It was all I could do not to break down and weep.

Two hours later, we were all slumped in our chairs, full and groaning. Cypress House put us on an enclosed outdoor patio twinkling with white lights. It overlooked the dark ocean and a winding, lit walkway leading to a cluster of Cypress trees growing on a bluff above the water. It was really nice, but casual, just as they said. And I was surprised how easy it was to feel comfortable around the Giovannis.

Imagine that.

I laughed at family stories. Jupe and I even told a few of our own. I felt like I was part of something. Like I was welcome, and things were going to be okay after all. It was pathetic, really, how much I craved their acceptance. Rationally, I knew if I was sprawled on some doctor’s couch, delving into the deep, dark workings of my brain, I’d come to the realization that this was because of my fucked-up relationship with my fucked-up parents. Of course it was. But knowing something and experiencing it were not the same.

Lon flashed me a small, approving smile when no one was paying attention. I think I might’ve actually sighed with happiness at that smile. And as the dinner progressed, that smile changed to something bolder. He gave me pornographic looks from across the table, heavy gaze sliding to my breasts, squished inside the too-tight shirt. One of those looks gave me goose bumps, and his oh-so-smug look told me he knew. It was kind of romantic for a moment, minus being surrounded by in-laws and Jupe merrily mutilating the steaming corpses of several crabs with his wooden mallet. Though he never managed the dozen spot prawns, he made up for it in crab, and now sat between Adella and me, bellyaching.

“I think I’m going to explode,” he moaned.

“Are you really?” Adella’s hair wasn’t tied back with a scarf tonight; the shape of her poofy mass of curls was exactly the same size as Jupe’s. She poked a finger into his ribs, making him jump in his seat.

“Don’t do it, Auntie,” he pleaded. “I might throw up.”

“He might do worse than that,” Lon said after swigging the last of a beer.

“It’s true,” Jupe admitted, stifling a soft belch. “Don’t say you weren’t warned.”

A commotion somewhere inside the restaurant dragged my attention to the patio door. It swung open, and a tall African-American woman strolled onto the patio with a protesting waiter in tow. Dark glossy hair cascaded around her bare shoulders, swaying with the flowing hem of her gold and black dress. Towering on clicking, spindly heels, she came to a stop in the middle of the patio and surveyed the room. After a moment, her long, regal face turned our way to reveal almond shaped brown eyes framed by miles of lashes, and flawless nutmeg skin.

She looked like a supermodel. A supermodel with a green halo crowning her head. A green halo flecked with gold.

Yvonne Giovanni.

No no no no no.

Her eyes found Lon’s. I saw it all unfold in slow motion, as if I’d used my moon magick to slow time. Shock stretched his facial features. With a shrill pop, the neck of the brown beer bottle shattered in his hands. He didn’t even notice. His nostrils flared as he pushed to his feet, and then—

And then his face just turned to putty. His eyes went all liquid and adoring. He looked as if he’d just seen the face of God. Rapturous.

My heart stuttered inside my chest, turned black, and shriveled.

If I hadn’t been consumed by a jealous rage, I might’ve realized that what I was seeing in Lon’s face was her knack being turned on full-blast. And if I realized that, I might’ve had sense enough not to look back up at her.

But I didn’t have sense, and I did look up. And my world tilted.

I was awestruck. Reeling. I knew how Cupid must’ve felt when he looked upon Psyche after pricking himself with his own arrow. The woman who’d strolled onto the restaurant patio moments before was beautiful, but this woman—this version of Yvonne—was brighter than a star. Ravishing, beautiful, perfect. I wanted to stare at her for hours.

How could one person be so . . . divine?

For a moment, just a moment, I heard a chorus of murmurs around the table, murmurs of awe confirming the same feelings I had. Then a single, sharp voice broke through the haze.

“Yvonne Grace Giovanni! Switch that off before I come over there and knock you into the middle of next week.”

All the shiny, shiny brilliance and the beauty and the overwhelming goodness just . . . dimmed. The goddess disappeared. And a retired forty-something supermodel stood in her place. Still stunning. Still regal. But just a person.

How had Rose resisted Yvonne’s knack? Was she immune, being her mother? Or just accustomed to it? Whatever it was, Yvonne didn’t seem surprised—she just took a deep breath and spoke to her.

“Hello, Mama.”

“What in blazes are you doing here?” her mother snapped.

“It’s Christmas. I came to see my child.”

“I told you not to come!” Jupe said in a desperate voice.

Lon stepped between Yvonne and the table, as if he meant to defend all of us from some fire-breathing dragon. “You’ve been talking to him?” His brows knitted. An angry, deep line creased the middle of his forehead as he got in her face. She moved her head to the side, trying to avoid his gaze, but he moved with her, not touching her, but close. She finally gave in and stared back at him, a little defiant, a little fearful.

“She called last week,” Jupe mumbled next to me. “I should’ve told you, Dad. I’m sorry. But I told her not to come—I swear! She was asking about dinner, and—”