Lauren could relate to that kind of holiday.
Angie came up beside them. “It’s grotesque, I know. Wait till you see us eat. We’re like piranha.” She looped an arm around Lauren. “Come into the kitchen. That’s where the real action is.” She grinned at Conlan. “This should be good.”
It took them almost half an hour to move through the living room. Every person, young or old, who saw Conlan screamed, jumped up from their seat, and tackled him. It was like being with a rock star. Lauren clung to Angie’s hand and let herself be guided through the crowd. By the time she reached the kitchen, she was light-headed. At the doorway, they paused.
Maria was at the breakfast table, cutting out cookies from a sheet of green dough. Mira was arranging olives and sliced carrots onto an ornate crystal tray. Livvy was pouring a creamy white mixture into a pie shell.
“You’re late,” Maria said, barely looking up. “Three miles away and still you’re late.”
Conlan stepped into the room. “It’s my fault, Maria. I kept your girl up late last night.”
The women all shrieked at once and threw their hands into the air, running toward Conlan for hugs and kisses.
“They all love Con,” Angie said to Lauren, stepping aside to let her sisters swarm him.
When they were finally done kissing and hugging and interrogating Conlan and Angie, the women went back to cooking. Lauren learned to cut radishes into roses and make gravy and arrange antipasti on a tray.
Then the kids started running into the room, pulling on Maria’s sleeve, begging to open presents.
“All right,” Maria finally said, wiping the flour from her hands. “It is time.”
Angie took Lauren’s arm and led her into the living room, where people were sitting on every available surface—chairs, sofa, footstools, hearth, floor.
The kids gathered around the tree, picking through the gifts, handing them out to the people scattered throughout the room.
Lauren excused herself and left the house, quietly closing the door behind her. She hurried out to the car and retrieved the one present she’d brought. Holding it close to her chest, she returned into the warm, cinnamonyscented house, and sat down beside Angie on the hearth.
Little Dani came up to her, offered her a gift.
“Oh, that’s not for me,” Lauren said. “Here, let me help you read—”
Angie touched her thigh. “It’s for you.”
Lauren didn’t know what to say. She mumbled, “Thank you,” and placed the gift gingerly on her lap. She couldn’t help touching it, gliding her fingers across the sleek, foiled paper.
Then came another gift for her, and another. From Maria. From Livvy, from Mira.
Lauren had never had so many presents. She turned to Angie, whispered, “I didn’t know. I didn’t get gifts for—”
“It’s not a competitive sport, honey. My family remembered you when they were shopping. That’s all.”
Conlan picked his way across the melee of children in the middle of the room and sat down on Lauren’s other side. She scooted toward Angie to make room. “Kinda overwhelming, isn’t it?” he said.
Lauren laughed shakily. “Totally.”
“That’s all of ’em, Nana,” one of the kids yelled, and that was all it took. Everyone started opening their gifts. The sound of ripping paper was as loud as a chainsaw. People and children squealed with delight and jumped up to kiss one another.
Lauren bent down and picked up a present from her pile. It was from Mira, Vince, and the kids.
She was almost afraid to open it. Then the moment would be over. She ripped the paper along the seam and carefully folded it back up for reuse. She looked up quickly to see if anyone was watching her. Thankfully, everyone was busy with their own presents. She lifted the white box top. Inside lay a beautiful hand-embroidered peasant-style blouse. It would work as maternity wear.
The thought of it squeezed her heart. She looked up, across the room, but Mira and Vince were busy with their own gifts. Next, she opened a silver link bracelet from Livvy and her family. From Maria she received a cookbook. Her last gift was a gorgeous hand-tooled leather journal from Angie. The inscription read:
To my dear Lauren:
The newest member of our family.
Welcome.
Love,
Angie
She was staring at the inscription when Angie gasped beside her. “Oh, my.”
Lauren looked to her left.
Angie had opened the gift Lauren had brought. It was a plain oak frame, seventeen inches by twenty, with ivory matting that had cutouts of different sizes for pictures. Lauren had chosen photographs from the box for most of the openings. A few held color shots she’d taken at Thanksgiving with her disposable camera.
Angie’s forefinger traced the glass over the picture of her and her father. In it, Angie wore flowered bell-bottoms and a tight V-neck sweater with multicolored horizontal stripes. She was sitting on her father’s lap, obviously telling him a story. The photographer had caught him laughing.