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“C’mon.” Joan beamed. “British, mind your manners. Donovan, would you like to go with us tomorrow?”
“I’d love to. I’ve never been.”
British bowed her head. The sisters-in-law dropped their tinsel, the sisters wavered in near-faints, and all of the Woodbury men and in-laws wiped their hands down their faces. Donovan chuckled at everyone’s reactions. He felt the need to explain. “With my schedule, I usually shop online for everyone.”
“You have no idea what you’ve just done,” British said under her breath.
Donovan shrugged his shoulders. “What? I’m looking forward to this.”
“We wake up at three,” said Irish. She took a seat across from the two of them and propped her elbows on the table. A few strands of gray stretched through her curly brown hair, which she kept in a side bun. Donovan couldn’t guess her exact age, but she aged beautifully. “What do you do for a living, Donovan?”
“He works for his family’s company,” British supplied. “He’s in finance.”
“Oh, you must love math,” Irish said, sitting back. “The two of you must have a lot in common.”
Cree came over and joined them with two glass mason jars of tea. Like her sister, the only way Donovan could tell she was of a certain age was by the gray in her hair and the slight crinkles at the corners of her eyes when she smiled, which she did every time she looked at her baby sister.
“Donovan,” Cree said, “do you recall your first words, or at least what your parents said?”
British dropped her fork. “Seriously, Cree? Mom,” she whined.
“Cree, leave your sister to her friend.”
Ignoring the warning, Cree, thankfully, continued. “We all knew British was going to be smart because her first words weren’t anything like ‘mama’ or ‘daddy.’”
“Or ‘sister,’” Irish interjected, “as in the sister who stayed up with her so the old no-business-having-kids-after-forty could get rest.”
A deep belly laugh filled the kitchen. Levi wrapped his arms around his wife’s waist and dipped her back for a kiss—but not before making a statement to make all of the other adults groan. “We’re still trying.”
“Every single night,” Joan gloated.
British was the first to recuperate. Her eyes were still wide and cheeks beet red. “You see why I didn’t want you to meet my parents?”
“They’re cute,” said Donovan. They certainly were different from his parents, Mark and Evelyn Ravens. It wasn’t like Donovan grew up in a strict household, just a busy, business-oriented one. The company came first. Yes, the family spent time together but most of it was at the corporate office in Miami. Donovan’s parents provided the best for their children and he appreciated the things he was given. It was just different here, warmer almost. His parents touched when they posed for cameras at functions. British’s parents touched each other, a lot, whether with a pat on the back, a brush against each other’s shoulders or even a flat-out kiss. This was better. “I want to be like that one day.”
“Married?” British’s eyebrows went up. She bumped his shoulder again, seemingly intent on teasing him.
The notion suddenly didn’t seem so frightening. “Yes,” he responded honestly.
“On behalf of my brothers and sisters, I apologize for our parents’ behavior,” said Cree.
“Whatever,” groaned Irish. “We only have to worry when Daddy starts talking in his accents.”
Everyone started to laugh and even though Donovan had no idea what was going on, he laughed, too. The rest of the morning melted into the noon hour. Donovan helped in the kitchen for a while. He sliced through hard-boiled eggs, whipped up the cream for the dessert later and stirred the greens several times. While the turkey finished up in the oven, Levi wanted to get out in the yard with his new partner. The football game consisted of Donovan, the brothers-in-law and Levi on one team versus the other Woodburys. Donovan’s team won but Cree’s husband, Tom, got hurt in a tackle...by his wife.
Joan declared the home football game over and invited everyone inside for dinner. Once the meal was blessed, dishes began being passed around. Donovan stuffed himself on dressing, collard greens, sweet potato soufflé for dessert, turkey and ham. He paced himself to make room for the baked goods. All types of desserts sat on the credenza where breakfast had been served and included apple pie, sweet potato pie, dark chocolate cake and a yellow cake slathered in chocolate icing by British’s four nieces. Since Cree lived up north with her husband, someone had made a pumpkin pie and sat it down next to the sweet potato one. Donovan impressed the family with his knowledge of the difference between the orange pies.
Once they loaded the dishwasher after the meal, everyone settled down into the family room to watch football. Cree and her husband went upstairs. The half dozen nieces wanted British to read them a bedtime story and Donovan did not mind hanging out with the rest of the Woodburys. He sat on the edge of the couch and rooted for the Dallas Cowboys; they had recorded the Dallas game earlier so they could finish watching the Detroit one after the family football match. Donovan was in his element. It felt great to relax around these people he just met today. They brought him into the fold and Donovan felt like one of the Woodburys and couldn’t wait to do this for the next holiday. The thought made him sit up.
“Hey, Donovan,” Irish whispered from her seat in one of the chairs by the stairs.
Donovan turned his gaze away from the television. Irish thumbed through one of the boxes with Christmas items at the side of the chair. “Hi, Irish.”
“In case you haven’t realized, we’re all happy to have you here this evening.”
“I’m grateful for you all inviting me into your home and taking me under your wing,” Donovan replied. Their maternal grandmother, who had arrived just before the meal, seemed to approve, as well. At least, he thought so, if there was any indication coming from the way Joan’s mother clung to his arm the entire meal. British had found it embarrassing but Donovan had not. She was pushing one hundred, but Donovan saw clearly that Joan’s genes had started with her. Impressive to sit at a table with four generations of beauty.
Robert, Irish’s husband, cleared his throat when he came into the family room with a plate of apple pie. “It took having our third child before I was allowed to help with dinner.”
