Chapter 21
Twenty-One
Colter
Sasspatch Society Group Text
Delilah:
Did y’all see our girl tonight? STUNNING. But also looks like she’s been sucking on lemons.
Glory:
I KNOW. And don’t even get me started on Colter. Saw him at the Commissary yesterday. Looked like a kicked puppy.
Monique:
Same energy when he came into the bakery this morning. Bought stress cookies. PLURAL.
Bea:
Something happened between those two. I can feel it in my bones.
Delilah:
We need an intervention.
Glory:
What kind of intervention are we talking here?
Delilah:
The subtle kind. FOR NOW.
Monique:
Oh lord. That means you’ve already got a backup plan.
Delilah:
Several, actually. But I’m giving them until midnight to work it out themselves.
Bea:
And if they don’t?
Delilah:
Then we escalate.
I’d clocked Swayze the moment I’d arrived. Impossible not to, given how she looked in that dress. She seemed to be making the rounds, introducing her family to the rest of mine, but she hadn’t missed when Faith arrived. More importantly, she hadn’t missed that kiss.
I saw the stunned, confused look on her face.
Dean elbowed me in the ribs. “You seein’ what I’m seein’?” He jerked his chin toward Swayze.
“Yeah.”
“Did you actually explain to her who Lisa is to you?”
“Sure I did. I told her she’s Oakleigh’s mom.”
“Oakleigh’s mom, who was then staying with you at your house for several days? Did you happen to mention why?”
“I mean, no. Why would I? Everybody knows...” Except Swayze didn’t.
She wasn’t from here. She didn’t know the whole messy story, unless someone else had told her.
And why would they? I was just so accustomed to everybody here knowing and accepting our unusual family situation, it hadn’t even occurred to me.
But it was obvious now that she’d absolutely thought Lisa and I were together.
No wonder she’d been giving me the cold shoulder.
Gunner and Fletcher poked their noses into our conversation.
“What are we talking about?” Gunner asked.
Fletcher glanced over to where Swayze stood, having been pulled into conversation with Emmaline. “Is it how smokin’ the new girl looks in that dress?”
“First off, she’s a woman. Second, hands off, baby bro,” I snapped.
“Colter already called dibs,” Dean explained.
“Ah.” Gunner nodded sagely.
My temper sparked. “I did not call dibs. She’s a person, not the front seat for a car trip.”
“He’s realizing he’s been a dumbass about something and is working on figuring out how to fix it,” Dean continued.
I glared at him. “Are you finished?”
“Not even a little. Because I have an idea, and we can help you.”
“Yeah, and how’s that?” I demanded.
Instead of looking at me, he glanced to our brothers. “How well do you remember that choreography?”
“Dude!” Gunner exclaimed. “No one forgets choreography learned at 2 AM to stop a crying baby.”
“Seriously. That shit is burned into our souls for life,” Fletcher added.
I was already shaking my head. “No. No. It’s one thing to do that at home for Oakleigh. It’s a whole other thing to do it in public.”
“It’s a grand gesture,” Dean argued.
“Since when are you an expert on women?” I demanded.
“Since I spent my deployment reading romance novels like they were the last water in my canteen. I learned shit. A fuckup demands a gesture equally as grand as the fuckup was bad. Not thinking to mention to the woman you’re into that you are not remotely involved with your very married baby mama ranks pretty damned high. ”
“I’m not making a public declaration via 90s boy band songs,” I insisted.
“Your loss. But if you change your mind, you know where we are.”
Someone turned off the quiet Christmas jazz that had been underscoring the party, and I recognized the faint buzz of a microphone crackling to life. Uncle Dee took the stage, commanding as always in full Delilah Devine getup—sequined gown catching the light, wig perfectly coiffed, makeup flawless.
“Welcome everyone to the annual Gibson family Christmas Eve party! There are a lot of folks here tonight who aren’t technically Gibsons by blood, but as we’ve all had cause to learn this past year, everyone in Gibson Hollow is a Gibson by choice.
By love. By the sheer stubborn refusal to let this town die. ”
Cheers went up around the room, along with a few whistles and the stomping of feet on hardwood.
“I invite all y’all to work your way in and find yourselves a seat for the evening’s entertainment.
” He gestured expansively toward the rows of cushioned seats.
People began sitting, drinks in hand, conversations continuing in hushed tones as they settled.
“First off, an announcement. The Sasspatch Society has decided we’re putting on a full-scale musical theater production as a fundraiser for the library rebuilding efforts. ”
More whoops and applause interrupted his spiel, but he only grinned wider, like the cat who’d got the canary and was already planning what to do with the feathers.
He waited for the noise to die down before continuing.
“In light of that exciting development, we’re having ourselves a bit of a musical revue tonight—not only from us fabulous ladies, but from anyone here who feels moved to perform.
Now, it’s only fair to warn you that we’ll be keeping our eyes peeled for fresh talent, so please note that your performance may very well count as an audition for our spring production. ”
Lord help anyone who got pulled into that particular circus.
The rest of the Sasspatch Society filed onto the stage at that point, a vision in sequins and feathers and color choices that had no business being that bold or that magnificent.
Somebody had clearly put serious thought into those costumes—layers of chiffon and rhinestone trim and enough shimmer to reflect light clean across the room.
I had no idea who was running lights or sound behind the scenes, but per usual, they had it handled without a hitch.
The opening notes of “We Are Family” launched immediately, the bass line thrumming up through the floorboards, and the ladies fell into choreography so tight and polished it could’ve been lifted straight off a Broadway stage.
By the second chorus, the entire room was clapping along without any prompting, voices joining in, folks swaying in their seats like they couldn’t help themselves.
That was the Sasspatch Society’s particular gift.
They had a way of pulling you right up out of whatever weight you’d been carrying and reminding you, without a single word of explanation, what it felt like to experience pure, unguarded joy.
They rolled through an even half-dozen numbers after that, trading off the spotlight in a way that showed just how wide and varied their individual performance backgrounds really ran—everything from crisp Broadway show tunes to smoky, unhurried blues to jazz standards that felt like warm velvet.
Miss Glory hit notes that had no earthly business coming out of a human throat, and yet there she was, landing every one of them clean.
Miss Bea’s rendition of “Cry Me a River” settled over the room like a change in weather, slow and inevitable, and I wasn’t the only one who glanced sideways to find actual tears tracking down the cheeks of the person next to me.
Uncle Dee closed out their set with a rousing “And I Am Telling You I’m Not Going” that started at a simmer and built until the walls of the old building practically vibrated with it.
The kind of performance that made you feel personally implicated, like he was singing directly at whatever in your life had ever tried to hold you back.
He brought the house all the way down. Then the four of them lined up at the front of the stage, breathless and glittering, and took their well-deserved bows to the kind of thunderous applause that shook the seat cushions.
Miss Glory grabbed the microphone, slightly out of breath but grinning. “Okay, Gibson Hollow, who’s up next? Don’t be shy now!”
A tall, slim man stood up from the second row, edging into the aisle with casual confidence.
As he neared the stage, I recognized Swayze’s brother.
JP accepted the microphone and headed for the piano in the corner, settling onto the bench with the ease of someone who’d spent countless hours there.
“Delilah, you wanna stick around for this one?”
Uncle Dee paused at the edge of the stage, going brows up as he looked back with interest, one hand on his hip. “I expect I can see whether you can keep up with me, sugar.”
JP just flashed a knowing, almost challenging sort of smile and positioned his hands deliberately over the keys.
He let a beat pass, just long enough to be theatrical about it, then started to play.
Only a single bar in, Uncle Dee’s expression transformed entirely to pure, unvarnished delight, and he lifted the mic with perfect timing, exactly on the downbeat. “I really can’t stay.”
JP’s voice came back smooth as whiskey over ice. “Baby, it’s cold outside.”
“I’ve got to go away.”
“Baby, it’s cold outside.”
The two of them fell into a flirty call and response that threw absolute sparks across the room, every traded line landing with a little more heat than the last. The chemistry between them was undeniable, the playfulness entirely genuine, and it made the old song feel like it had been written specifically for the two of them.
Well, well. Who’d seen that coming? I caught Alia’s eye from across the room.
She tried—and visibly failed—to hide a knowing smirk behind the rim of her wineglass, her shoulders shaking with the effort.
The pair of them gave up the stage to a wave of enthusiastic applause and more than a few wolf whistles from somewhere near the back.
I saw Uncle Dee’s hand linger on JP’s shoulder as they passed each other on the steps, a brief, easy touch, and I saw JP’s smile go softer, more private, meant for nobody else in the room.
My baby sister, Hutton, came up after that with nothing but her battered acoustic guitar—the same one she’d been playing since she was fourteen.
She gave us a couple of her own country ballads, voice sweet and clear, before calling up Alia and Everly to join her for one of Mom’s old songs.
The three of them harmonized the way only sisters could, the way they used to around the kitchen when they were doing dishes.
It had my throat going tight, memories washing over me of Mom teaching them those harmonies, of her laugh when they got it wrong and her pride when they got it right.
As they exited the stage, JP retrieved a microphone. “Come on up, Swayze.”
From her seat in the second row, she called out, “I don’t perform anymore, JP.”
“C’mon,” he taunted. “You were the cutest little Fanny Brice Cooper’s Bend Elementary ever saw.”
“That was first grade, you ass.”
“And you had all the sass of thirty and then some. Still do.”
She waved him off with an emphatic hand, clearly having no intention whatsoever of joining him on that stage.
“You saying you don’t have the chops anymore, baby sis?” His tone was pure sibling provocation.
I saw the impact land in the tensing of her shoulders, the way her jaw set, then the abrupt push to her feet. “Fine. You’re gonna make everybody cry with your big emotional ballad, and then expect anybody to come up here after that? You’re the worst.”
Grinning in victory, he took her hand to help her the few steps onto the stage. “You’ll just have to cheer them up then, won’t you?”
The glare she shot him was a combination of warning and challenge, and maybe a hint of affection underneath it all.
JP scooted over to the piano again. I turned my attention back to Swayze.
If she was nervous, she didn’t show it one bit, just stared down at the middle ground of the stage, collecting herself as JP began to play.
The moment she launched into “Don’t Rain on My Parade,” I was riveted.
She knew how to command a room, and it was fascinating to watch her turn it on like a light switch—going from reluctant audience member to full-on star as she belted out the number with a passion and fire worthy of Barbara Streisand herself.
Was it perfect? Not quite, but she absolutely committed.
Her voice had power and range, hitting every note with precision while still making it feel spontaneous, alive.
The Sasspatch Society was gonna be all over her for whatever musical they were putting on. I could already see Uncle Dee and the others exchanging meaningful looks, probably planning their recruitment strategy.
I wondered if she’d stay in Gibson Hollow long enough to even consider it.
Long enough to consider me. Because I wanted her to. Needed her to.
As the crowd applauded her performance—people on their feet again, cheering—I thought, To hell with it.
Leaning over, I flagged my brothers, getting their attention with a sharp gesture.
I needed to give her a reason to stick around.