Meeting the Family

Now

“SO, AUNTNancy,” Trey Novak said proudly, “this is Dewey Saunders. I told you I’d bring him to meet you before we moved in together.”

Nancy Armstrong was the fiftyish, interesting kind of aunt, an artist with an eclectically furnished apartment in half a converted Victorian in Midtown Sacramento. She lived in the upstairs and used the downstairs for her crystal and tarot shop and art gallery, where she did readings and life coaching in the mornings. She had a lion’s mane of streaked brown-and-blond hair and squirrel-bright brown eyes in a face that had seen a life lived her way and a few boyfriends she’d rather forget, as well as the one she was living with now, who she was pretty happy to remember.

“Trey,” Nan said, standing on tiptoes to give him a hug. “Dewey! So nice to meet you!” She gestured into her apartment, which had been the nightmare and wonder of Trey’s adulthood because it was a collection of spindly-legged end tables and collectible shelves, each with its share of tchotchkes and dust catchers, none of which had more than a one in a hundred chance of surviving any sort of fall intact. Trey—who had met and come to treasure Nan when he’d moved to Sacramento for school—had both loved and feared visiting here in equal measure, until one day the unthinkable happened and he’d tripped and taken out an entire coffee table, reducing it to tiny sticks and attractive rubble. Nancy had laughed, salvaged what could be saved, and thrown away the rest, patting Trey on the cheek and telling him it was a sign to hit another garage sale and pull some more treasures from storage. She was just glad he wasn’t hurt. The moment had helped establish Nan as the parent he wished he’d had, but he was still really careful about her apartment.

Now Trey settled himself at her dining room table, which featured an assortment of cushioned chairs, at least three chosen specifically with his six-foot athletic build in mind. Dewey, who stood a slender five foot eight, settled daintily on a delicate Georgian creation, while Trey took the farmhouse special.

“Would you like rose-hip tea?” she asked, and for a moment, Trey got excited, because he loved rose-hip tea.

“Trey likes coffee with lots of milk and sugar,” Dewey said with confidence, and Nan met Trey’s eyes across the table.

“Of course,” she said, eyes narrowing a little. “I should have remembered. You, Dewey?”

“Same,” he said. “It’s weird—it’s like we like our coffee exactly the same way.”

“That is weird,” she said, and Trey tried not to fidget. “So, Dewey, Trey never did tell me how you two met. One minute he was the world’s loneliest soccer coach and the next you two were going out to a movie. He’s not exactly Mr. Smooth. How did that happen?”

“We just started talking—” Trey said, trying to get the version out there that was unfettered with details, dressing; that is, the truth.

“Well, he was in this coffee shop where I work, Bean There. Have you heard of it?”

Nan blinked slowly and gave Trey a sly glance. “Yes. Yes, in fact, I have heard of it. Sort of a, erm, meeting place—”

“Meat market,” Dewey said unrepentantly. “I know. The young and beautiful go there for their hookups and their Tindr and Grindr dates. It’s partly why I applied there, besides the, uhm, needing a job thing.”

“You through with college?” Nan asked, and Trey was in no position to hiss at her to not be an education snob.

“Yeah, but I’m not sure if I want to go back and get my credential,” Dewey said. “Love my education, but art history majors don’t have many options.”

Nan made a greedy little moue in Trey’s direction, because he knew he’d brought her a particularly juicy bunny to eat. “Art history, you say?” she almost purred. “Do tell. I’ve been looking for someone to help me circulate the art on my walls in the shop downstairs for ages.”

Dewey nodded—Trey had filled him in. “I heard about your last assistant. Uhm, sorry?”

She grimaced. “Don’t be. Caitlyn was Caitlyn’s fault. But you know the deal, right? I run a crystal/tarot shop, but the wall space doubles as a gallery, and I’m always hoping for more local artists to sell for.” She practically licked her whiskers. “So tell me more about your art history degree….”

Dewey laughed and started to talk about his favorite art periods, and while he spoke, Nan busied herself at the old-fashioned white electric stove. The entire kitchen was done retro—the floorboards were painted white, the mats under the sink and the tablecloth on the big white-painted farmhouse table were blue gingham. Trey often thought that if his aunt had the money for it, she’d wear those full-skirted house dresses.

“I mean, look at him! Can you even believe his dating-app candidate would stand him up?” Dewey asked, and Trey twitched. How had Dewey gotten there from art history?

Nan’s eyes widened to saucer size, and she almost choked on her tea. “No,” she said, her eyeballs practically beating Morse code inside his head. “No. I honestly can’t believe a dating-app candidate would stand him up.”

Trey gave a sheepish smile and hid behind his favorite mug. “Stranger things,” he murmured.

“Indeed,” Nan said, her voice Sahara-desert dry. “But do go on, Dewey. I want to hear the rest of the story.”

“It was great,” Dewey said. “See, what happened was this….”