“Oh, come on, don’t get shy now. Where did you grow up?” Annabel asks.

“Here and there.”

“Very mysterious,” Granny says.

“Or criminal.” Annabel’s eyes narrow. “If you won’t tell us, we’ll make up our own stories.” She taps a finger on her bottom lip. “You’re on the lam.”

“You are mighty interested in my past. Does that mean you’re also interested in being a part of my present and future?”

She ignores him, continuing like he didn’t speak. “You were a gigolo for a rich heiress but she got too needy and you had to bail.”

“I would never run out on my obligations. Especially to a pretty lady.”

Annabel smiles. “Your parents are circus performers.”

“Just as nomadic but not as talented. I would rather hear stories about you, Ms. Annabel.”

She opens her mouth to retort.

“What about you there?” Granny eyes Beast. “Were you always so . . . large? Is that why they call you Beast?”

Beast says nothing, naturally, but his eyes swing over to Jude.

Jude speaks for him. “I would rather hear some stories about Annabel. Fitz?”

“What’s a matter there, boy? Cat got your tongue?” Granny ignores Jude, still staring at Beast.

“He doesn’t speak, ma’am,” Jude explains.

There’s a moment of silence except for the leaves rustling overhead. “Perfect. A man of few words. You’re welcome here anytime. I don’t know about the rest of you yet.”

That makes everyone laugh again, and I think even Beast rumbles a little, but it’s too low and fast to be sure.

We finish eating, then participate in a group effort to clean up the food and do the dishes. Granny puts together foil-covered plates of leftovers for us to bring back to the house.

“Ma’am, this was the best meal I’ve had in . . . well, ever,” Jude says, rubbing his stomach.

“Good. To show your appreciation, I could use some help in the barn before you go.”

“What’s in the barn?” Annabel asks.

Granny smiles. “Moonshine.”

12

Life is about balance. The good and the bad. The highs and the lows. The pina and the colada.

—Ellen DeGeneres

Fitz

“I’m making pomegranate flavor for the holidays,” Granny tells us as we’re tromping across the backyard, over the manicured lawn, and back to the giant dark-blue barn behind the house.

Never seen a blue barn.

Annabel lifts her brows. “Pomegranate moonshine?”

“It’s festive,” Granny insists.

“Is this legal?” Annabel asks.

“I have a license to distill.”

“You do?” Now Reese’s brows lift.

“Well, I did once. Probably still do. Those things don’t go bad.” She yanks on the giant barn door.

The yeasty smell of bread mixed with the tart tang of apples hits me as the door swings open. This barn isn’t used for animals, obviously, although there are a few stalls. The center of the space is taken over by large metal cylinders, barrels, and plastic tubs. Hoses in different sizes and shapes hang up on one wall alongside various tools. From where we stand near the entrance, it’s clear a couple of the stalls have been converted to an office and a storage space.