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“Terrific,” Mom says. “Then just put on something comfortable.”

“Comfortable? Like . . . ?”

“Just jeans. Tennis shoes. We’ll see you both out back when you’re ready.”

She slides her hand over my shoulder and gives it a quick squeeze before I can protest.

“I’ve got jeans,” Genie calls out in one last futile attempt.

And as if my new undercover project with James isn’t enough after being here a sum total of five minutes, Mom calls out as she pops open the door to the dining room, “Everybody! Chloe’s special friend is here!” and I drop my head in my hand even before I hear the rhinoceros roar of feet pounding along the worn, wide oak-beam floors.

“Go,” I hiss to James, less for his sake than for mine.

He grins, bemused by my expression and Save yourself hiss, but stays stubbornly there. It’s a Braveheart move. The kind that says, as his eyes widen and he sees just how many people are moving through the doors, I didn’t realize it was going to be this bad, but I’m here anyway. To the bitter end.

And to the bitter end it is.

Everybody comes to say hello. As the first guy walks up the stairs to shake James’s hand, quite easily putting weight on steps two, three, four, and five, James gives Genie a pointed look. She immediately raises her gaze to the ceiling and whisks herself away, muttering something about rolls burning.

Before I know it, James is at my side. The meet and greet turns into a reception line of sorts, the kind after a wedding where you go through and shake hands and receive unwanted hugs from all sorts of strangers you only vaguely remember. A theme, I’m realizing, for our town. Maple Hillers love a good reception line.

“Is it always likes this?” he asks in my ear.

“You should’ve seen the reception when I got here a few days ago,” I reply.

His eyes widen. “And I thought Čedomir was uniquely extroverted.” He smiles at somebody introducing themselves and shakes hands.

Everyone, in short, loves James.

He’s charming. He’s friendly. He asks questions at the right times and repeats names back at people as though cementing them in his memory forever. He laughs at jokes. He seems genuinely interested in everyone’s little insignificant life shares of skills and hobbies, facts and figures.

He glances over to me several times as we stand side by side, some adolescent kin having been tasked with taking the suitcases upstairs on his behalf. Funnily enough, he seems to be checking on me as though to make sure I’m handling everything okay when really it should be the other way around.

Again.

I have learned that I am not good at reading cues. Not good at trusting people. But I decide it’s best not to think about this. If I don’t think, I don’t overthink, and if I don’t overthink, I can slide through this experience with as little pain as possible.

By the time we’re on our fifteenth handshake or hug and I look overwhelmed enough for the two of us, James surprises me with a whisper at my ear. “You good?” he says in that concerned way of his, and it sends a tickle down my spine so fast I jolt up my head.

Which doesn’t help, considering that my sudden proximity to his compassionate eyes draws out a whole new set of emotions.

I force my throat to work. “Yeah. Yes,” I say.

He seems to draw a conclusion from my expression and announces, “Mrs. Hollis was wanting us to help out with something outside. We probably ought to get going.”

And when he takes the lead with a light hand on my back, I forgo feeling the utterly bizarre mix of emotions with his physical touch and decide instead to focus all my energy on the relief that we are getting out of there.

Turns out, our next stop is basically becoming camp counselors.

“And I thought two nieces was a lot,” James says as we stand in the middle of the front yard a half hour later, surrounded by a frost-laden cut hayfield and about thirty children. Parents hang out in the rocking chairs in the distance, tucked under blankets, drinking coffee and chatting happily.

Nanny follows us around, yapping.

“It’s like a daycare.” James glances up at the people on the porch in their rockers. “They all look cozy. How do we get to have their jobs?”

“Commit to expanding the Hollis line and you get to sit in a rocker,” I say before I can catch myself. “Any-way.” I slap my hands together, calling the attention of the kids ranging in age from three to thirteen. “Let’s get the Turkey Bowl started, shall we?”

We Hollis folk commit to a Turkey Bowl at all major holidays.