re not willing to try?” Mum asks, her eyes pulling sorrowfully like a sad dog.
“I didn’t say that.”
“It seems to me the least you could do is try to help your father.”
“Of course I would—”
“After all he’s done for you over the years,” Mum continues, “it seems the smallest thing for you to write one wee email, Gav.”
I dip the rest of my bread and shove it in my mouth. There’s no book to email my agent about, and Mum’s shoving guilt down my throat like this soggy slice of sourdough. Granny has gone silent, and Grandad’s focus remains on his dinner. The mood in the room has turned on a sixpence.
Once I’ve had a few moments to process and repress the feelings pestering me like bird beaks, I smile at my parents. “Of course I’ll help. Let me know when your book is finished, Dad.”
Mum smiles. “There’s my Gavin.”
Aye, the one who folds like a greeting card at the slightest provocation. Same old Gavin.
I should probably feel more ashamed since we have a guest at our table, but I choose to be numb instead. It’s impossible to feel hurt when you feel nothing at all.
“Tell us about school, Callie,” Granny says. “It must be fascinating. Gavin mentioned you’re trying to become a psychologist.”
“Yes, at UCLA.”
“What a rewarding career.”
The energy in the room is tense, but Callie speaks as though she can’t tell. “I hope to still feel that way when I’m finished.”
Granny laughs.
I scoop another chunk of beef and chew, feeling the weight of attention on my neck.
When I glance up, Callie is looking at me.
Her expression is carefully mild, not concerned in the least. Did she learn how to do that in one of her classes?
A course for beginners: How to Lull Emotionally Fragile People Into a Sense of Safety 101.
I can’t take any more. I already have friends checking on me consistently; I don’t need my house guest worried I’m going to have an emotional breakdown just because my parents clearly have issues.
“Right then. Anyone for pudding?” I gather the empty bowls around me and push away from the table. “Banoffee pie’s on.”
“Sign me up,” Grandad says, patting his stomach.
Callie jumps up, gathering plates and bowls and carrying them to the sink. Mum and Granny notice, and I see them whisper to each other. Their wee scheming minds are already setting us up, I can tell.
“Or maybe we should call it,” I say. “Best be heading out soon. Weather’s not getting any friendlier.”
“We’ll go soon,” Granny says. “Quick bite of pie, then we’ll be out of your hair.”
“We promise,” Mum says, her wide smile back in place like nothing ever happened.
Why do I feel like I shouldn’t take either of them at their word?