“This is better than holding the wedding here,” Andrew announces as he turns left onto the winding road, trees lining the way in perfect formation, his Tesla’s tires rumbling slowly down the gravel-covered farm road before hitting asphalt again. “But I still can’t believe Dad’s hosting an event at the old house.”

My excitement is hard to contain now that I understand more of the backstory on why I’ve never been taken to Andrew’s childhood home.

And I’m prepared for his goal of popping his childhood bedroom’s cherry.

So to speak.

I’ve been in Weston, Massachusetts many, many times but never like this. Never as a guest in one of the grand homes on the winding country roads. The exclusive, wealthy western suburbs of Boston have their own rustic appeal, a look and feel honed through careful administration of snob zoning laws designed to keep out the riffraff.

Like me.

In most of these towns, you can’t build a house on less than two acres, and when a single acre will set you back over a cool million dollars, you start to understand why you move from a more industrial town into Weston and suddenly think you’re in Western Massachusetts. None of this is an accident.

“Right to Farm” signs dot the roads as Andrew drives on autopilot from the Pike onto the backroads, taking twists and turns that become less familiar to me. The only true farmers in Weston, people actually raising food and animals for income, are either part of non-profit organizations or running family farms that haven’t sold out to developers.

Yet.

Modern architecture juts out from the rolling hills, the road narrowing and the hills sharpening, dipping deeper down, closer to the road. Homes hug the asphalt, older than the Department of Transportation, set close to old cowpaths and dirt roadways that used to connect disparate New England towns to one another.

“Homes from the 1700s. Homes that look like Frank Lloyd Wright designed them. Deck houses. So many different designs. I’m guessing you grew up in a stately old 1700s home with a modern wing attached.” I reach for Andrew’s hand. It’s cold. He squeezes back.

“Close. Late 1600s. Dad wanted the oldest home on the market and he got it. Added the modern wing and four-car garage with servants’ quarters above right after we moved in, when I was a toddler.”

“Servants?” I choke out the word like it’s a disease.

Andrew doesn’t blink. “Someone has to run the household.”

“You mean Grace doesn’t live in and do it all, too?”

He gives me a sour look. I laugh.

“Dad hires butlers from the elite training school in Amsterdam.”

“I thought you were joking. You’re serious? You grew up with servants.” I look at him in a new light.

“Yes. I mean, we didn’t call them that to their face. But they live in the servants’ quarters, so...”

“What did you call them?”

“Joan. Mindy. Julie. Ellie. Jonathan...”

“Wait a minute! You’ve told me about them, but I thought they were Anterdec employees! Not servants at your parents’ estate!”

He shrugs. “They were just another grownup in our lives. Joan was the household manager for ages. After Mom died, Dad drove her out pretty fast. Then Grace stepped in and became the go-between for future household managers and butlers.”

“I was joking about Grace! That really happened?”

“She’s special.” He speaks so softly, I almost don’t hear him. “That’s why I don’t want her to retire. Gina’s fine, but Grace is in a league of her own.”

Apparently so.

“She’s really been like a second mother to you.”

“Whether Dad liked it or not, yes.”

“What does that mean?”

“Grace pulls no punches.”

“I noticed.”

“Dad didn’t like being told he wasn’t parenting us well. But he didn’t do anything other than throw money at the problem. What we needed was his attention. His time. I understand that now. Grace knew it then. From what little I’ve gleaned, it wasn’t pretty. Dad resented her interference but never stopped her. He can be stubborn as hell, but underneath he knows when someone’s right.”

“He let Grace take over by default?”

“Something like that. Once I was out of the house, the need for staff dwindled. Now it’s just Jonathan. He manages weekly help, seasonal issues like snow removal and repairs. Stuff like that. Dad tried to get Gerald to fill that role way back in the day and he didn’t last.” A smile makes Andrew’s mouth twitch.

“Gerald?”

“Dad wanted him to serve at the occasional event. Gerald put a stop to that, fast. Moved into his own apartment in the city.”

A flash of Gerald at James’ Back Bay place last year during the oregano fiasco, when James, Mom, and Marie got “high” on what turned out to be a baggie full of Italian seasonings, comes to mind. “He served tea and coffee to everyone at your dad’s during Oreganogate.”

Andrew chokes on his laugh. “Oreganogate?”

“That’s what Shannon and I call it.”

Slowing the car to five miles an hour, Andrew makes a careful turn onto a dirt and gravel road. A magnificent hill to the right climbs up at such a perfect forty-five degree angle that I wonder if it’s man-made, enormous trees spread out unevenly.

The feeling is surreal. Like rolling footage from a Hollywood film, the view as we drive up the long path is tunnel-like, cocooned and ensconced in a dreamy, telescoped world.

“Why are you driving so slow?” I look over at him. Andrew’s fingers are tapping nervously on the steering wheel, throat tense, eyelids fluttering as he blinks too much, too fast.

Just as he starts to answer, something darts in front of the headlights, big and swift. Then another body, that of a small deer.

“Oh!” I gasp.

“That’s why. Tons of deer and rabbits in the woods here.” His words are soft, distant, floating on memory. This side of him isn’t part of my repertoire of experience. Lost in some sort of netherworld between the deeply familiar and the exquisitely uncomfortable, Andrew is facing something I don’t understand.

I want to fix it, but I know I can’t. I can just live through it with him.

“How long is the driveway?” I marvel, as the road seems to go on and on.

“Half a mile.”

“Half a mile? That’s an expensive plowing bill in the winter,” I joke.

“Is it?” He’s a million miles away.

While I’m not an expert in land use or development, even I can figure out quickly that James must own an extraordinary number of acres to have a driveway this long, the house so secluded. I’ve seen how Declan, Andrew, and James live in Boston, and make no mistake-- they live in luxury.

I’ve been on Anterdec corporate jets. Stayed in presidential suites.

Nothing compares to this.

Finally, the Tesla’s headlights pick up signs of civilization, metal gleaming in the distance. A landscaped stone wall with small bushes along the brick top comes into view. Then a circular fountain. Clichéd, yes, but there it is.

The house isn’t so much a house as a mansion. The pit of my stomach starts doing loop-de-loops as I recall Andrew’s Jane Austen-inspired proposal to me. I’d always assumed he was familiar with literature and poetry because of his solid humanities education at one of the finest prep schools in the world.

Maybe I was wrong.

Maybe he actually lived at the Massachusetts version of Pemberley.

“Andrew.” His name comes out like I’m throwing myself a lifeline. The home is lit up with a series of outdoor lanterns that make stone passageways glow. It’s a mixture of 1600s colonial and European carved stone, and the home is made up of a series of wings.

“Is that fountain made of Italian marble?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says, turning the car so he pulls up in front of a uniformed man. I feel like we’re arriving at a fancy resort.

We kind of are, except this is a resort where Andrew grew up.

“You lived here as a kid?” Two outbuildings, one of them with four garage doors, flank the enormous house. I can’t tell what the second building is, but I have a sneaking suspicion that if I go on an expedition, I’ll find a giant pool and tennis court behind it.

“Yeah. Home sweet home.” He gives me a strange smile.

“Jesus.”

“Here we are.”

I’m frozen in place. A valet opens my door but I can’t move. Andrew’s halfway out his side before he realizes I’m still sitting here, breathing slowly, trying to process all this. Even the air smells different, an earthy scent of decaying leaves and brisk snow.

“Amanda?”

“You lived here? Your family lived here?”

He doesn’t reply, just gives me a funny look and shakes the valet’s hand.

I get out of the car, trying not to make more of a spectacle of myself, and smooth my skirt over my thighs. Mom’s on her way, driving separately. She’s going to freak when she sees this.

Next thing I know, Andrew’s standing next to me, a bit robotic as he hands the keyfob to one of the valets and turns on his heel. I follow, because what else am I supposed to do? I have no idea where anything is.

I can’t think of this building as a home. It’s too much. Homes have coat racks and boot mats and places where you dump the mail until you can sort it later. Homes have recycling bins and trash cans and grease stains on the driveway. Homes have worn armrests on old chairs no one wants to get rid of because they’re repositories of memory.

Homes don’t have valets. As in plural. Homes don’t have servants’ quarters.

And they certainly don’t have an original Degas hanging in the front foyer.

The ballerina painting hits me square in the face as we walk in, the texture of the canvas enticing as my eyes comb over it, looking for the flat effect of a print. Instead, I’m bombarded by peaks and nuance, patina and irregularities, my need to focus on something small to manage all the big emotions giving me a reason to notice.

“That’s an original Degas,” I whisper to him.

He’s delighted. “It is. One of Mom’s favorite artists.” He squeezes my hand. “She’d have loved the fact that you know who the artist is.” Our eyes hold each other’s gaze for a little too long.

It hits me.

He’s as overwhelmed as I am.

“When was the last time you were here?” I ask, my words slow and heavy with meaning.

“Andrew!” booms a loud Scottish voice attached to a redheaded beast who marches across the foyer and grabs my 6’3” fiancé in a bear hug, lifting him off the ground. Only Hamish McCormick, Andrew’s cousin and professional footballer, could manage that feat.

“Hamish!” Andrew tries to kill him with a handshake of death. They squeeze to a draw. “Dad said you were in town and we’d see you here. How’s it going?”

“Going fine.” He holds a pint glass of beer aloft. “Always better with good drink.” He gives me a smile and opens his arms wide, coming in for a hug. “Amanda! Soon we’ll be family.”

His hug is considerably less violent this time.

“If you’re Andrew’s cousin, then what will we be after I marry Andrew and become a McCormick?”

“Drinking buddies,” he whispers in my ear. Hamish puts his arm around my shoulders and steers me toward the sound of a crowd as Andrew and I laugh.

James told us this would be an “intimate affair,” which to him means fewer than one hundred people. I see Marie, Shannon and Declan, Amy and Carol, but no Mom.

And about sixty men and women who are a mixture of people from Anterdec, people I’ve seen at philanthropic events, and complete strangers.

“Oh, God,” I groan.

“You need a drink,” Andrew and Hamish say in tandem.

“Great minds think alike.”

“Nah,” Hamish says, the word clipped. “We’re just McCormicks. All the McCormicks in Scotland love their drink. I can’t imagine it’s any different just because you live across the pond.”

Within three minutes I have a lovely glass of wine in my hand, half of it already in me, and Andrew has made speed round introductions to five people whose names I’ll never remember. I’m gearing up for another go at being social when Andrew bends down and whispers, “Want a tour of the house?”

“I’d love one.”

“We’ll be social in small doses.” A charming smile aimed at me takes my breath away. As he threads his fingers through mine and pulls me away from the enormous crowd in the living room, I gawk openly.

James McCormick’s office at Anterdec headquarters has a certain feel to it, all leather and dark wood, Persian rugs, and fine, eclectic patinas. A light scent of cinnamon and cloves, pipe smoke from his rare indulgence, enhances the feel. This home is different, though. It has some of those same characteristics, but each room has its own touch. The Washington blue in the dining room, for instance – Andrew explains the historical significance of the painted fireplace to me, but I’m barely listening. Old-fashioned oil lamps dot the walls, and I see remnants of knob-and-tube wiring along the baseboards, replaced long ago by modern electrical wiring but left as a historical artifact for future generations to admire.

Nothing matches.

This is important, because in the suburbs, having everything new and matching is the hallmark of a “done” house. When we lived in Mendon, this was how I knew someone had money. The curtains matched a color on the couch upholstery. The throw pillows matched a color in the area rug. All of the wood floors were stained and varnished to the same color. The measure of a beautiful home was how coordinated it was.

When we moved to Newton, that standard changed. And among the deeply wealthy, it’s all about unique and rare items. Andrew doesn’t have to tell me that a certain carpet is over one hundred years old and imported directly from Turkey in the 1930s. Or that one of the wall sculptures from West Africa was bought from an enterprising student who needed tuition money to pay for another semester at Harvard. Each piece in the room, from pillow to curtains to candlestick, has its own history, its own soul.

Someone painstakingly made thousands of decisions to create a cohesive whole. Just like the scent of an antique shop or a rare-book store makes me relax instantly, the inherent uniqueness of each bit of decor in the house sets me at ease.

“Your mother did a beautiful job,” I tell him as we pause in the kitchen, caterers whizzing around us. A commercial-sized stove, a high counter with barstools to seat twelve, and three sinks make the kitchen feel like I’m on the set of a Gordon Ramsay cooking show.

“She did. Dad gave her carte blanche to decorate. She loved buying local art, haunting antique shops, and going to estate sales.”

“I’d imagine she didn’t do all that to get the cheap deals like Marie and Mom did.”

“No. She went to find the rare items no one else had.”

“She succeeded.”

He kisses the crown of my head. “So did I.” Gathering me in his arms, he pulls me in for a long hug. I’m wearing high heels, so I don’t have to stretch far to be eye-to-eye with him.

“Let me show you the rest.” We snake down a long hallway, past James’ double-doored home office, a library that looks like it belongs in Hogwarts, a sun room, and then the distinct scent of chlorine hits my nose.

“Indoor pool?”

He frowns. “Sort of. Indoor lap pool.”

“What’s the difference?”

He uses his palm to guide me to a thin walkway, a small glass door covered in a very light layer of condensation. “I’ll show you.” He opens the door to the weirdest pool I’ve ever seen.

“What is this?” The room is humid but cool, a strange paradox.

“Olympic-size lap pool.”

“It’s so long, but super thin!”

“One lane, fifty meters. Designed for me by Dad. After Mom died and my wasp allergy was obvious, I stopped playing football and lacrosse. Dad made me do a sport, so I shifted to swimming. Dad had this added to the house so I could practice.”

“No pressure, huh?”

A rueful laugh is his answer. “Right.”

“You okay?”

“Sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I can tell that being here is making you emotional.”

He sighs. “A little.” Bending down, he touches the water and shivers. “Dad’s keeping it clean, but not heated more than the minimum. Too cool for pleasure swimming, just about right for torturing myself when I was still competing. In the winter, this place was great on the weekends. I’d come home from school and practice.”

“Come home?”

“After Mom died, I became a boarding student at Milton.”

“Right. You told me.” But I hadn’t connected it all like this before. The wealth. The upbringing. The social expectations and competitive edge James insisted his boys develop.

“Were you that good?”

“At what?”

I point to the water. “Swimming? Worth going to all this trouble?”

“Dad thought so. But I didn’t make the Olympic trials.”

“Your father sets a high bar for success.”

He smiles at me. “That’s why I love you.”

“What’s why?”

“You have a way of calling my dad an asshole without ever saying a negative word.”

I laugh, torn between wanting to jump in the water and wanting to run away.

His chin dips and he adds, “I really want you to do something with me.”

“What’s that?”

“Come upstairs.” We walk away from the lap pool, my eyes struggling to make sense of the long, thin shimmer of water, like a ribbon. As we head toward the cacophony of the crowd, I want to grab Andrew and run back, jump in, float and swim and kiss and laugh.

“Amanda!” We turn to find Amy standing there, Shannon and Marie with her, Carol on their heels carrying two empty wine bottles. A member of the catering staff takes the bottles from her with a surprised smile. Andrew guides us all back to the enormous, two-story living room where people are now standing in small groups, the liquor flowing.

I give everyone half-hugs as we migrate. Andrew’s seen by someone from the Anterdec board and gives me an apologetic smile as he peels off from us, deep in conversation within seconds.

“So much for helping me acclimate in small doses,” I mutter under my breath.

Shannon laughs. “He gives you that line, too? Dec abandons me at events all the time. Why do you think I’m so good at Words With Friends now?” She winks, but I know she’s only half joking.

I give Marie a quick hug as a caterer delivers more wine. I hand off my empty glass and gratefully take a fresh one.

“Where’s Jason?”

“At home with Jeffrey and Tyler. This isn’t his kind of thing.”

“Dad’s exact words were, ‘Why spend money on a babysitter so I can torture myself for three hours with a bunch of pompous windbags who can be condescending to me for free anywhere else?’” Amy explains.

“He’s kinda done with being Dec’s father-in-law,” Shannon whispers to me.

“He doesn’t have a choice in that.” I know Jason enjoys golfing at some of the exclusive clubs where Declan can just walk in without reservations and get tee times, though.

Billionaire sons-in-law have built-in perks.

“But he does have a choice about coming to these events.”

“Speaking of people who don’t like this kind of thing, have you seen my mom?”

As if on cue, my phone buzzes in my pocket.

Sorry, honey. Too much pain. Give my regards to everyone.

“Mom can’t make it,” I tell Marie, Amy, and Shannon, my voice filled with apologies. I’m used to it. Mom’s fibromyalgia is unpredictable and ever-changing, a silent third person who lives in the house like a muscle vampire, draining her.

“Is Pam okay? Is it a flare?” Marie’s eyes fill with concern.

“Yeah. I guess.”

“She must be so excited about your wedding!” Marie’s practically giddy with joy.

“Sure. Excited.”

“You know, I was this close — ” she holds her thumb and index finger an inch apart “ — to having Rachel Ray herself cater Shannon and Declan’s wedding.”

“This close to a restraining order,” Amy mutters, her fingers millimeters apart.

Marie pretends she can’t hear that and continues to talk to me. “Have you picked out centerpieces yet? I’ve heard live terrariums with little frogs are the hot new thing. Then people can take them home and remember your wedding forever.”

“Why not give everyone a kitten and a scratching post?” I joke.

“That is an excellent idea!” Marie gushes. “You could start a whole new trend!”

“I’m kidding, Marie.”

“But I’ll bet you could get a bulk discount on the cats. Oh! There’s Barrie Goodenow. I have a question for her about the yoga studio she started in Dorchester and that yoni yoga class she’s debuting. You kids have fun!”

I turn to Amy. “Yoni yoga?”

“Don’t ask.”

“Yoga for your -- ”

She shakes her head slowly, ringlet curls moving with her like octopus tentacles. “Don’t ask.” She’s holding a shot of something amber and sucks it down like a tonic. One of the waiters swoops in, takes the shot glass, and offers her another from a tray.

We sip our drinks and look around the room, taking in the scene. I can’t see Andrew anymore, but Declan is over by the massive stone fireplace, talking to James and some members of the Anterdec board. I overhear the word “grandchild” and do a double-take.

Hamish is behind us, his voice unmistakable in the crowd. Carol’s enjoying herself, the stressed look she perpetually wears not making an appearance tonight.

Maybe it’s the wine soaking in, maybe it’s the absence of anything to do, but I’m starting to feel loose. Good.

More than good.

Amy keeps taking covert looks at someone behind me. If I were a betting woman, I’d lay odds on it being Hamish. Shannon and I share a knowing look.

Hivemind. She’s thinking the same thing.

“Remember that time Mom told you I had a date with a billionaire and you joked you were dating the leprechaun from Lucky Charms?” Shannon says to Amy.

“Yeah?”

“Wrong accent.”

Amy looks around the room nervously, eyes landing on Hamish, who obliviously drones on in conversation with Terry, the two talking intensely about football clubs in England and France.

“You think I want to date Hamish? Hamish McCormick? The man is a walking tabloid story.”

“So am I,” I mutter, bitter from the brief run into the building, eyes still half convinced they see the echoes of camera flashes. Draining my wine glass, I reach for the bottle on the table and perform a lifesaving refill. Maybe that’s a tad melodramatic. No one’s ever died from not having more wine.

But let’s not take a chance here.

Shannon holds out her wine glass, too, and motions for me to fill it halfway. James’ earlier musings about grandchildren were just that, then. Musings. Shannon wouldn’t drink if she were pregnant. And besides, she’d tell me if she were. She’s not capable of keeping a secret.

“You, Amanda? When did you turn into a manwhore like Hamish McCormick?” Amy asks, just loud enough for others around us to hear.

And just as Hamish breaks away from Terry, grabs the bottle I was just pouring from, and ends up three feet away from Amy.

“Manwhore?” He gives her wicked grin. “Is that an insult or a crown for me to wear? There’s a title I wouldn’t mind bearing.”

“If you don’t know the difference,” she retorts, cheeks blazing but jaw set with determination, “then maybe the rumors are true.”

“Rumors?” He finishes pouring the wine and hands the stemmed glass off to Terry, who is watching their conversation with amusement. “There are rumors about me?” A disingenuous, wide-eyed look complete with splayed hand over his heart follows. In that moment, I see a slight family resemblance to James, Terry, Declan, and Andrew. Nothing physical.

It’s the look of a McCormick going in for the kill. That must be etched in the family’s DNA going back to the Neolithic period.

Eye rolls abound, my own rolling like a hula hoop.

“You do nude athlete photo shoots for Sports Illustrated. You’re booked for a Bachelor special. You’ve scored more on social media than you have on the football field,” Amy retorts.

Terry lets out a mocking sound of shock. Might as well squeal Oooh, burn!

Hamish freezes, his fingers wrapped around the base of his beer turning white, his grin hardening into something slightly sinister as he looks at Amy as if seeing her for the first time. She bats her eyelashes sweetly, giving it right back. Two redheads locked in verbal battle.

If I were a betting woman, I’d give Amy 3:2 odds here.

Hamish leans across the counter, eyes burning, his smile stretching. “Ye made yourself me unofficial scorekeeper now, have ye? Tracking me love life and me field performance. Well, now. I know ye can watch me on the field on television, but ye canna judge me performance in the bedroom so easily.” The Scottish accent comes out as he asks the question in a low, seductive voice, one that appears to work magic on Amy, who shifts her weight, taking a few steadying breaths before leaning in, matching his body language, giving nothing more.

But also giving no quarter.

“When there are more pictures of you reaching women’s goal lines than the opposing team’s...” Amy responds, finishing her incomplete sentence with a one-shoulder shrug and a smirk that dares him to argue.

“Jesus, woman, get yer sports terms straight. Goal lines?”

Amy waves a hand in an impressive display so dismissive I’d think she was James’ long-lost daughter. “Whatever.”

“Ye think that’s my ratio of sex to football goals? Aye, ye’re an innocent, aren’t ye? Those pictures of me with women are but a fraction of the action.” His big green eyes narrow, then take her in from crown to toe, not bothering to hide his lingering gaze.

“Manwhore it is, then.” Amy holds her own, cheeks flushing, eyes not backing off.

“I wear the title proudly. Does it come with a t-shirt? Ye Americans love to have t-shirts for every occasion. Did ye get one when ye lost your maidenhood?” His grin turns appreciative.

“Your title comes with a twenty-eight-day supply of antibiotics, Hamish,” she retorts.

“A Scotsman discovered those, ye know.”

Amy’s face goes blank, a ringlet of red slipping off her forehead as she tilts her head. “What? T-shirts?”

“Sir Alexander Fleming. Discovered antibiotics. Everything good in the world came from Scotland originally.” He winks at her. “If ye’d unclench a bit, ye’d know more about that.”

“Unclench! I am unclenched! Just because you -- ”

He stares openly at her breasts as if looking for something specific. “Nah. I don’t see it.”

Amy crosses her arms over her chest. “See what?”

“Your t-shirt for losing your virginity. Guess you don’t have one. Hmmm. Wonder why not?”

He winks and turns away, walking across the room, leaving Amy a sputtering mess.

“That man – I – what did he -- ”

“He’s a jerk,” I say, sympathetic, yet I can’t help myself. I’m watching his ass like my eyes have become a paparazzi drone.

“You and Hamish seem to be hitting it off!” chirps Marie, who appears out of nowhere, as if she has radar for anytime her daughters interact with an eligible bachelor. “Imagine the gorgeous redheaded children you two could produce!”

Amy’s eyes ignite. I’ve never seen blue turn orange so fast.

“Shut up, Mom.” Carol humors Marie. Shannon manages her mother with a simmer.

Amy stands up to her.

“I’m just saying, there are worse men in the world.”

“I seriously doubt that, Mom. He just insulted me.”

“What? Hamish? What did he say?”

“He questioned my virginity.”

Marie frowns, her fake eyelashes unyielding, making her look like she has two fringed black cocktail stirrers attached to her lids. “You mean, in a bid for marriage?”

“What?”

“Men only ask about your virginity if they think you’re marriage material.”

“It wasn’t like that. At all.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“Are you a virgin?”

“MOM!”

Marie shrugs. “I know you dated in college, but you never really had a boyfriend, and Jason and I had just assumed, you know...”

“That I’m a virgin?”

“Actually, no. We assumed you were a lesbian. Or maybe asexual.”

Amy looks like someone whacked her in the face with a cast iron pan.

“You and Dad assumed that?”

“We didn’t want to pry -- ”

Amy makes a sound that makes me think I’ll need to do the Heimlich on her momentarily.

“Since when have you been reluctant to pry into anyone’s life?”

“Me?” Marie’s hand flattens against her heart in a gesture that is so close to Hamish’s from a few minute ago that I wonder just how many generations ago the two families’ DNA blended.

“Mom, the NSA could hire you to do the job of three operatives, as long as you’re assigned to investigate your own kids. C’mon. You are the equivalent of a human auger with ovaries.”

“What’s an auger?”

“An old-fashioned drill for boring holes.”

“Oh, honey. My hole is anything but boring.”

I grab Amy and pull her toward the dessert tray before she commits murder and I’m forced to testify for the prosecution.

Being questioned by Marie takes the wind out of Amy’s sails. I can feel the mixture of emotions radiating out of her muscles as I grasp her arm and search the room for a grounding influence. Someone she can talk to who will be calm and rational, reasonable and settled.

“I am not gay,” Amy mutters. “Not that there’s anything wrong with it. I just haven’t found the right person yet.”

Does that mean she is a virgin? I want to ask, but I would prefer not to be burned to a crisp by the fire that would shoot out of her eyeballs and land directly on my hair.

“And that redheaded ass! His one and only skill is kicking a little ball around a field. That’s it. Athletes make all the money and get all the fame in our culture. Emotionally stunted troglodyte.” She finishes off her wine in one long series of gulps, then runs her fingers through her thick, curly hair, smoothing it off her face.

“I was surrounded by millionaires and athletes,” she says in a contemplative voice, nodding to herself. “All day, every day at the venture capital firm where I interned. Hedge fund managers and overachieving twenty-three-year-old social media developers worth billions. Athletes and viral video people who had ideas. It was like that tv show, Shark Tank, on steroids.” She gives me a bitter grin. “Do you have any idea how many supremely rich people there are out there who made it on the dumbest idea, or through sheer stupid luck? It’s mind-boggling.”

“Like the unboxing videos,” Carol says, suddenly entering our conversation.

“Unboxing?” I ask, confused.

“It’s got to be one of the most ridiculous concepts ever,” Carol says with a sigh. “But Tyler loves watching the unboxing videos on YouTube.” Tyler is Carol’s son. He’s seven years old and has a language disorder that makes him seem a little different. Now that he’s talking more it’s not so obvious, but if you spend more than a few minutes with him, you see that something is off. Not bad. Just different.

And in our culture, different is all too often equated with bad.

“What happens in an unboxing video?” I ask as Amy rolls her eyes.

“The person making the video opens a new product.”

“You mean a new product announcement from a company? Like a marketing push?”

“Nope. Even simpler. A customer gets a new product in the mail and videotapes themselves opening it.”

I’m not understanding this correctly. Must be the wine. “So they just open the box? That’s it?”

“It’s a little more complex. Think The Price is Right. They open the box, show off the features...”

“It’s a descriptive video?”

“No. They rarely say much.”

“Then it’s a silent video of someone just opening a box?”

“Yes. Mostly. It’s changing, though. More of them have a running commentary, like a review. Plenty of them are quiet.”

“That’s so silly.”

“The top unboxer on YouTube makes $5 million a year.”

“Someone get me a box to unbox. Now.”

Amy’s watching the whole conversation with a calm, almost meditative precision. I know she’s taking in every word, processing the implications, and searching for a way to leverage this information into something that gives her an advantage in a different area.

I know what she’s doing because this is exactly how Andrew operates. And until I began dating him, the concept didn’t even exist for me. Optimizers and fixers are two completely different types of people. Andrew and I complement each other precisely because we’re so different.

I give Hamish a side glance.

I wonder. He’s not a fixer. Not an optimizer.

More like a womanizer.

“Has anyone created a site devoted to unboxing? A clearinghouse where they curate the videos and group them together by subject?” Amy wonders aloud.

Carol shrugs. “No idea. I just watch them because Tyler does.”

“Are the ads aimed at kids?”

After a few seconds of surprised consideration, Carol gives Amy a respectful look. “Actually, no. The ads tend to be aimed at me. At my interests.”

“Then whoever is picking ad targets knows that parents will be watching with their kids. Does Tyler focus on toys and electronics for unboxing?”

“Yes. Mostly. Although his newest favorite was the unboxing of a neti pot.”

“A neti pot? The thing you use to flush salt water through your sinuses?”

“Yes. It was a very interesting set of hands. Each fingernail was painted with a different country’s flag, and Tyler wanted to identify them all.”

Amy laughs, a genuine grin of affection fixing on her face. “So in Tyler’s case, he’s driven by some detail in the video.”

“Who knows what drives that child? Jeffrey, on the other hand, has big plans for his own unboxing video series. Problem is, I don’t have the money to buy the expensive items you need to buy to do the unboxing. No one cares if you unbox a pound of rigatoni from Aldi’s.”

My mind flutters like a bird at liftoff. “What about new product testing?”

Carol turns to me, looking like she forgot I was there. “What?”

“New product testing. You know. All the focus groups and beta testing we do.”

“You mean did. Consolidated Evalu-shop stopped doing those when we were folded into Anterdec.”

“Why?”

“Low margin.” Carol shrugs. “Not profitable enough.”

Pure excitement radiates off Amy. “But if you did unboxing videos as part of Anterdec....”

I grab her arm. “And offer it as a bundled service to clients.”

“Anterdec has its own in-house media division. Camera crew, commercial photographers, the whole bit.” I look at Carol’s hands, then mine. “Whoever has the nicest hands could be the unboxer.”

Amy shoots Carol a sidelong glance. Carol glares back. The shift in mood makes all the tiny hairs on my body start to rise. We’ve gone from excitement to suspicion in under a second.

I keep my head steady but my eyes dart to them both. “What?”

“What?” they ask in unison. Carol moves her hand behind her back. Amy tracks the movement.

“You two are suddenly behaving in a very weird way. What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” they say together.

“You’re acting like Marie.” The universal insult for the Jacoby and McCormick families. Works every time.

Amy’s mouth sets in a firm, white line, lipstick bunching in a wavy wiggle between her lips.

“Fine.” A long sigh comes out of Carol as she thrusts her left hand at me. “Here.”

I look. It’s like any other hand, the fingernails a little out of date on the manicure, her index and ring fingers exactly the same length, her pinkie finger --

“OH MY GOD!” I gasp, grabbing her hand. “You have an extra finger!” The tiny, slim appendage is attached to the outside of Carol’s pinkie finger, a little fingernail at the tip, hardly larger than the size of half a Tic Tac. It’s a miniature version of a pinkie finger, and it’s adorable.

A long, aggrieved sigh pours forth from Carol. She’s clearly had to deal with this kind of response her entire life. “Yes.”

“How did I not know this?”

Amy gives Carol a knowing look. “Because we’re sworn to secrecy.”

“Marie is incapable of keeping a secret.”

“I made her. She pinkie promised,” Carol insists.

I snort. Can’t help it. If I can’t control my giggles at funerals, I definitely am not mature enough to let that accidental pun escape my inner teen.

“She really did!” Carol’s indignant now. “When I was five and went off to kindergarten and Mark Rufujian made fun of my finger and nicknamed me Stubbie, I came home and told Mom I wanted to cut off my hand. That was the first time I realized I was really different. Mom was home juggling two little ones and I was insistent. Even went out to Dad’s shed and found a saw.”

The image of five-year-old Carol holding a handsaw conjures up a few Stephen King movies.

“She told me we could go to a hospital and a doctor would cut it off. We even went to a few doctors and they carefully explained that they could do the operation, but I might lose movement in my pinkie and ring fingers. I was already playing piano by then, and Dad patiently explained the consequences of the surgery. That night I made them both pinkie swear -- ”

Snicker.

Carol glares at me, but continues. “ -- never to talk about it. Amy and Shannon have had it drummed into them since they were little.”

“But how have I known you all these years and never noticed?” My mind searches through the archives of all my interactions with Carol. “Hey – wait a minute! You wear fingerless gloves all the time.”

“The Madonna years were good to me.”

“So you don’t really suffer from constant cold hands?”

She shakes her head.

“Jeffrey is a blabbermouth like Marie. How did you keep him quiet?”

“Bribery,” Amy and Carol say in unison.

I look at her hand again. It’s not obvious. I can see how she’s hidden it all these years. It’s obscure, yet now that I’ve noticed it, I can’t unsee.

Can’t stop staring.

“Do you feel it?”

“No.”

“Does it hurt?”

“No.”

“Does it come to life at night while you’re in bed and try to strangle you?” Amy asks.

Carol shuts her up with pursed lips and a sarcastic, “Where is that lost virginity t-shirt, Amy?”

Before Amy can cut her sister down, I speak up. “Stubbie, huh?” I can’t help myself. I have to ask.

“I know ye’re not talking about me,” Hamish says loudly. “Which of yer boyfriends did ye nickname Stubbie?” He says the word with a long O, like “stoobie.”

A sharp yank on my arm snaps me out of my fascination with Hamish’s mouth, a marvel of nature that really ought to be a crime. Lush lips with a thick beard, groomed into a neat goatee in the off season, the guy exudes sex -- but add in that voice. The way his lip curls when he teases.

“Hello,” says Andrew, who sees me watching his cousin. He glares at Hamish as he pulls me away, hand going to my ass. “You’re looking at the wrong McCormick.”

“What?”

He’s a little rough as his hand slides up my skirt, tickling my thigh. “You made me a promise. Time to fulfill your commitment.” The words comes out in a whisper, hot breath against my neck as he moves in behind me, pressing hard enough for me to feel his erection.

“My what?” Alcohol and Hamish intoxication leave me a little stupid, I’ll admit, but I like where this is going.

The spin and kiss catch me off guard, Andrew’s power so strong I drop my empty wine glass, thankful for the thick Persian rug beneath our feet in the hallway. His hold on me is so tight, so passionate. He’s holding me off the ground, arms like banded steel, tongue like hot, molten lava in my mouth, setting me ablaze.

“Where’s your bedroom?” I gasp, needing him in me, now.

“Upstairs.” He grabs my hand and pulls me, running, up a set of stairs as a double-spiral staircase unfolds before us, all marble and polished wood. My heels clatter on the stone stairs, the sound like my heartbeat, skipping madly.

The body memorizes its way when it walks the same paths repeatedly, and Andrew’s body is a machine, knowing exactly where it’s going. Each ankle pivot, every brush of fingers against railings, the final door opening under his hand as I sense it all in one long blur of rush and exhilaration. I’m on my back, a cool comforter greeting the bare backs of my legs, and then Andrew’s kissing every bit of bare skin along my collarbone, his hips between my legs, his shirt unbuttoned, collar dragging against my jaw as he comes in for a real kiss.

“What’s the hurry?” I finally say through panting breaths, body ready to explode. “We have plenty of time. It’s not like we’re hiding in Declan’s walk-in closet to squeeze in a quickie.”

“It’s exactly like that. Only better.”

“Better?”

“Because you’re about to exorcize all those years of fapping.”

“Fapping?”

“Do you have any idea how many times I jerked off in this bed, Amanda?”

I don’t want to take a black light to this comforter, do I?

“Is that rhetorical, or are you asking me to compute that number?”

“Take the teen years, multiply by 365 days, then estimate how many times a day I fantasized about girls...”

“So a few thousand?”

“Radical underestimate.”

“Geez. How often do teen guys masturbate?”

“Is that a trick question?”

“I mean, more than once a day? Isn’t that overkill?”

“Have you ever been a teen boy?”

“No.”

“I can tell. Trust me. Whatever number you’re thinking, multiply it by a factor of five.”

“You never fantasized about me, though. Not in this bed.”

“No. Plenty of times in my own bed at my place, but no. Not here.”

“If you did have a fantasy about me, what would it be?”

“I can’t pick just one. It would be like choosing a favorite child,” he says, completely serious.

“I wish I’d known you then,” I say, my bare inner thigh scratching against the wool fabric of his pants, our bodies delightfully inelegant as we make out on top of his bed, disheveled and not caring one whit. Our eyes meet and I brush his hair off his forehead, reading his face. “I wish I’d known you when you were younger.”

“I was a pompous jerk. You would have hated me.” He props himself up on one hand and looks down at me, face eager and open. “I can’t believe we’re really doing this.”

“Making out? It’s not exactly novel for us.”

“Having sex in here. I have a girl in my bed and we’re about to do it.” He bites his lower lip, raises his eyebrows, and does an impressive imitation of a teen boy.

I laugh so hard I nearly push him off the bed.

“You’re adorable.”

“You’re amazing. I wish I’d known you in high school, too.”

“If you had, you’d have ignored me.”

“What? No. No way.”

“You would have been the rich, popular kid. I was a band geek.”

“Every high school movie starts that way, Amanda.”

“Oh, I know. Trust me. I’ve memorized every geeky-girl-gets-the-hot-guy movie out there. Sixteen Candles. She’s All That. American Pie. Ten Things I Hate About You. You name it, I’ve seen it, know all the best lines, and I’ve written really melodramatic poetry in a journal somewhere about it. But that’s fantasy. Not reality.”

He moves against me, our clothes snagging, his shirt riding up, belly touching mine. Andrew is taking his time, the delay intriguingly sublime. We can be naked and making love in seconds, any time we want. Delaying it and opening up to each other about years long gone feels like a new kind of foreplay. “We both have teenagers trapped inside us. All those years of wanting.”

“It wasn’t about the sex,” I start to explain.

“It was for me!”

I chuckle, simultaneously present-day Amanda and transported back in time ten years ago, when I was Mandy. He punctuates his protest by taking my left breast into his mouth, a teasing tweak ending with my moan. There’s no rhyme or reason to any of our movements, no sexual choreography at all. Pure joy and forbidden fruit drive us to touch each other because we can.

“Both of our fantasies are coming true right now,” I say. “Did you ever imagine you’d find love like we have? Like this?”

His answer is wordless as he enters me, mouth soft and wet, slow and tantalizing. The juxtaposition of the slowness with his racing heart pressed up against my breast makes this all the sweeter. My nose fills with the faded scent of Drakkar Noir and I’m transported back to my own teen years. So awkward. So needy. So yearning.

Andrew stops, looking deep into my eyes, studying me as we make love, the power building with each stroke, my thighs tingling as he moves, gripping his hips, widening for him. Having illicit sex, half clothed and skin starved, is its own kind of glory, one I’m finding irresistible.

“All of my fantasies are coming true every day I spend with you,” he says. “Every damn one. You’re everything I ever hoped for and more.”

There it is again, that timeless sense I only feel with him. Clothed or naked, angry or happy – it doesn’t matter. Just him. Only Andrew.

Only us.

I move against him, arching up, bowing my body to get closer. Our kisses alter course, the rising crest coming soon, Andrew’s breath turning to short groans that impel me to come join him, catch up to the climax so we can share in ecstasy together. What started as an intimate joke, an impish interlude to fulfill a horny teenage boy’s memory has gone deeper, and as I whimper beneath him, struggling not to make too much noise as I come, I bite his shirt collar, tasting salt and, I swear, a little Drakkar Noir.

“Amanda,” he groans, nose in my hair, strong arms holding him from crushing me, his thick strokes coming in long and hard until he tenses and we both go to a safe place where words aren’t needed, blood pumping hard, nerves tingling until they’re spent. His chest expands as he breathes hard, the buttons pulling against their buttonholes, the stress of his effort coming out in heartbreakingly beautiful ways.

I kiss his jaw, enjoying his disheveled self above me, brow tight and eyes unfocused as Andrew lets himself be. In my arms, he isn’t a CEO or a son or a brother or a media figure. He’s a half-naked guy who smells incredible, who just kissed every inch of my skin that is bare while we made love in his childhood bed and tipped our hats to his adolescent (wet) dreams.

And I’m wearing his engagement ring.

“How was that?” I ask, dragging my fingertip down his jaw, the emerging end-of-day stubble that of a mature man.

“So much better than humping a hole in a rolled up towel.”

I whack him on the shoulder. “Oh, you smooth-talking man, you. So glad I can act as an upgrade.”

“Honesty is the best policy. What did your teenage self think?”

“My teenage self was more obsessed with being kissed in public and going to prom and dancing than she was with how it would feel to have sex with a guy in his bedroom. But my current self is very pleased.”

“Current self is the one who matters.” He reaches for my hand and threads our fingers, staring at the stone in my engagement ring. “Soon you’ll have a wedding band next to that.”

“And you’ll wear one, too,” I remind him.

He closes his eyes, inhaling slowly, the muscles of his face relaxed. His skin is red, still colored by exertion, and his hair is a mess. “My old room. Feels so weird to be in here and with you at the same time. Good weird, but weird. I half expect my mom to walk in and tell me to do my homework.”

“You don’t talk about her very much.”

“That’s because it hurts.”

I kiss his cheek gently, knowing I can’t say the right words to make any of this better. Silence and presence are more precious. Right now, giving him me is the best I can do.

A shout, raucous and cheerful, rises up from the party downstairs.

“We should get back to the gathering.” We peel away from each other, Andrew pivoting to the side of the bed, standing to pull up his pants and tuck in his shirt. I watch him put himself back together again with the same hands that just dismantled me, then I take in the room.

“Angelina Jolie?” I comment, pointing to a Lara Croft poster.

“Oh, yeah. Hot as hell when I was a tween. Still is.”

“That’s your female obsession? A woman with six kids?”

“She didn’t have six kids when she was Lara Croft, but yeah,” he says softly. “I could handle a woman with lots of kids.”

“How many is lots?”

“Six is lots.”

“You want six kids?”

“I have two brothers. I’m from a family of three kids. I’d be happy with three or four.”

I press my hand against my belly, below my navel. “Four?”

“And a mix of kids. Boys and girls.”

“Really?”

“Every guy needs a daughter to spoil. ‘Daddy’s little girl’ and all that.”

My heart seizes all at once, as if someone reached through my bones with a fishing lure and hooked it with a great big yank. I can’t breathe. How can I breathe when my heart’s been ripped out of my body by words that remind me of what I never had?

Andrew’s back is to me. He’s tucking in his shirt, chattering away about kids and joking, his voice rising with amusement. He doesn’t know I’m dying, inches away, my throat closed with emotion and fat tears littering the bones of my face, pooling in my ears. A dull pain starts in my gut, rising up until it turns into a loud sound, so hard to push down that nausea is the only way it can settle.

The pressure is too great. I let out a sob.

He turns and looks at me, alarm turning his face from the relaxed happiness I was so proud to trigger in him to a horrified worry.

“What’s wrong? Did I hurt you? Was the sex – did I -- ?”

“No,” I choke out. “I’m not hurt.”

“Like hell you’re not. Something is wrong. What is it?” His soothing arms wrap around me. I’m still half dressed, his put-together self a stark contrast to my unkempt appearance.

“Kids.”

“You don’t want kids?”

“I do. Talking about daughters. Daddies and daughters. It made me think,” I say, trying not to cry. “Made me think about my dad.”

He tenses, then relaxes, shoulders slumping with emotion. “I didn’t even think about what I was saying. I’m so sorry. Of course it would hurt you. Oh, Amanda, I was just thinking about us. Kids. Our kids. Our daughter.”

“I know.”

“But it was insensitive.”

“No, It wasn’t. It hit me in a way I’ve never thought about before. This is the first time I thought about our daughter. Your daughter. That one day, I could have your daughter. And she’d have you for a daddy. She’d be your ‘Daddy’s little girl.’ We’re going to give her something I never had.”

“We’re going to give our kids many, many things we never had.”

“Doesn’t every parent say that, though? And then plenty of them fail.”

“There is no son or daughter that we could ever produce who won’t have me in their life forever.”

“I know.” I can’t say what comes to mind. I can’t.

Andrew says it for me.

“And I’d imagine my mother thought that, too. When she was alive.” His words are devastating. His solar plexus curls in as if he’s punched himself. We both have these unexpected soft spots inside us.

“How would she have handled our wedding?” I ask on impulse. “If she were alive?”

“What you’re really asking is how she would have handled Dad.”

“I guess.”

“She’d have spent most of her time getting to know Pam and you. Mom had her own social calendar manager. Like an assistant. Joanie would have done most of the legwork and scheduling. And Mom would have told Dad to ‘stop this nonsense’ and go back to doing what he does best.”

“Being a CEO?”

“Yeah.” His eyes are troubled. “Maybe that’s part of the problem.”

“What?”

“That he’s not CEO of Anterdec anymore. He has too much time on his hands, and more than enough money to get himself in trouble.”

Muffled giggles outside Andrew’s door makes us both turn and look. Then a thump.

“Someone’s out there,” I hiss, pulling myself together.

“So? The door’s locked. And it’s not like we’re going to get grounded or have our phones taken away for doing it.”

“Would you stop saying ‘doing it’?”

He grabs my hands, pinning them at my side. “Doing it,” he taunts, rubbing his chin against my neck. “Doing it,” he teases as he lets one hand go and finds my breast. “Doing it -- ”

“Declan!” That’s Shannon’s voice. It’s followed by a deep moan from a man. The wall shakes, making two framed awards on Andrew’s wall go askew.

More giggles. More moans. More wall thumps.

“Oh, for God’s sake!” Andrew groans.

“Looks like you weren’t the only brother with the whole teenage boy fantasy thing going on. Is that Declan’s bedroom?” I ask, pointing to the wall where the sounds are now coming from.

“Yeah.” Andrew rolls his eyes as he buttons up his shirt. “But we were first.”

“It’s not a competition!”

“Everything is a competition when it comes to Declan. We beat him to it.”

I am speechless.

Andrew crosses the room and bangs on the wall. “WE WERE HERE FIRST!” he shouts.

“What are you doing? Are you crazy?”

“WE DID IT FIRST! I WIN!”

Oh, my God.

A muffled man’s voice comes through the wall.

“FIRST DOESN’T MATTER! QUALITY DOES!”

“STOP IT!” Shannon shouts.

“STOP IT!” I echo.

Andrew’s ignoring me, staring at the wall.

And then:

“No!” Shannon says in a weird voice. “Don’t stop that!”

“You two. I can’t stand it,” I huff, finishing putting myself together. “I can’t believe you-you-you just announced to the world that we had sex in your bedroom and that you view this as some prize you won in a contest with your brother!”

“Because it is,” Andrew says slowly, eyes raking over my body. “I won the lottery with you.”

“You’re a billionaire! You don’t need to win the lottery!”

“The love lottery.”

The what?

“Besides,” he adds, “you do realize everyone knows we have sex. That’s not a secret.”

“I know they know, but you don’t need to holler about it through the walls! And you definitely don’t need to use it as some sort of demented form of one-upsmanship!”

More shouts filter through the wall, all Declan.

“Shhhh,” Andrew says, listening intently.

“Oh, baby. That’s right,” Declan’s calling out, obviously shouting intentionally so we can hear him. “It’s so big. I know it won’t fit, but you still have to try – OW! Why did you hit me?”

The sound of feet on the floor and a woman muttering obscenities comes through the wall. Then a door opens. I open Andrew’s bedroom door and peek my head out into the hallway to find a very angry Shannon putting on her shoes.

Our eyes meet.

“Men!” we say at the same time.

“McCormick men,” she elaborates.

“Amen. I need more wine to deal with this,” I tell her. And with that, we storm off down the staircase, both guys coming out of their rooms, arguing behind us.

“Are they always going to be like this?” I ask in despair.

“Yes.” She fluffs her hair and looks at me, biting her lips, trying not to laugh.

“What have we gotten ourselves into?”

“Love?” she says, shrugging.

Yeah.

That.