Rom-Com Collection

“Well, here’s the thing, Noah.” I took a deep breath. “Dad wants to get back together with Mom, and he asked me to help him out …”

“He never should’ve left her, the stupid fool. I never even looked at another woman once I met your grandmother.”

I smiled. “I know,” I said. “But Dad’s … well, he’s trying, anyway.”

“He’s still goin’ over jackass hill, if you ask me,” Noah said, referring to my father’s eternal adolescence.

“Well, he’s always been a good father,” I said. It was true. If you discounted the cheating-on-Mom part, that is.

“A good father loves his children’s mother,” Noah said.

“Okay, well, everyone’s still coming.”

“I’ll take dinner in my room.”

“Oh, no, you won’t,” I said firmly. “This is a family dinner. Even Freddie’s coming.”

“Speakin’ of jackass hill,” Noah grunted. “Hasn’t he finished college yet?”

“No. He’s taking a year off to figure out what he wants to do, as he’s told you eighteen times. Hester’s coming with the girls, and of course, me, your favorite. So you’re eating with us.” I steered him out of the shop and into the kitchen, where the smell of roast chicken greeted us warmly.

“I still have sanding to do,” he objected.

“You know I’ll do it for you later, old man. No excuses. You’re eating with us.”

“You’re so cruel, Callie,” Noah said, sitting down to unstrap his leg. “Bowie, your mama, she’s a mean one.”

I straightened from checking the chicken. “Mean? Didn’t I just clean this entire house, including that terrifying abyss you call a bedroom, where, by the way, I found four dirty plates and six glasses, not to mention the bottle of Dewar’s you think I don’t know about. Don’t I cook you dinner every night, old man? Don’t I sand your boats when you complain that your arthritis hurts when we both know that you really just hate sanding? And get that leg off the table.”

“All right, all right, I take it back,” he said. “You’re not half-bad.”

I HOSTED A FAMILY DINNER about once a month, though I alternated parental invitations. Still, my mother didn’t object when she came through the door an hour later and saw dear old Dad standing there, grinning sheepishly at her as he hugged my brother. No. She smiled, which was much more terrifying.

“Tobias,” she said in a mellifluous and deadly tone. If a cobra could speak, I’m sure it would sound exactly like my mom.

“Eleanor,” Dad said. “You look beautiful tonight.”

“Attaboy, Dad,” Freddie said, helping himself to some wine. “Flattery’s a good place to start.” Apparently, Fred was in on the plan as well.

“Thank you, Tobias,” Mom said. “You yourself look—” she scanned him up and down “—very well. How’s the syphilis?”

“I don’t have—” Dad began sharply, then remembered he was wooing his lady love. “I’m 100 percent healthy,” he said in a gentler tone. “How are things with you?”

“Wonderful,” Mom answered, not blinking. I swear the air temperature dropped five degrees.

“Hi, Mom,” I said, kissing her on the cheek.

“Calliope!” she exclaimed. “Thank you for having us.” Her dark eyes narrowed. “So nice to include … your father.”

“I’m scared,” Freddie whispered, grinning at me. “Hold me, Callie.”

“Would you like some wine, Mom?” I offered.

“Absolutely.”

“How are things at the funeral home?” I asked, hoping to score points with a subject near and dear to her heart.

“Wonderful,” she said, her tone a bit less terrifying. “Louis just did a reconstruction on a man who was hit by a rogue tire iron. His head looked like a bowl of SpaghettiOs.”

“What exactly is a rogue tire iron?” Freddie asked, fascinated. “Shit, that must’ve been a mess!”

“Oh, it was,” Mom said, warming to her subject. “You couldn’t even tell where his—”

“Stop!” I yelped. “Please, Mom!”

“Callie, how can you be such a wuss when you grew up in a funeral home?” Mom wondered. “Death is in your blood, after all.”

“Death is not in my blood,” I said impatiently. “And it’s not like I got to choose where we lived.”

“Anyway,” my mother said, giving me a cool look before turning her attention back to her son. “His face was—”

“Oh, look, Hester and the girls are here!” I announced. “I’ll just run out and help.” With that, I galloped into the rainy evening.

“Is that Dad’s car?” Hester said, heaving herself out of her Volvo with some difficulty, a reminder to me to go easy on the cake batter.

“Hi, Auntie!” Josephine said, flinging her arms around my waist. “Want to braid my hair? Guess what? I’m in the school chorus! We’re singing ‘Greensleeves’! Braid my hair!”

“That’s great, honey! I’ll braid your hair in a little while, okay?” I said, smooching my younger niece. “Hi, Bronte, sweetie-pie.”

Bronte glared at me, her earbuds firmly in place. “Hi,” she grumbled. Ah, adolescence.

“I’m so happy to see you. I love you. You’re gorgeous and brilliant,” I said.

“Calm down, Callie,” she said, but she gave me a kiss and trudged inside, Josephine prancing at her heels.

“Is that indeed Dad’s car, Callie?” my sister repeated.

I sighed. “Yes. I thought it would be nice for all of us to get together.”

“Nice, Callie? As in, ‘It would be nice to have my kidneys torn out by a lion while I’m still alive?’ That kind of nice?”

“Yes! Exactly what I was going for!” I answered. “Let’s not exaggerate, Hester. It’s not like they’re never together.”

“Public events only,” Hester said. “With lots of other people to distract and confuse and block.” She looked at me in exasperation. “You’re an idiot, you know that? What are you doing? Trying to get them back together?”

“No, no,” I said. “Well … Dad … um, never mind.”

“Dad what? Is he dying?”