She gestures to the equally boozy-looking white woman on her right, who is sucking on what appears to be a vape pen. Likely to be high, indeed. To each octogenarian her own, I guess.

Laverne Prescott is wearing a Patagonia vest over a moisture-wicking button-down, a pair of patterned yoga pants, and Crocs with socks. She barely comes up to my shoulders, but her hug is just as soft and just as comforting as she wraps her arms around my middle. “Um, I was very sorry to hear about your recent loss,” I say, stupidly and uselessly to a woman who just lost her husband of almost thirty years.

But Lovey’s only response is, “You’re so tall! Pah! That’s the last thing I need! Another granddaughter to tower over me.”

My heart flutters at the base of my throat. Granddaughter.

And really, did Richard Prescott’s entire family despise him?

“Oh, well. I guess I’ll just have to get used to it. I’m doomed to a family of giants. Can I get you something to drink?” Lovey offers with her head still pressed against my shoulder. “Barbara made sangria.”

“You absolutely need sangria!” Meemaw announces, and she’s somehow conjured a glass of sangria to thrust into my hand. “Now! Andrew tells us you’re an artist. I’ve just recently gotten into glassblowing, and I found this instructor in Lake Oswego. He’s got an ass like a peach and hands like Michelangelo. Have you ever worked with glass? Or Italian men?”

I shake my head.

“Barbara, let the girl catch her breath,” Lovey scolds as she takes another hit off her vape.

Meemaw ignores her. “Ellie. That’s a pretty name. Short for Elizabeth?”

“Elena.”

Meemaw studies me for a moment, one eyebrow quirked. “Ah. Well, I can’t believe this one is finally settling down.” She thrusts a thumb at Andrew, who is casually standing back by the front door with an expression of gentle amusement. “Never thought he’d stop ho’ing around.”

“Hello, Meemaw.” Andrew smiles. “It’s always a pleasure to be harassed by you. And Lovey.” Andrew accepts two kisses from Meemaw before he stoops to embrace Lovey. The latter presses a papery hand to Andrew’s cheek, and the gesture is so tender, I have to look away.

The house smells like pine cones and winter spices, and John Lennon is crooning, “So this is Christmas,” over a speaker system, and he’s right. This is Christmas, the way I’ve always seen it in movies but never experienced firsthand. Grandmas who greet you with warm hugs. Holly up the banister and mistletoe in all the doorways, a collection of illuminated porcelain houses along a buffet table. Later, I will draw this place like a fucking Norman Rockwell painting. It makes me oddly nostalgic for something I’ve never had.

“Come along, now.” Meemaw loops her arm through mine. “Katherine is dying to meet you.”