“Stop fidgeting.” His hand rests on mine and creates a cease-fire in the thumb war I’ve been waging against myself.
The gesture reminds me of my mother, who always did the same thing during church. Apparently, stillness is closer to the Lord than wiggling, even when you’re five.
I slip my fingers beneath my thighs like I did when I was little. “Sorry.”
“There’s no reason to be nervous. Half the people at this thing will be too busy avoiding the other half. The rest of them will be judging and whispering about everyone else. Then there are the ones who will be God-blessing everyone’s hearts out of pure spite because their own are cold and black.” His lips curl with amusement.
His words don’t soothe my nerves. “Sounds awful.”
“Nah. The food’s always good, there will be cake, and the dancing will be fun.”
“So says you.” I sound grim and not at all like someone going to a party.
“I do. An added bonus is some of the cousins still make moonshine, and there will be a jar or two passed around out of view of Nannie Ida.”
“She doesn’t approve of drinking?”
“Not at all. Her daddy served time during Prohibition and she’s been a teetotaler her entire life.”
“You’re family’s so … colorful.” I’m not sure what to say, but that seems closest to a compliment.
“We can play a game of guessing what different folks served time for if you get bored. Some of the answers are hilarious, even for Hills.”
“Will your cousins Willa and Gracie be here?”
He dismisses my question with a shrug. “Nah, they avoid all things having to do with this side of the family.”
“And Ida gives them a pass?”
“She does on account of my uncle abandoning the family. Kind of a get-out-of-jail-free card.”
We bounce along a dirt road for a mile or two until it ends in a wide field, vehicles of all makes creating messy rows in the make-shift parking area. A couple of boys, probably no older than ten, direct traffic, which explains the haphazard angles and lack of organization.
Across the open space sits an enormous barn, its exterior weathered and gray with age. I scan the area for a farmhouse or cabin but find none. Trees crowd together at the edges of the field, rising up the slope of the mountains surrounding us.
“Who lives here?” I ask, unbuckling my seatbelt when Odin shuts off the truck’s engine.
“No one. House burned down a couple of decades ago and there wasn’t any point in rebuilding.”
“Why not?”
“Did you see the road we drove in on? Imagine it when it rains or snows—impassable. This property is the most isolated and the farthest from town, and most folks don’t want to live in a place without cell service, internet, or electricity.”
He climbs down from the cab and closes the door.
The hills have already blocked the late afternoon sun, casting the valley floor in a soft light absent of long shadows. Tall grasses, uncrushed by vehicles, gently sway in a breeze. From the soft rush, I know somewhere close by is running water, maybe even a waterfall. Seems like a pretty perfect spot for a hermit.
Following him around to the hood of the truck, I continue my train of thought. “I’m surprised you don’t want to live out here.”
He sweeps his gaze from me to the mountains and back. “It is beautiful, but I enjoy having electricity and being able to stream my entertainment.”
“Softened by modern conveniences.” I tsk. Not sure if it’s the location or the butterflies in my belly having taken over my decision-making skills, but I feel happy, almost giddy as I tuck my arm around his elbow.
He stiffens for a second before his warm palm comes to rest on the back of my hand. Pleased he didn’t pull away, I sneak a glance up at his face.
He’s staring down at me, a new softness to his expression. “Thanks for coming with me.”
I sneak a quick kiss. “I’m happy to be here with you.”
Inside the barn, the band is playing and I feel like I’ve stepped into a Jane Austen novel, except instead of fancy empire-waist ballgowns and tails, most folks are wearing casual attire. Odin was right about the dark wash jeans starched within an inch of rigor mortis, and most women wear dresses of various degrees of fanciness. I’m neither over nor underdressed, falling somewhere in the middle between That’s a nice house coat and Are you going clubbing after this?
The interior is a wide-open post-and-beam structure without stalls or other walls dividing the large space. A small hay loft spans the width of one end, and the four person band I heard from outside is set up in the shadows beneath. Comprising of a mandolin player, a fiddler, a guitarist, and a banjo player, the group forms a half-circle, and off to one side stands a man with a microphone.
“He’s the caller for the dances.” Odin leans close and answers my unanswered question. “Think of him as Simon in Simon Says.”
“Right. Okay.” I straighten my spine and roll my shoulders down my back.
“Relax. Your face looks like you’re walking through a haunted house and something scary is going to happen at any second.”
I force myself to grin. “Better?”
“Worse, actually.” He squeezes my hand in the crook of his elbow. “Let’s find the grub before these miscreants eat all the best stuff.”
“Shouldn’t we find Nannie Ida and wish her a happy birthday first?”
“We could.” He eyes the long line snaking toward the buffet tables laden with food, most of which appears to be homemade.
“Are you nervous to see her?” I pause, allowing my brain to come up with a worse alternative. “Or are you worried about introducing me?”
“Neither.” He steps in front of me, blocking my view of the room so I can only see him. “Remember how I said I’m the black sheep?”
I confirm I do with a dip of my chin.
“Consider this a room full of rockin’ chairs and I’m a cat with a long tail.” He gazes over my head. “I’ve avoided most of these gatherings over the past three years. A lot of these folks will be expecting to be entertained either by gossip or scandal.”
“Ignore them. We’ll wish Ida a happy birthday, elbow our way to the food, and then find a corner to hide in until the dancing begins.”
“I like the way you think.” He ducks his head to kiss me, in front of his family and the band, who, in reality, may also be family.
I’m convinced everyone here is related by blood or by marriage except me. I’m the outlier, the one thing that is different than the others. I can feel it in their stares and hear it in their whispers. I don’t belong here. They all know it. I know it.
Odin’s warm fingers slide between mine as he weaves his way through the gathering. Most people say hello as we pass. Like petulant toddlers, a few turn their heads, deliberately pretending they can’t see us. Bless their hearts. I want to yell at them and ask what’s wrong with them for not seeing the good in Odin. They must be broken on the inside.
A couple in their fifties walks straight toward us, happy smiles on both their faces. The woman has blond hair and familiar warm, caramel eyes. The man is an older version of Odin, right down to the happy grin he’s wearing.