I, on the other hand, am seconds away from a nuclear-level meltdown. This fit of nerves is ridiculous. I meet new people every day. That is literally my job. But I can’t stop thinking about a conversation I had with Kate the other night—the one where she let it slip how uneasy his Mimi was about the rate at which our relationship has progressed. As a fellow mother hen, I’m now petrified to enter that house.
“Whitney, Prissy… I’d like you both to meet my Pop, Charles Hazelwood.”
“Pleasure to meet you, sir.” I swallow my nerves, steel my spine, and reach for his hand.
“My, she is a pretty one, Wyatt,” he announces, clamping his other hand over mine so it’s sandwiched between both of his.
“Thank you.”
“And who do we have here?” Charles shuffles over to stand in front of my daughter, exerting a heck of a lot of effort to bend his old body to her level. It makes me smile to see where Wyatt gets his finer qualities, always making it a point to be sure that child knows she has his undivided attention.
“I’m Prissy.”
He nods, patting her head with a shaky hand. “That’s some fine, sturdy footwear you’ve got there.”
Beaming, she twists the toe of one combat-booted foot into the ground. “Thank you.” I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen my daughter blush. It’s sweet.
“Pretty sure you’ve just made a friend for life, Pop.” Wyatt swipes his knuckles along my spine, eliciting a full body chill. “Y’all wanna get inside, outta this cold?”
“Boy’s such a wuss,” the old man tuts, easily earning a laugh from my little girl, while trailing his grandson to the door.
“Woah!” Wyatt shouts when Ru—Sprinkles nearly knocks us all over trying to get to Prissy. “Down, boy.”
“Sprinkles, sit!” Prissy commands, snapping her fingers and holding out a hand for Wyatt to get her a treat. “Good boy,” she says kissing all over that slobbery muzzle of his. “That’s a good boy.”
“You could learn a thing or two from that precious little girl there about controlling that beast.”
“You ain’t lyin’,” Wyatt says to the elderly woman hobbling out from behind the stove. “Mimi, I’d like you to meet my girls.”
Well, if my dang heart doesn’t swell to bursting with that proclamation.
“Whitney, this is my Mimi, Melinda. Mimi, Whitney.” Sweat beads over my brow while I extend my hand. I wish Kate hadn’t said anything, because I’m not usually so awkward.
“Oh, darlin’, I don’t do none of that hand shakin’ business. If you’re gonna make it in this family, you’re gonna have to get acquainted with my huggin’.” The short round woman wraps me up tighter than a boa constrictor while Wyatt observes with the hugest smile on his face—completely oblivious to the mounting tension. “Don’t you go hurtin’ my little boy,” she murmurs in my ear, so quietly there’s no way possible anyone heard it but me.
I clear the frog from my throat and nod discreetly. She certainly won’t be hopping aboard the Whitney train any time soon.
“Your turn, little missy,” Melinda threatens, aiming her attention at my daughter.
“Hi, Mimi,” my darling child greets, throwing her arms around the woman’s waist without even being prompted. “I’m so happy to meet you.”
She, too, is well-versed in meeting new people.
“Well,” the woman says, patting Prissy on the back of the head, her eyes suddenly twinkling. “Aren’t you somethin’?”
My baby girl looks up, staring into the old woman’s eyes with nothing but sincere admiration. “People tell me that a lot.”
Wyatt and I reach for each other at the same time, hooking our fingers together, both fighting back laughter.
“Well, I guess they do,” Mimi offers. “I bet you’re a handful.”
Prissy nods. “Yes, ma’am. My teacher says I’m a real piece’a work.”
Leave it to my child to try selling herself with every backhanded compliment she’s ever received.
“Well, I’ll tell ya one thing—you sure are cute as a button.” Her once-hesitant smile now stretches ear to ear. I think it’s safe to say one of us has won her over. Spoiler alert: it wasn’t me.
“I love your pink flowery dress.” My kid is lying trough her gosh-darn teeth. But I love her all the more for it.
“I’m so glad to hear it!” the clever old bat announces. “Cuz I got you one just like it for Christmas.”
Prissy’s forced smile looks positively constipated. “Th—thank you.”
“I’m joking,” Mimi cackles, pinching her cheek. “Wyatt talks about your naughty little tail all the time. I know you don’t like pink.”
“Sorry.”
“There’s nothin’ to be sorry about. Don’t ever apologize for being just who you are.”
Prissy nods. “Yes, ma’am.”
“The real question is…do you like cookies?”
My little girl bounces on her toes. “Uh-huh.”
“Good,” she answers, heading for the oven. “If youd’a said no, that one might’a been a deal breaker.”
“Shouldn’t she eat dinner first?” Wyatt says when his grandmother hands Prissy a chocolate chip cookie right off the pan.
“Wyatt Jude, I know you ain’t tryin’ to tell me how to spoil my new grandbaby.”
I swat his leg and give him a stern look. The last thing I need is the woman thinking he’s questioning her judgment on my behalf.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he responds, appropriately chastened.
Once the awkwardness of introductions has passed, the evening isn’t so bad. We have a nice sit-down meal of beef tenderloin, mashed potatoes with gravy, and green beans. Prissy keeps the grandparents entertained asking all sorts of questions about their grandson and what he was like as a child while Wyatt and I engage in an hour-long game of footsie beneath the table. I honestly don’t know how I held off on the guy’s advances for so long. I’ve become quite the addict, constantly yearning for even the slightest touch.
After dinner, he assists me in loading the dishwasher while Mimi and Pop set up a fold-out table and chairs in the living room for some top-secret activity they have planned.
“What’s up, losers?” The back door flies open, sending in a gush of icy cold air, along with my best friend and her little family. “It’s freaking freezing out there.”
“Well, hello there, Lulu-magu,” I croon, going straight for the baby, who cranes her back, gripping her mother’s shirt with tiny fists that are impossible to pry open. Per usual, the child wants nothing to do with me.
“Just take her,” Kate orders, shoving the flailing tot into my arms before kissing my cheek. “You know her spoiled butt ain’t going willingly. Merry Christmas, Morticia.”
“Merry Christmas, Cruella.”
She snorts. “Cruella, really? Sure you ain’t talkin’ bout yourself?”
I shrug. “Was the best I could come up with on the spot.” After shushing and coddling Lucy for a few minutes, I give up and set the little tyrant to the floor to do her worst.