Now he stood in the doorway, the knob smooth and warm in his palm, but he didn’t go up. Instead he turned, walked to the center of his bedroom, and kicked off his sneakers. His bed looked the same as ever, and yet when he lay down, it suited his adult body—wide-shouldered and muscular—as easily as it had his slender little-boy form.
4
Knocks on the door awakened Miles, and for a moment he sat in bed bleary-eyed and disoriented, wondering if Andy had locked himself out of their apartment again. But then he remembered where he was, just before hearing his father’s voice. “Dinner’s almost ready, Miles.”
“Okay.” He stretched a kink out of his back. “I’ll be down in a sec.”
The sun had set, leaving the bedroom in darkness, but he had no trouble navigating his way to the bathroom—a path he’d walked many times before. He turned on the overhead light—blinking at the glare—splashed some water on his face, and frowned at his hair. Those damned unwieldy russet curls. As a kid, he’d often wished for straight, easy-to-manage hair, like a proper Thorsen, but wishing hadn’t changed reality.
His family’s voices wafted all the way into the third floor hallway and grew louder as he descended the stairs. He paused just before the wide dining room archway, where he could stare for a few moments without being scrutinized back.
There they were, the Thorsens. Not everyone lived in the Castle, of course. Some lived elsewhere in town, and a few had escaped Kemken altogether. But the Castle itself was always home to somewhere near two dozen people. Thorsens tended to wed descendants of some of the town’s other original settlers: the Dahls, Becks, and Holts; the Nilsens, Jensens, and Lunds. And because those people looked like Thorsens—tall, athletic, pale-haired, and pale-skinned—they blended in seamlessly.
“Miles! Come sit next to me.” Grandma had been the first to catch sight of him, and now she gestured from her throne-like chair at the head of the table. Unable or at least unwilling to refuse her, he slunk into the room and sat in the empty seat she’d clearly reserved for him.
“We have so much to catch up on.” She smoothed her napkin onto her lap. “You can start by telling me about your young man.”
Aware of all the watching eyes and listening ears, Miles hunched his shoulders. “We broke up.” That sounded more mutual than the truth, which had included Andy announcing he was moving to New York, packing up his belongings, and marching out the door. Leaving Miles with the rent due and a dying lavender plant.
Grandma sniffed. “His loss.”
Miles smiled in spite of himself. It was reassuring to know that someone thought he was a good catch, even if that someone was his grandmother. “How have you been doing? Did you—”
“Nope! I’m not so senile that I’ve forgotten who’s questioning whom, Miles Thorsen. What have you been doing in New Orleans?”
“Selling my art.”
“At a gallery?”
He scrunched up his face. “On the street. I mean, it’s legal. I have a vendor’s license and everything.”
She didn’t appear disappointed by this news. “That’s good. You’re contributing to local culture.”
“I guess.”
“Do you plan to stay there permanently?”
Miles sighed. “I don’t know. Things are a little… up in the air now, I guess. Can we talk about something else?”
Her blue eyes, as sharp and discerning as ever, softened slightly. “Of course. I’m sorry. You’ve had an exhausting day. Let’s talk about our holiday plans instead.”
“Sure.” He tried to sound upbeat although he wanted to groan. It might have been less painful to dissect his relationship with Andy. But he was here for the festivities, after all, and it wasn’t as if he could escape this discussion forever.
While the cousins with tonight’s dinner duty loaded the table with food, and while everyone dug in, grandma outlined her scheme. Various relatives leapt into the conversation now and then, adding their two cents about who was going to cook what, and what everyone planned to wear, and what the weather forecast was likely to be on the twenty-first, which was three days away.
“Rain,” Miles grumbled, even though he knew it wouldn’t. Grandma rolled her eyes at him.
“It will be a clear and cold night.” Her voice carried through the room with the air of a royal pronouncement. “Everyone should dress warmly, of course.”
He knew everyone would don hand-knitted sweaters and scarves and hats and mittens, thick parkas, and heavy boots. Everyone would arrive fortified with hot chocolate, and there would be an enormous bonfire, singing, and spiced wine and ale for the adults. The crowd would feast on roasted meats and all kinds of delicacies before heading to bed. Where, Miles had long ago surmised, a lot of sex happened. An inordinate number of Thorsens had September birthdays. Magic would be palpable that night, as real as the cold air and the scents of the forest.
“What do you want me to do?” Miles asked, because Grandma hadn’t yet assigned him a role.
“Decorations, of course. We’ve been suffering in that department since you left. You’re to oversee the indoor and porch décor. Everything except the tree, of course. That’s your father’s job.”
This had been the distribution of tasks since Miles was young. He and his parents would set out into the woods, together with an assortment of other relatives. Dad would look for the perfect tree, a beautiful and symmetrical fir that precisely fit the parlor’s high-ceilinged corner turret. Mom helped him chop it down, and then everyone would take turns with axes and pruners, harvesting enough boughs to fill the house. They’d drag the felled tree and greenery back to the Castle on a special cart kept specifically for that purpose. Back inside, Miles would direct people where and how to hang swags and garlands, while Dad oversaw the precise placement of antique glass ornaments on the tree.
Miles wanted to point out that it had been ten years since he’d done these things. Surely other relatives had ably done the tasks after his departure. But nobody protested at being supplanted, and Grandma eyed him sternly as if daring him to deny her. So he remained silent and finished dinner.
He helped clear the dishes and then remained in the kitchen to put things away after an uncle washed and an aunt dried. The kitchen had changed while he was gone. It was still vast, with double ovens, an eight-burner stove, and enough cookware to outfit a restaurant. It still smelled of coffee and bread, and the tile floor was visibly worn near the sink and around the big island. But someone had replaced the ugly fluorescent lights with attractive new fixtures, the ancient laminate countertops were now gray stone, and the breakfast alcove chair cushions were plump and bright. The appliances were new and the cupboards freshly painted. A small, awkward arrangement of shelving and cabinets along one wall was gone too, revealing the kitchen’s original fireplace, adding charm to the busy room.
After the chores were complete, much of the family gathered in the large parlor adjacent to the dining room. Its furnishings were more modern than most of the ground floor, with comfy couches, wide recliners, and oversize beanbag chairs. Flames flickered in a fireplace big enough to roast a cow. Some folks were watching the big-screen TV, while others read, knitted, or conversed. Two kids played cards with a cousin in his twenties.