Page 12 of Quiver

“Have them? He’s eaten three on the way over.”

“We only drove four blocks.”

“That’s like half the town.” Her dad didn’t sound guilty at all as he climbed out of the car carrying a Crock-Pot. “Besides, I had to make sure they were safe to give to our friends.”

No one laughed. He’d been floating that defense for as long as Kylie could remember, but she still found the easy familiarity more charming than she had in years past. Maybe with so many things unsettled right now, she’d more willingly accept corny over conflicted. Then again, maybe their earnest affability provided a much-needed contrast to the combative nature of too many of her recent conversations.

She carried a tray of crescent-wrapped baked brie as they climbed the porch steps of a large home she’d driven past regularly for much of her life, but never entered.

Mrs. Collins opened the door and welcomed them with an exuberant, “Merry Christmas, Manchesters,” and a hug for both her mom and dad while she ushered them inside, not seeming to even notice Kylie there in the commotion until about five other people rushed to greet them.

Her mom took the tray from her hands and passed it off before beaming proudly as she declared, “And this is my beautiful if wayward daughter, Kylie.”

“Oh wow,” Mr. Collins said, then glanced down at the large, felted nutcracker on his shirt. “If I’d known we’d have a celebrity joining us today, I wouldn’t have gone the ugly sweater route.”

“Not at all,” Kylie laughed. “I was wishing I’d known ugly sweaters were an option. My usual black and gray are drab by comparison.”

“You’re lovely, dear,” their hostess said, ushering her inside. “And we know you don’t come around often, likely to avoid a bunch of questions about work. We promise you’re safe here. Come make yourself at home.”

They followed her as she pointed off toward a formal living room with a large tree. “If you go on through there, you’ll hit the dining room and all the food.”

“And I’m playing bartender. I’d be happy to mix you anything we’ve got,” Mr. Collins offered.

“Be careful. He has a heavy pour,” an older woman said as she rounded the corner carrying a tray of assorted cookies. Glancing up at Kylie, she squinted as if searching her memory.

“Mom,” Mrs. Collins said, “this is Kylie. She’s the Manchesters’ daughter, up from New York.”

“Oh yes, the actress.”

She forced a smile, preparing to answer questions, but instead the woman only said, “My grandchildren keep running off to New York.”

Her grin grew more genuine. “Oh?”

“Yes, first my grandson Howie moved there. He’s a surgeon in the big city, which is how we all met Bex. She’s always lived there, though I don’t suppose you have much chance of knowing her in such a big city.”

“Probably not,” she admitted, “but I’m happy to meet a fellow New Yorker, here, there, or anywhere.”

“Oh, the two of them were right around here, last I saw them.” The older woman handed the tray off and looped an arm around Kylie’s, tugging her toward the back of the house. This room wasn’t as formal, but it was still strung in white Christmas lights, with a single sprig of mistletoe hanging from the ceiling fan. As they came in, two people standing to the side both glanced up, then did a double take in unison.

“There you two city mice are.” Gram thrust Kylie forward. “I found another one of your people.”

They both stared, seemingly at a loss for words.

Kylie enjoyed the spark of recognition. The little confirmation of her cultural relevance and accompanying ego boost served almost like a secondary Christmas present.

“The one who looks like he’s forgotten how to shave for the last week is Howie, and the tall drink of water next to him is Bex. You can talk about whatever city people talk about while I go check on the cheese tray.” The woman bustled off as quickly as she’d arrived.

She watched her go before turning back to the others and saying, “I’m Kye, by the way.”

“No kidding,” Bex said, her light laugh shaking the feathering in her short blonde hair.

“I’m told you’re both New Yorkers?” She tried to steer the conversation to something more comfortable for them.

“I was actually raised here.” The man, Howie apparently, found his voice. “I was two years behind you in school, but we ran with very different groups.”

She eyed him more closely, from his chestnut hair to his wire-rimmed glasses, until something pinged in her memory. “You do look kind of familiar. Did we have study hall together my senior year?”

His whole face erupted into a smile, and he stood a little taller, or at least as tall as his frame would allow. “I can’t believe you remember that.”