Back in a Spell (The Witches of Thistle Grove, #3)(53)
“Boundaries, Pops,” Meg replied, just a little testily, like this was territory that had been trod many times before. “We’re learning them, remember, and I’m the one who sets them? That’s how this parenting thing is supposed to work?”
Morty’s mother pursed her lips in amusement, flicking her eyes skyward when her daughter turned away. “Right you are, darlin’,” she said, very seriously, the suppressed playfulness even starker against the lovely lilt of her brogue. “And in this house, we respect boundaries above all else.”
Meghan cracked a grudging smile, rolling her own eyes. “You’re both impossible, you know that? I cannot even handle either of you.”
“Can ye imagine, Armando, if only we’d known of this ‘setting of boundaries’ when we were raising the likes of our two misfits?” Morty’s mother went on, thumping her husband on the shoulder for emphasis. “Instead of more like, ‘Set that down right this very instant or I’ll whack ye with a wooden spoon’?”
Marisol’s smooth forehead wrinkled, lips parting in pure astonishment. “Gram, you used to whack Mommy with a spoon? Made of wood? But hitting’s wrong!”
“Don’t worry, sunshine, Gram did not ever whack anyone with spoons of any kind,” Morty interjected, taking the opportunity to walk us both into his family’s line of sight, me slinking in behind him like a stray. “Gram just likes to talk a big game, doesn’t she? For real, Ma, don’t even pretend you were some kind of old-school disciplinarian. I’ve been respectfully ushering spiders out of the house for you since I was seven because you wouldn’t smush one to save your life.”
All eyes turned to us, the lively conversation cutting out so abruptly at the sight of me that it was as if a dial had been twisted, shutting off the natural channel of conversation and tuning us all into a painfully awkward new frequency.
“Family, this is Nina,” Morty said, eyebrows raised as he swept a pointed gaze over them. “Can you all say hello to Nina, family?”
The “like we agreed” was so implicit I could feel my cheeks throbbing with heat, practically imagine the angry splotch mottling my skin.
“Thank you so much for having me!” I jumped in, before any of them could muster a reluctant reply. Taking the conversational burden onto myself, brandishing my orchid arrangement like a shield. “Your home is beautiful. I, uh, could unwrap these for you, if you like? And I brought cake as well, for after.”
“Cake, how lovely,” Fiona commented with deceptive mildness, eyebrows lifting, though the subterranean antagonism that emanated from her was almost palpable, a solid 4 on the Richter scale. “So you bake, then, Nina? Wouldn’t have thought it.”
The subtext of “Don’t your lot have people for that?” was so deliberate it might as well have been scrawled directly into the air in hovering, sparkly letters, like a conjuration missive spell.
I swallowed hard, wondering why I’d thought gaudy orchids and purchased dessert would absolve me of my name here, where everything was clearly both homespun and made with love. I could feel Morty sense my guilt pulsing through our bond, shot through with mortification, along with the answering flare of protectiveness my emotions elicited in him. He was ready to defend me from his own family; people whom he clearly adored, and who hadn’t actually done anything wrong by me, besides being rightfully wary of my presence in their home.
I’d be damned if I was going to put him in the position of having to act as my champion here. Not when I could do that for myself, come what may.
“No, I don’t bake,” I admitted, twitching one shoulder. “It isn’t one of my strengths. But this is caramel apple cake, from my favorite vendor at Castle Camelot, and it—it really melts in your mouth, especially when warmed up. They’ve been making it the same way for almost twenty years; I remember eating it as a kid. So I thought, well. If you’re being so kind as to offer me a place at your table today, the least I could do was bring you my very favorite thing from home.”
Fiona’s gaze softened at that; even Armando seemed to relax a little, though his gruffer face gave less away. Only Meghan’s energy stayed steely, completely reserved, her bold face shuttered. She wasn’t at all sure where I stood with her yet, and until that judgment changed, she wasn’t inclined to pretend, either.
I could appreciate that kind of integrity.
“Come sit, Nina,” Armando said after a moment, motioning to the table. “Eat with us, before everything gets cold.”
“And I’m after putting that cake in the oven now,” Fiona said, pushing back from the table to come take the box from my hands. “It’ll keep lovely. And thank you for the flowers, Nina. I do always love orchids.”
* * *
Sunday lunch at Casa Gutierrez was beautiful.
It wasn’t just that everything tasted sublime, though it did. The sangria was tart and rich, the sourdough round somehow both fluffy and chewy, and the chili had an intense umami note to it, which—Morty slyly revealed, after much badgering by both me and Meghan—came down to generous dollops of peanut butter. It was also the way that the Gutierrezes treated each other, the currents of easy affection that flowed between and around them as warm as the air in the house itself. Everyone catered to Armando, refreshing his water and sangria glasses, refilling his plate for him with seconds and then thirds. The banter between Meghan and her mother maintained a teasing timbre that never tilted into anything remotely cruel. At some point, Morty and his father even got into a gentle argument about the possibility of getting a service dog for Armando.