Page 55 of Have a Bear-y Little Christmas
“What kind of old love?” Jahmoni countered. The chemistry and comfortability of the family was so apparent that it was putting my high-strung ass at ease. “Old love, as in two elderly people falling in love? Old love, as in people who have been in love a long time?”
“Both of ’em!”
“Really?” I asked as I placed four deviled eggs on my plate. Normally, I would consider that a touch selfish, but since there were seven different types, I didn’t feel bad. And next? The collard greens! “Would you care to elaborate?”
“Well,” Cuz continued. “The way I look at it, when you’re young everything is all fresh and new, you got that energy, youain’t been beaten down by the world yet,ça va?But us older folks? We’ve been around a time or two, had our bumps and bruises, and we’re tired. So, when two people manage to get past all of that and make somethingbonnetogether, I think that’s real special.
“Now, as for old love as people who have been in love for some long-ass time? I mean, that should be obvious. That’s special. Worth cherishin’, the way I see it.”
“That’s really beautiful,” I said.
I had been so busy with my nose down, trying to get through the grind and see my son safely through a really rough patch, that I hadn’t even put thought into what it would be like to be old and gray with someone I trusted more than anything else. Before, I would have thought it was impossible.
Now? Maybe not so much.
Funny how things changed like that, wasn’t it?
“That’s high praise coming from Jeannie,” Remy said. “Seeing as she’s a professional editor and all.”
“Oh,isyou now?” Jahmoni asked, her cheerful grin somehow going even wider. “Well, now wegottatalk! I’ve just finished reading this five-book series I was completely obsessed with, let me tell you, but I swear to high heaven that the last two books sound like they’re written by someone entirely different.”
“Probably because they were.”
“Whatcha mean?”
“The publishing industry is struggling, so it’s not uncommon for authors who are popular enough to hire ghostwriters to write books for them or alongside with them as a team effort. Part of it is to make more money by using that author’s name, but also to increase their output more than a single person can do on their own. After all, most writers cannot produce at the prolific level of Stephen King.”
“Ghostwriter? Yeah, we definitely gotta talk! Getcha food, honey, because I gotta snatch you up before all thesejoudarealize you’re here and come sniffin’!”
“Jouda?” I murmured to Remy. I felt like most of the time I could use context clues to figure things out, but not so much this time.
“Nosy Nellies. Busybodies.”
If anyone thought it was strange that I had to ask, none of them mentioned it. The conversation continued while I loaded up my plate. I would be back later with Max to make sure he got dinner, but it was impossible to resist the spread of amazing food in front of me. Besides, an afternoon meal meant that maybe, if I timed things right, I could have an evening snack without getting heartburn when I went to bed.
Ah, the joys of aging.
Naturally, the conversation didn’t stop once I got my food—not that I expected it to. Jahmoni launched into a conversation about the book series as well as what a ghostwriter was. It wasn’t like she dominated my time, though. All throughout our meal, about two dozen or so people approached, some casually introducing themselves with a quick “excuse me”, while others waited for a natural break in the conversation. Already, I could feel my brain getting a bit overloaded with names, but it helped that they were all very different from each other.
There were the francophone names, like Remy himself, Mathieu, Uncle Maurice and Auntie Lucie, as well as Auntie Annette. There were the more Spanish sounding names like Carlos, Auntie Benedita, Nana Bibiana, andAvôFrancisco.
Then there were the traditional Southern names, like Ashley (for a guy), Nash, and Auntie Birdie. Generic Americana names like Emily, Annie, John, and Chris. Then what sounded like islander names with Jahmoni, Zion, and Taliah.
The accents, slang, and mannerisms were just as blended. At first, I struggled following along with the older individuals, but as more time passed, I was able to pick up on different phrases and guess which root language they belonged to. It was kind of fun to feel my brain learn in real time, and it proved that you could teach an old dog new tricks.
All in all, it was a wonderful melting pot, and I was honored to be included.
Honored, and maybe a little overwhelmed.
Somehow, like he was locked into exactly how I felt, Remy sensed when my social battery went to shit. I was maybe halfway through my plate—my eyes having turned out to be bigger than my stomach—and people’s words were starting to sound more like the teachers from Charlie Brown than actual dialogue.
“Sorry, y’all,” he said, as charming as ever. “We gotta go check on the kiddos and make sure Ana gets a break.”
“No worries. We have been keeping you a bit.” Jahmoni patted my hand. “It has been a right blast talking to you! We’ll have to catch up later, you know, once you get settled.”
“Sounds great.”
“Here, let me take that plate and get it wrapped up in the kitchen,” Remy said, extending his hand. The idea of leftovers was most certainly a welcome one, especially since it increased my chances of the aforementioned evening snack. Was I thinking with my stomach? Yes. But that was part of the fun of the holidays. Besides, when was the next time I would have access to this kind of bounty? Most of my groceries already consisted of ramen, rice, beans, and chicken. If I did splurge on something, it was usually for Max, because his dietary needs were much more vital and complicated than mine.
