Rom-Com Collection. Kristan Higgins

      “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?”

      “No! You and Mom … he’s not dying. He just … he wants to make amends with Mom, that’s all.”

      “Fuck,” Hester said. “Listen, why don’t I leave the girls here, and I’ll go and lie down on the highway and hope to get run over instead?”

      “Well, as fun as that sounds, get your ass inside and stop complaining,” I said. “I made a gorgeous dinner. Come eat.”

      My sister obeyed. I took a cleansing breath of the cool, damp air, said a little prayer for peace and followed her inside.

      Family gatherings were … um, let’s see, what’s the word I’m looking for? … Hell. They were hell. Being the middle child, I served as referee and confidante, hostess and martyr. Did I feel we should get together once in a while? Sure. Did I want my family all together? Theoretically, yes. In reality, dear God, no.

      But Dad had asked, and even though his odds were probably that of a baby chick surviving a stroll across the Daytona 500 Raceway, I had to help him out. If I didn’t, no one would.

      For years, Dad had exemplified the sheepish charmer … I know, I was so bad, but don’t I have the twinkliest eyes? Does anyone need a new car? Mom, on the other hand, was the ice queen, never letting Dad forget just how little she’d forgiven and forgotten. Freddie got along with everyone for the most part. Hester, like Mom, had never forgiven Dad, but she tolerated him and admitted that he was a good grandfather to the girls.

      As for Noah, he was a crusty old Vermonter. He and Gran met when they were seventeen, married at eighteen, and stayed in love for thirty-nine years. Noah viewed the rest of us as somewhat retarded when it came to human relations. He may have had a point.

      “Can we eat?” Noah barked from his corner, where he was busy scowling at the rest of us. “I’m so hungry, I’m gaunt. And this beer’s flatter than a plate of piss.”

      “That’s beautiful, Grampy,” Bronte said.

      “So now you got an attitude, huh? I just started liking you,” Noah said.

      “I’ll get you another beer, Dad,” my own father offered.

      “Good, son. ‘Bout time you did somethin’ useful with your life,” Noah returned. “Speakin’ of useless, Freddie, when the hell are you goin’ to graduate from that fancy-ass college of yours and stop bleedin’ your parents of their life savings?”

      “About five more years, Noah,” Freddie said cheerfully. “I just switched my major to parapsychology. I’m going to be a ghost hunter. What do you think?” Noah, not realizing that Fred was jerking his chain, sputtered on his fresh beer. Mom, though she usually defended Fred, didn’t comment, as she was willing my father to turn into a pillar of salt or something.

      “I love family dinners,” Hester grumbled.

      “Oh, me, too,” I said.

      “Hey, will you chaperone some Brownie troop field trip next week?” she asked. “I have a seminar in Boston.”

      “Sure,” I agreed. “When is it?”

      “After school on Thursday,” Hester answered. “Josephine really didn’t want to miss it.”

      “Of course,” I said. “Where are we going? Cabot’s?” I hoped so. The creamery had a free cheese bar.

      “Uh … Josephine, where are the Brownies going next week, honey?” Hester asked. Josephine, who was rubbing Bowie’s tummy and sending clots of fur onto the just-vacuumed floor, jumped up.

      “It’s a farm, I think,” she said, leaping up to clutch my waist and beg. “Can you come, Auntie? Can you? Please?” Today she was dressed in a black-sequined unitard and a purple skirt with pink Crocs.

      “I