Dearest Ivie

Which was not to say she thought of herself as unattractive. But…dayum.

She just would have put him with a blond bimbo with life-raft boobs and thousand-dollar stilettos.

Glancing over, she studied that profile of his. Tonight, he was back in the black lamb’s wool coat with a red cashmere sweater on and those gray slacks. The button-down underneath was of a white so blinding, the collar popping out of the crew neck was enough to make her retinas have to adjust.

“Can I ask you something?” she said. “This isn’t the time for it, but—”

“Anything.” He reached across and took her hand. “I’m an open book for you.”

For a moment, she lost track, reflecting on the nice color in his cheeks and the energy he seemed to be bubbling over with. She didn’t want to be arrogant, but she had a feeling it was the feeding from the night before. No doubt, he had gotten so wrapped up in wrapping things up that he hadn’t taken care of himself for a while. Not unusual.

“Ivie?”

“Sorry.” She shook herself. “Do you have any other kinds of clothes? I mean, I know that this stunningly handsome sweater-and-slacks combo is fresh every time I see you. So you must have multiples of it. But have you ever met a set of tracky bottoms? Or maybe a sweatshirt?”

He laughed. “I am a uniform kind of guy. I’m comfortable in this rig, I don’t have to waste time wondering if something goes together and it beats the other option.”

“Tuxedo? Silk PJs?”

“I sleep naked.”

A bloom of heat made her fidget in her seat. “Do you now. And when are you spending the day with me so I can experience this in person?”

He frowned and took a deep breath. “God, I would love that.”

“Then let’s make it happen—oh, the driveway is here!” She braced herself against the console as he hit the brakes. “Sorry! I should have warned you.”

“Not a problem. That’s what they make snow tires for.”

The Range Rover mounted the hill like a well-shod plow horse, chugging up the incline, undeterred by the ruts in the snow and the patches of ice. As they gained a little altitude, Ivie cranked herself around and looked at the valley below. The farm country was sparsely populated, the houses separated by quarters and halves of miles, the fields in between delineated by stone walls and lines of trees that had been in place for generations.

“I love it out here,” she whispered. “I’m happy to live in the city, but my heart is where the corn grows and the cows are.”

“Will you ever move back?”

“Maybe. I have some fantasy that I’m going to buy a plot of land, like in the next valley, and be close but not too close, if you know what I mean.”

“Whether you dematerialize from here or in town, it doesn’t matter. And you would be safer in a house with a basement and an underground tunnel to another shelter.”

“You sound like my father.”

“I admire the male’s sound thinking already.”

They pulled up to the front of the ranch, and through the windows, the people milling around and laughing and eating and drinking were everything she loved about her family.

“Shall we?” he said.

“You ready for this?”

He leaned across and pulled her in for a kiss. “And willing. But that second part can come later in the night.”

Ivie smiled against his mouth. “We leave right after dessert.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, I mean absolutely no disrespect to your family—”

“I’m counting the minutes, too.”

After another quick peck, they both opened their doors, and given the way Silas hustled around to offer her his arm, she knew he would have preferred she wait and let him be a gentlemale. Yet he didn’t seem bothered.

There was no formal walkway, just a crushed trail in the snow that led to the cinder-block step up. The door was aluminum made to look like wood, as was the gray and white siding and the red shutters. The roof was asphalt not slate, and there were no chimneys.

The instant she opened the way in, a blast of hot air and conversation burst out into the wintry night.

“Ivie!”

“Hey, girl—”

“You’re late—why did you drive—”

All of the greetings came to a halt as she walked in…and Silas followed.

In the shallow living room, her fifteen nearest and dearest relatives froze in mid-drink, mid-eat, mid-hello, mid-bitch, the lot of them transfixed by the elegant male who carefully closed them all in together.

Which was, she supposed, kind of like screwing the lid on a Diet Coke two-liter. After you put the Mentos in.

“I’m actually a vacuum salesman.” Silas put a hand on her shoulder. “But no worries, dearest Ivie has made me swear not to start preaching about suction, rolling balls, or wand attachments. Haven’t you, darling. And evidently the bag-versus-canister debate is off-limit. She’s rather strict with these things.”

There was a heartbeat of silence. And then her family started laughing.

“Everyone,” she said with a grin, “this is Silas. Silas…meet everybody.”

* * *

—

Silas met her mother, both her grandmothers, two aunts, an uncle on her father’s side, and the composite nieces, nephews, and grand-nieces and -nephews, and cousins one by one. And with each introduction, he looked her family member in the eye, shook hands, accepted hugs, smiled, joked, was serious when necessary, and was absolutely frickin’ perfect.

The best part? His sincerity was a winner across the board. He seemed honestly interested in Granhmen’s stubbed toe, then her uncle’s bad tooth, the cold weather, the disappointment that the Patriots had lost in the playoffs, more on the weather, the human government, the Syracuse men’s basketball team’s losing defensive strategy against Louisville, again with the weather, how to crochet a throw rug, why birds flew south late this year (Global Warming, we’re all going to die), and finally, how best to prepare Swedish meatballs in grape jelly in a Crock-Pot.

“I’m not familiar with that manner of cooking?” he said to her aunt. “Is it earthenware? But how do you then plug it in?”

Ivie’s aunt gripped his forearm as if she were about to faint. “You’ve never seen a Crock-Pot before.”

“Indeed, I have not. However, I believe this is knowledge I am suffering for a lack of—”

“I knew you liked her! I knew it! I knew it!”

From out of nowhere, Rubes launched herself at Silas, the redhead having apparently come in from the cold.

“I knew it! I’m always right about these things!”

As he scrambled to stay upright, Rubes was already pushing him away. “And now you’re here!” She looked at Ivie. “He’s here! With us!”

Ivie hugged the female, partially because she was honestly touched by the enthusiasm, and partially because, dear God, her cousin was going to give herself an aneurysm.

“Silas, you remember—”

Rubes put her hands on her hips. “Can I just tell you how much I love your name. Silas? I mean, my God, that is the most perfect name I have ever—”

When Rubes shut up midsentence, Ivie had a feeling what was going on. And sure enough, her father was coming out of the kitchen, a glower on his face, a carving knife in his hand.

“Dad,” Ivie said—as she tried not to put her palms up to protect her date. “This is Silas. I told you about him, remember? I told you he was coming with me.”

Silas went to turn around, and it was pretty clear the second he got a load of the male—because he almost, but not completely, hid his recoil. Then again, there was a lot to jaw-drop about her pops.

Hirah was over six-five, with long brown hair, a beard like a woodsman, and tattoos down both arms that were right out of Sons of Anarchy. Naturally, he was in a muscle shirt—and you might have thought he’d done that on purpose just to flash his guns at his daughter’s date, but nope. He wore the things no matter the time of night or the season or the occasion. Jeans were riding low on his hips, a heavy steel wallet chain swinging as he walked, his belt buckle in the shape of a deer head.