“Ready as rice,” I say, my voice hitching.

He lands a peck on my cheek. “This is your home now, Joanie. And my parents are your family. You can relax and settle down for the first time in your life.”

“Deck, I’m fine,” I say. “Go on. I’m just gonna grab Slow Henry.”

Deck’s out of the car before the sentence leaves my mouth. I pretend to reach down, into the footwell where Slow Henry hopped when the car jerked to a stop, but I’m watching Barbara openly sob as she sets the hot dish on the sidewalk and clamps her arms around her son. Minneapolis is only two and a half hours away. Why haven’t they visited in the nearly year Deck and I have been together?

My cheeks flame as I realize Ronald is watching me watch Barbara, expressionless.

Is the jealousy spelled out on my face? He gets a mother and a father. I duck all the way down, out of sight, making the situation impossibly worse. I should have just waved. All’s fine here! Just a normal person thinking normal thoughts.

I learned that trick in my fifth high school. Always smile. Agree. Be invisible when you can, friendly when they spot you. But then a spike of self-anger surprises me. I’m not that girl anymore. I’m a grown woman. A reporter. I have a fiancé and a baby on the way.

I take a breath. Lift Slow Henry, who doesn’t let anyone but me hold him. Wish I had a drink, just a nip to grind down the edges. It’s not only parents. Meeting new people period has always been difficult. I’m afraid they’ll see right through me, recognize that hiding beneath the prim clothes and proper makeup is a feral girl wearing hand-me-downs, never staying put long enough to make friends, certain everyone knows some trick of getting along that she doesn’t. Rooming with Libby and Ursula in college was the first time in my life I had girlfriends.

Then along came Deck, sweeping me off my feet and, ten months later, out of Minneapolis.

I step out of the car tentatively.

This is not a speed that Ronald acknowledges.

“Our new daughter!” he booms, charging toward me with arms outstretched. It’s a relief that his voice at least is very different from Deck’s. Deck has an ordinary voice, slightly nasal. When Ronald speaks, it sounds like footsteps in gravel. Right before he embraces me, his glance lingers on the faded bruises at my neck and face long enough that I wonder if I’ve forgotten to apply foundation to them. Deck and I agreed that we’d never tell anyone but Ursula about the mugging.

It’s one of the gifts of, once again, moving away from almost everyone I know.

Before I grow too self-conscious, I’m girded by Ronald’s chain-link arms, his menthol scent reminding me of my mom. I’m surprised by the push of tears, which I blink back. The pregnancy is making me moody.

Ronald allows room in the hug for Slow Henry, who I’m cradling.

I’m not used to being held like this and don’t know how long to stay put. My ear is pressed to Ronald’s chest, so I count his heartbeats. They’re strong and steady. I reach fourteen before he releases me and steps back, grinning widely, and indicates his wife.

“This is Barbara.”

I smile at the woman clinging to Deck like she’s afraid he’ll otherwise float away, a precious peach balloon released by mistake and forever.

“So nice to meet you,” I say, pointing at the dish on the ground. “Can I help you with that?”

How they knew exactly when we’d arrive is beyond me. I stifle a funeral giggle at the image of them standing in this spot for hours, Ronald glancing at his silver wristwatch, Barbara gripping her hot dish and wearing that desperate expression.

“Thank you, but I have it,” Barbara says, lips curving shyly. She lets go of Deck—I startle when he stays put, solid, not a balloon after all—to grab the Corning Ware before disappearing inside the house.

The craftsman was Barbara and Ronald’s home for decades. They grew up in Lilydale, bought it when they married, raised Deck here, and then relocated to a small rambler half a block up a few years ago, trying with no luck to rent the craftsman.

When Deck told them we’d be moving to Lilydale, they offered us their first house.

I asked Deck why they’d gone through the trouble of moving to find themselves living on the end of the same street. He said they’d been hoping for years he’d return to Lilydale and had saved his childhood home for him.

Well, they’ve gotten their wish.

I turn to Ronald. “Thank you for letting us stay here.”

“Stay here? It’s your home!” he exclaims.

I suspect he exclaims many things. He’s one of those men. My journalism professor was like that. Owned every room he walked into. All the girls wanted him. He selected a sophomore from Illinois. I would watch her approach him after class, whisper and flirt, a mix of jealousy and awe crackling under my skin. Imagine, being that comfortable with yourself, that sure of the love you’re due.

I excuse myself to check out the new house.

Deck’s old house.

“Dad and I’ll be inside in a minute,” Deck calls to me as I walk away. “I need to dig out my briefcase. Show yourself around.”

His briefcase is behind the driver’s seat. I tucked it there myself and then pointed it out before we left Minneapolis. He must be giving me a chance to settle in before our “helpers” arrive. He warned me before we pulled out of the Cities that there’d be a large welcoming party soon after we showed up.

“Your high school friends?” I’d asked.

His eyes slid sideways. Of course not. They’d be off at war.

Deck has managed to avoid the draft so far, but if we’d stayed in Minneapolis, it would have been only a matter of time. It’s a mercy that the move happened so quickly.

Almost before I had regrets.

I step inside the house. Slow Henry jumps out of my arms with a squawk and sets off to explore. The interior smells musty, like there was water in the basement at one time. The windows are closed. When I lean in to open the nearest, I discover it’s painted shut. Deck’ll have to fix that. I glide from the front den to the kitchen and am childishly excited to spot a newish refrigerator and a dishwasher, in matching avocado! I’ve never lived in a house in my life, always apartments.

“Isn’t the kitchen lovely?” Barbara asks. She’s sliding the dish she’s brought into the oven. “We purchased the new appliances when we moved out. They’ve been waiting for Deck ever since. Please, make yourself at home.”

I smile and continue my tour. Opening doors, I discover a pantry, a dirt basement that I have no intention of ever visiting (show me someone who’s not afraid of dirt basements, and I’ll show you a person not right in the head), and a connection to the dining room. I step into the pantry, running my fingers along the shelves. They hold a generous stock of staples. Flour, sugar, canned carrots and peas. Tucked in the back I discover a half-full bottle of crème de menthe, absinthe-green and sticky.

I can hear Barbara puttering in the kitchen, running water. I unscrew the cap, inhale the syrupy toothpaste smell, and take a swig. The warmth melts into my blood.

Thank you, sweet liquor.

I have no intention of following in my mom’s footsteps (she’d enjoyed a shot of brandy every night before bed when pregnant with me—good for my development and her rest, she’d said), but boy, do I need the courage right now. I take another long pull, swishing it around my teeth, then screw the cap back on, return the bottle to the shelf, and glide into the dining room.