by Tamar Sloan
“Yes.” Although I’m not totally convinced of that.
My mother gradually straightens from putting down her briefcase; she even seems to be breathing slowly. “I don’t.”
I briefly consider asking why, but I’m not sure I want to know. I take the car keys from the hook, continuing out the door, letting my actions say all that’s needed.
Her parting words manage to slip through the door as I shut it, “That top would have looked better with the skirt it came with.”
In the car the local radio station forecasts a cool evening, and I’m glad I wore jeans. I scrunch up my nose as they announce the latest one-hit wonder, but I pump up the volume, silencing my mother’s parting comment ringing in my ears.
I sail down the winding road to the solitary house in the trees. It’s amazing how little things fall into place now that I know the truth. The concealed out of the way house, giving this unique family privacy. Tara’s painting, depicting two wolves in love, the two friends that will bond once we graduate. Even I smile at my chosen career path.
As the Saab purrs around the last bend, I see there are cars parked in the driveway, then nose to bumper up the road. How many of them are there? I pull in behind the last, several yards from the house. Voices carry across the distance, shouting and calling and laughing. A baby’s cry wails over the top of it all.
And I’m hit by a rock hard truth—I’m out of my depth.
Wobbly legs take small steps away from the car, toward the house. I clutch the bowl of salad, grateful to Tony for insisting I bring it. I bet he didn’t realize it would double as a Perspex shield. A few more steps and the house and yard are in full view. People covering the full span of ages mill about. Bald babies and roaming children, chatting men and women, hairless middle-aged men and their greying wives.
Noah is nowhere to be seen.
With a pounding heart, I consider my options. Drop the salad, somehow break the indestructible plastic picnic bowl, and head home. Fake a migraine and head home. Trip, break my femur, and head home.
As I stand there deciding which would be the best plan of attack, a minivan pulls up, having bypassed the snake line of cars. It parks behind Noah and Mitch’s truck. The sliding door glides open and a red-haired girl skips out. And another, and another. As I stand there, salad bowl warming in my palms, a total of four bright-haired girls file out, each a little taller than the last.
A voice calls from the van’s belly. “For sanitation’s sake, Christa, Mr. Puddles is not a tissue.”
The smallest of the red-haired bunch jumps out, a stuffed duck hanging limply from her hand, and skips after her sisters. Tara is not far behind, wearing a white summer dress and a yellow, short-sleeved shrug complimenting the big sunflowers adorning its hem. She’s cupping the hand of a boy, only about a year old, in a crisp white shirt and slacks, and matching red hair.
“Thanks, Tara, just bring Kurt Jr. over here.” A pale woman, a light summer dress hanging on thin shoulders, comes around to Tara. Fine blond hair is tied up in a bun, some strands having already slipped from its confines. She kneels in front of little Kurt, adjusting his already straight collar.
“Hey, Edes! Great timing.” Tara skips to stand beside me. “This is my Mom, Lara.”
“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Channon.”
“You too, Eden. We’ve heard a lot about you. Please call me Lara.” She reaches into the minivan and pulls out a giant platter of bread rolls. “I already feel old enough as it is.”
A massive man comes from around the driver’s side, tree-trunk legs supporting a barrel-sized torso. His face is covered in a big, red beard, surrounding his face like a mane. Bushy brows form a straight line over hazel eyes. I pull the poor tortured salad bowl a little closer to my stomach.
“Dad, this is Eden, the girl from school I told you about.”
Kurt Channon grunts, his massive head turning to me. He looks down at my salad bowl, then back up.
“Hello.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Channon.”
His gaze shifts to Tara beside me, what-is-she-doing-here plastered on his face.
I shift on my feet, instantly uncomfortable.
Tara frowns, shifting her weight toward me. “Remember Dad? I told you about the…” she pauses to raise her eyebrows, “thing with Noah?”
Mr. Channon grunts again, then holds his hand out. Little Kurt takes it, liquid-hazel eyes looking up at his father as they walk toward the front entry. Lara smiles a pale smile before following, balancing the platter.
As they walk away, I hear Kurt’s voice filter back. “I thought this was a family get-together.”
Tara slips her arm through mine and starts walking around the side of the house. “Ignore him. He likes to define sour puss.” She peeks over my shoulder, looking down. “Besides, girl, your booty looks amazing in those jeans!”
I blush, giving her a little shove with my hip. “It does not!”
Tara snorts. “I can’t wait to see Noah’s face.”
My lip returns to its position beneath my gnawing teeth. What will he think? I glance back at Tara’s light dress, arms and legs exposed. I didn’t have to worry about being overdressed, but without a Werewolf’s increased body temperature, I’m certainly wearing more than anyone else here. My lower lip hurts a little as I realize Kurt was right to notice I’m the odd one out.
“Tara, Eden, great to see you girls.” Beth comes toward us, carrying a fruit platter. Her willowy frame is wrapped in a blue dress, strappy heels showing she’s not afraid of her height.
“Hi, Beth.”
“Hi, Beth.”
“Wonderful, Eden, you brought a salad. You can’t have too much food with the gigantic appetites that come to this event.”
I’m doubly grateful to Tony for his thoughtfulness. I make a mental note to groom little Mitsy, his hyperactive shih tzu, tomorrow. “Our chef made his famous quinoa, feta, and pomegranate salad. Can we help with anything?”
“Sounds delish. If you girls could take this through to the back and put them on the tables, that would be wonderful. Noah and Mitch are there. I got them to get some more chairs from the garage.”
“No probs.” Tara slips her arm out to grab the platter.
We take the food and head to the tables. We round the side of the house, and a lawn opens up, reaching out toward the tall pines that surround it in a crescent shape. Tables line the back, colorful lanterns strung up above them. Each weighed down with plates of bread and bowls of salad and platters of meat. The owners of the voices I heard on arrival are milling about, wine glasses and beers in hand. Conversation flows as easily as the music that streams from the speakers under the veranda.
My eyes scan the crowd, but I can’t find what I’m looking for.
We traverse the lawn, weaving through the people dressed as if they’re at a summer tea party. Not a fall barbeque in Wyoming. My green top and jeans weigh me down like snow gear. We come to the tables that form a dotted line between the milling crowd and the age-old conifers. I’ve just placed the salad bowl down when wailing breaks through the chatting and laughing.
Tara groans. “That’s Christa. No matter how many times she does it, she hasn’t learned that Mr. Puddles sinks in punch bowls. I’ll be back in a second.” She passes me the fruit platter, and her sunflower-dotted form is quickly swallowed by the multiplying crowd.
I’m left standing by the table, the lonesome fruit platter in my hands, awkward and alone. I’m considering what I do now, when a different kind of chattering reaches out behind me. I turn toward the trees, peering into the gloom. A ground squirrel leaps onto a low branch and stands on its hind legs.
I smile, delighted. I glance over my shoulder, then slip between the tables and into the protective shadows of the trees. The squirrel scampers between the close-knit branches around me, chattering excitedly. I glance down to realize the fruit platter is still in my hands. I carefully pull back the clear film, and pulling out a few grapes, I hold them up.
The squir
rel sits up again, whiskers twitching. I don’t even have to hum, before it shimmies down to a nearby branch. It’s obviously used to being fed by humans. With lightning speed, it grabs two grapes and shoves them in its mouth, giving it over-inflated chipmunk cheeks. It chews rapidly and they’re gone, sounding a raspy coo.
“My pleasure.”
In a blur of motion, it leaps to my shoulder and spreads its tail lavishly, creating a protective umbrella around my head. Its teeth flash as it sounds a series of raspy clucks.
“I know, I know. Winter’s coming.” I fish out a couple of strawberries. One disappears where the grapes were posted, and it grips the other in its leathery paws.
The next moment, the squirrel stills, his little body turning into a furry statue. With a last chirp, he spins and disappears up and across the trees. The voices that it registered before me filter through the trees. I freeze in the shadowy coolness. How do I explain my presence in the trees, with a fruit platter that’s not my own?
“I just don’t think it’s right,” says one male voice.
And I realize that, thanks to my indecisive pause, I’m now eavesdropping. How can I move now?
“We don’t get a choice. It’s already happened.” I recognize Adam’s deep rumble. “What does it matter?”
“It’s not the way it’s supposed to be.”
“Some things happen in ways we don’t understand. It doesn’t mean they’re wrong.” The voices begin to fade, moving farther down the line of tables.
“It’s just not right.”
“We’re Alphas, we say what is…” and the voices disappear.
We’re Alphas. My heart sinks as I realize Adam was talking to Kurt. I stand between the conifers, my smile fallen amongst the pine needles at my feet. Why do I get the sense that I was somehow involved in that conversation?
“She was just here a second ago,” says a voice I recognize.
I step through the trees to find Tara back at the table; Noah and Mitch are with her.
Tara peers into the trees behind me. “What were you doing in there?”
But my eyes gravitate to a new focal point. Noah is wearing a white shirt, muscled biceps peeking from short sleeves. A black pin-stripe streaks across his chest, emphasizing its width. A swirling tribal pattern down its side matches his dark slacks. His blond hair has been combed into submission, with a few unruly locks that refused to be tamed, resting on his forehead.
Right above simmering, sky eyes that are scanning me from head to toe.
He steps up toward me. “Wow.”
I blush, ducking my head between my shoulders. His finger comes up beneath my chin, and my eyes go back to where they want to be. Losing themselves in blue. Blue pools that are smoldering hotter and hotter with the passage of long seconds.
And I no longer feel overdressed or out of place. I feel…beautiful.
I take a breath, wanting to venture a little past my silent walls. “Look who’s talking.”
I’m rewarded with a dazzling grin. One of my own involuntarily spans across my face.
“Let’s not start a forest fire.” Mitch has his arm around Tara, his dark shirt a sharp contrast against her bright dress. I blush again.
Noah tucks my palm into his. “Worried you’ll need the material for your project?”
“Pfft. It’s made of better stuff than pine.”
“Oh?” Tara asks, eyes alight.
Mitch glares at Noah. “It’s for a bird house.”
Tara’s eyebrows shoot up. “For around here?”
Mitch goes silent, making me smile. Apparently his lame lie didn’t fool Tara either. Noah chuckles and turns toward the house; Tara and Mitch fall behind us.
“What were you doing in the trees?”
“A squirrel was hungry.” Noah gives me a perplexed look. “You guys must have a feeder around here.”
“Nope. Prey animals tend to avoid the area. Even though they aren’t exactly a food source, just a whiff of us is enough to make themselves scarce.”
“Huh? Well, he was quite happy to have some of your mother’s fruit platter.”
I don’t have time to analyze the unusual behavior because we’re walking toward the crowd. Noah didn’t exaggerate when he said he had a big family. With my hand held fast in his, Noah pulls me around, introducing me to uncles who pump his hand enthusiastically, aunts who envelop him into their welcoming bosoms, and cousins, cousins, and more cousins. They dart between the people and tables like they’re obstacles on a slalom run. When they do stop to say “hello,” the boys high five Noah and Mitch, the girls squeal their names and cling to their legs.
Meeting Grandpa Ben is given its own reverent moment. The patriarch of the pack has a full head of speckled grey hair, making me wonder whether Mitch got his dark looks from his paternal side. Age hasn’t dimmed his size, or presence. He sits at the head of the crescent-shaped tables, family flowing about him.
“Grandpa, this is Eden.” Those four words showing me that Noah’s already spoken to him about me.
“Ah, Eden.” Ben pats the seat next to him. “Come and tell me what you think of my family.”
I sit on the seat, perching a little on the edge. “They’ve been very welcoming Mr. Phelan.”
Ben grunts, nodding. Then a mischievous glint appears in his blue eyes, one that’s all too familiar. “Please, call me Ben. And what do you think of my grandson?”
So that’s his game. “Well, he’s very good looking, has the Phelan sparkle, but terrible taste in music.”
Noah has gone from looking pleasantly surprised to thoroughly confused.
“And he’ll make Tara a wonderful mate.”
Mitch joins in with Ben’s laughter. “We learned early on you can’t fool this one, Grandpa.”
Grandpa Ben leans over to me, speaking quietly. “I think you’ll do just fine in this pack, Eden.”
“I hope so,” I whisper back.
As we continue through the throng of people, with Noah’s warm palm cupping mine, his warmer body beside me, I think I can do this. Tense shoulders expecting the welcome I received from Mr. Channon slowly relax as smiling teeth and welcoming faces pass me in a continuous stream. I answer the polite questions, discuss the weather, I even contribute to a debate between Grandpa Ben and Uncle Joe about when wolves were reintroduced to the park. Joe, a younger, darker version of Adam, is arguing pointedly that his memory is obviously not tainted by age. Grandpa Ben slaps his thigh when I agree it was in 1995.
There are no raised eyebrows at my solitary human status. My long sleeves. The absence of meat on my plate. Actually, the only sign that I’m surrounded by a large pack of Werewolves is the large rotisserie in the centre of the lawn, an entire animal glistening over the coals.
“Does it bother you?”
My eyes shoot to Noah’s in surprise. “What?”
“All the meat.”
I shake my head. “Unnecessary waste of life bothers me. I don’t need to eat meat.” I tilt my head. “Some animals do.”
Noah is rubbing his lower lip with his finger again. “The cycle of life, huh?”
“Exactly.”
We continue heading down the tables laden with a spectacular amount of food, filling up our plates as we go.
“Everyone insists that my mother doesn’t need to cook.” Noah cocks a wry brow. “But she still does.” Beside him is a bowl of charred remains; I think they’re meatballs.
“Luckily Dad cooked these.” In the corner of the table is a white plate with six sausages on it. Veggie sausages.
I stare at the thoughtful meat alternative. “That was very sweet of them.”
Noah shrugs. “They wanted you to enjoy yourself.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I quietly take one, eyes blinking a little rapidly.
As we come to the next table, the eldest of Tara’s sisters, Dana, stands beside us, plate in hand. When she glances up and notices Noah, she goes beet red, and the plate tips precariously in her hand. Noah
’s hand shoots out to steady it. A pang of empathy shoots through me.
“Thanks, Noah.” Dana’s voice rushes out on a breath.
From the corner of my eye, I see Tara roll her eyes; Mitch’s shoulders hunch on a silent chuckle. Dana is oblivious as her hazel eyes are glued to Noah.
Noah smiles. “No problem. You should try the quinoa salad on the next table. It’s amazing.”
Blushing, her gaze returns to her plate. “I will.”
We continue down the table train. I glance over my shoulder, and Dana’s gaze is following Noah’s back. I smile; I can commiserate with the sisterhood-of-bedazzling-Noah. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, smiling in return.
Noah squeezes my hand, and I look up to see him smiling down at me.
As the afternoon passes into evening, the lanterns are switched on, creating multi-colored bubbles of light hanging from ghostly branches. As the sun descends and the mountain’s shadow reaches out, the cool fall air develops a nip, and I contain a shiver. The Weres around me seem oblivious to the dropping temperatures. Dresses flutter in the breeze, shirt buttons remain open at the neck.
We settle at a table on the outskirts. We chuckle together when Aunt Mavis teeters on her heels, wine glass in one hand, her laden plate narrowly missing Uncle Joe’s head. We’re rolling with laughter when Tara has to rescue poor Mr. Puddles from the branches of a tree with a broomstick, her frustrated statement that Mr. Puddles does not fly carrying across the yard. Our heads practically touch as we discuss which is superior—coleslaw or potato salad. We sit up in surprise when a click and a flash bursts around us.
“Smile,” Beth calls, then flits off, camera in hand.
Aunt Mavis brings over a plate of chicken pieces, sitting it on the table in front of me.
“I brought you these, dear. No need to be worrying about ruining that beautiful figure of yours yet.”
I pause, looking at the cooked pieces of bird. “Thanks, Mavis.”
“Aunt Mavis, we told you Eden is vegetarian.”
Aunt Mavis flaps her hand. “I know, dear. That’s why I brought her chicken.”
Noah blinks. “Thanks, Aunt Mavis.”
Aunt Mavis nods, a satisfied smile on her face as she weaves away.