“You don’t care to make people like you, to go into good society, and cultivate your manners and tastes.”
—Little Women
The difference between a staff dinner and a family meal was that the former took place in the prefab building that housed the café, right next to the matching gift shop. I’d voted no when Mom had first presented the idea of taking out a line of credit to expand, because we’d already spent a ton fixing up the old barn that came with the property, but everyone else loved the idea. (Final tally: 4–1. Mom claimed that since she was the only parent on-site, she should have two votes, which was fairly typical of my family’s grasp of math.) So far the food and souvenirs mostly paid for themselves because the profit margin on candy was obscene, but it was only a matter of time before the bottom fell out of the retro lollipop market, no matter what my mother claimed about the “sassafras renaissance.”
I cut across the overgrown grass between our house and the restaurant. The only people inside were my mother, Amy, and the heavily mustached guy who ran the local historical society. Apparently, their quarterly newsletter counted as “media.”
Hudson of the cool jeans was nowhere in sight, not that I’d really expected otherwise. Maybe it wasn’t too late to bail. Having seen the history guy eat through that mustache like a whale inhaling krill, I had no desire for a repeat.
“Jo!” my mother called, stopping me in my tracks. “You’re here!”
Amy grunted at me before returning her attention to the buffet table. She’d changed out of her costume . . . into a different costume. Which was less disturbing than the way she was rooting through the massive aluminum pan of fried chicken with one hand, despite the prominently displayed tongs.
I was debating whether to run over and grab a few pieces before she could touch them all when a pair of beefy arms wrapped around me from behind.
“There you are,” said the voice in my ear. And it was right in my ear, since the person pinning me against his chest was also nuzzling my neck.
My heel slammed down on his toes and I was abruptly released.
“Dang, Jo!” Laurie wheezed as I spun to face him. As usual, our leading man looked like he’d stepped out of a photo shoot, the sleeves of his immaculate polo shirt stretched tight around his biceps. “That hurt.”
“Weird.” I screwed up my face in mock confusion. “It’s almost like there were negative consequences to rubbing yourself all over me.”
“I thought you’d be happy to see me.”
“We go to the same school. I see you all the time.”
He flashed his winning smile. “That’s different.”
This was true in the sense that I magically became invisible to him the second I walked through the doors of our high school. Probably he had trouble seeing me through his crowds of followers.
In Little Women, the neighbor and sometime love interest of Jo March is introduced as having black hair and brown skin, which back then probably translated to “vaguely Mediterranean-looking.” Our Laurie fit the same general description, only he was Black, not half-Italian. Like the character he played, modern-day Laurie was charming and popular, thanks to his self-described “triple threat” status, his weapons being football, acting, and hotness, not necessarily in that order.
Unlike the Little Women version, our Laurie wasn’t an aimless playboy. He had serious acting ambitions, which explained his willingness to spend his summers with us, since there weren’t many other theatrical gigs in town. And his real name wasn’t Laurie—his parents were optometrists, not Little Women obsessives—but he’d decided the first summer he worked here to use his character’s name offstage, too, as part of his “total immersion” in the role.
He held his arms wide. “Come on, JoJo. Bring it in. You know you want to.”
“Because my self-esteem is just that low.”
“You’d probably feel better about yourself if you showered,” Laurie suggested, in a tone of sincere helpfulness.
“Thanks for the tip.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Meg chose that moment to float into the dining area, ethereal even in yoga pants. She was wearing a crown of dried flowers. My older sister had spent the day in a comfortable chair, having her hair done for a fictional wedding, as opposed to being attacked by a berserker with a bad bleach job.
“She still single?” Laurie asked as Meg headed for the buffet.
“Are you seriously checking out my sister? Point-five seconds after you were all over me?”
“Just trying to read the room, Jo. Cast dynamics are important. And yeah, she’s cute—” He broke off with a grunt when my elbow connected with his rib cage.
“Why are you so violent?”
“For your information, yes, she and David are still broken up. Which sucks.” Although the problem wasn’t so much the end of their relationship as the fact that the relationship had happened in the first place, in my humble opinion.
“She looks fine to me.”
I raised my elbow; Laurie flinched.
“Emotionally, Jo. Geez.”
Frowning, I watched Meg fill a plate with coleslaw and dinner rolls, a.k.a. the vegetarian menu. Laurie wasn’t wrong. My sister seemed to have moved on as easily as water running downhill.
“It probably bothers us more than Meg,” I admitted. David had always been a favorite around our house. Thoughtful, reliable, aware of other people—everything my older sister wasn’t.
Laurie caressed his impressively defined deltoid. “I’m here if you need a shoulder to cry on.”
“Tempting, but what I really need right now is food.”
“It’s not my cheat day,” he sighed, peering over my shoulder at the buffet, “but I guess I can pull the skin off.” Probably even Laurie knew he was going to eat every crispy fried mouthful. And lick his fingers afterward.
Once we’d served ourselves, he followed me to a table, prompting Amy to get up and join us.
“Why are you dressed like that?” she asked me as she pulled out a chair.
I looked down at the jeans and faded T-shirt I’d changed into before coming to dinner, on the off chance someone interesting showed up. “You mean, why am I wearing normal clothes from this century?”
“If you say so.”
“Yeah, it’s too bad I’m not hot off the rural Massachusetts runway, give or take a century.”
“Guys! Please.” Laurie held up both hands, like our bickering was too much for him. “What about me?”
“You’re right,” I said. “That was immature. I shouldn’t sink to her level.”
“No, what about my outfit? I wasn’t sure about the color”—he ran a hand over the minty-green cotton encasing his stomach muscles—“but I think it’s working for me.”
“Totally,” Amy agreed. She closed her lips around a gigantic mouthful of potato salad, then slowly dragged it off the fork. From the way she stared at Laurie the whole time, I guessed it was supposed to be seductive. Watch me gobble this side salad, baby.
He glanced at his plate, expression troubled. “Do you think they use full-fat mayo?”
“I think it’s whatever you want it to be,” she replied.
“Except that there’s this concept known as reality, and it’s full of these things called ‘facts.’” I added air quotes around the last word, because it was better than flicking my sister in the forehead.
Amy wrinkled her nose. “What’s your point?”
“The mayonnaise is either ‘lite’ or it isn’t.” It was hard to believe I had to say things like this out loud. Then again, it wasn’t even the most absurd thing I’d argued about with my family that day. “You can’t make it something else with the power of positive thinking.”
“Like you’d know anything about that,” Amy muttered, earning an appreciative chortle from Laurie.
“I know, right?” He lifted his free hand for a fist bump. “Little Miss Glass Half-Empty over here.”
“I’m not little. Or a miss.”
“Uh, unless you got married, JoJo, you’re totally a miss.”
“She’s definitely not a hit.” Amy pointed at Laurie.
“Oh, snap,” he said, shaking out his hand.
“I would play Jo a lot more free-spirited.”
“I am Jo,” I reminded her.
Amy rolled her eyes. “Barely.”
“I’m talking about myself. The real person. You can’t be a better version of me than me, because I’m Jo. Period. Not somebody else’s fictional alter ego.”
“Exactly.” Amy ripped her roll in two, gesturing at me with the bigger half. “Too much you. Not enough Jo March. Also known as the cool Jo.”
Laurie helped himself to the other half of her roll. Anyone else who raided her plate would have lost a finger. “That’s pretty harsh, Ames.”
Good to know being me was an insult. Maybe I should take my plate back to the house and eat in my room. When I glanced at the buffet to make sure I hadn’t missed dessert, the man from the historical society was ladling ranch dressing over his chicken.
“Can I have the rest of yours?” Laurie asked when I made an involuntary gagging noise, shoving my plate away.
Before I could reply, the front door opened. A woman I’d never seen before walked into the café. Her face was serious beneath the reddish pixie cut, and her clothes—a leather blazer and pristine white shirt—had an unfussy elegance so alien to the surroundings, she might as well have been wearing a space suit. I put her age at a decade or so older than my mother. Either that or the network of fine lines surrounding her eyes were the result of prolonged exposure to sun and wind, without a calico bonnet.
Mom hurried to meet her. The two of them exchanged a few words I couldn’t hear as they crossed to the front of the room.
“Can I have your attention please?” Mom called out, waiting for everyone to look her way. The guy from the historical society paused in the act of shoving plastic silverware into his pocket. “As some of you know, I have exciting news.”
Amy’s nod was so over-the-top, she might as well have bounced up and down chanting, I know! I know! Me me me! It was probably something trivial like a new flavor of lemonade. Although that didn’t explain the mystery woman.
“It’s my pleasure to introduce Andrea Coster. You’ve probably seen her byline in major national magazines.” A trace of doubt crossed our mother’s face as her gaze fell on Meg, who wasn’t exactly known for her keen interest in current events. “Ms. Coster is considering us for a possible feature story about family-run attractions.”
The red-haired woman gave a microscopic nod.
“I hope you’ll all help her get a feel for the very special environment we’ve created here.” Mom smiled, but not quite broadly enough to disguise the hint of pleading. This wasn’t news; it was the faint possibility of something newsworthy happening in the future, if we didn’t screw up. “Let’s have a round of applause for our very special guest.”
A delayed and embarrassingly out-of-sync wave of clapping petered out after a few seconds.
“Call me Andrea,” the woman said. My gaze snagged on her low-heeled boots, the camel-colored suede worn without looking ratty. I was glad my clearance Converse were hidden under the table. “I’ll try not to get in your way.”
I could tell my mother wanted more. A little gushing, or, even better, our guest clutching her chest as she keeled over from the ecstasy of it all. “I’m sure I speak for all of us when I say what an honor it is to have you here.” Mom glanced over her shoulder as the door creaked open. “And your assistant, of course.”
The word assistant was still pinging around my brain when Hudson stepped up beside Andrea, lifting his hand in a self-conscious wave. My stomach roller-coastered as I mentally replayed our brief conversation. Not to mention his front-row seat for the brawl on the parlor floor.
“I love that this is a family affair on all sides,” Mom continued, with a sweeping gesture that seemed to indicate a much larger audience than the one actually present. “Mother and daughters, and mother and son.” And of course I saw it then: the unmistakable resemblance between Hudson and Andrea, and not just in attitude and style of clothing.
I caught Hudson’s eye, and he flashed me a quick grin. Another wash of pink colored his cheeks as he stuck his hands in his pockets.
Laurie leaned in to me. “Why are you looking at him like that?”
“Like what?”
He batted his lashes, doing something duck-face-adjacent with his lips.
“I guarantee you my face is not doing that.”
“You know what I mean. Like you know him. Or you’re secretly laughing about something. Even though nobody said anything funny.” Laurie bit his lip, obviously wondering whether he’d missed a joke. He would be an incredibly easy person to gaslight.
“We met him before.” Amy didn’t bother lowering her voice. “He’s nowhere near as handsome as you.”
The anxious wrinkle between Laurie’s brows disappeared. “That’s cool.”
Amy frowned as I pushed my chair back. “Where are you going?”
“To say hello to our guests.”
“Oh no you don’t.” She leaped to her feet. “Not without me.”
“I guess I’ll come too. She might want to ask me some questions.” Laurie cupped a hand in front of his chin, sniffing his breath before flashing a thumbs-up.
As we approached the front of the restaurant, Mom’s eyes met mine, tentative at first. I could almost hear the thought forming in her brain: Even Jo is excited!
She wasn’t wrong, although I was pretty sure we had different reasons. Maybe this was the best Mom and I could hope for: being happy about separate things at the same time.