I ignored them and Aunt Bette, who was staring at the door, jumped when I got close.
“Hey, Aunt Bette,” I murmured and wrapped my arms around her.
“Open this goddamned door and send my kids out here!” Naomi yelled.
“Uh… hi there, Tyra,” Aunt Bette murmured back, giving me a squeeze.
I let her go and smiled at her.
Naomi screeched over continued pounding, “Open the f**king door!”
I kept ignoring it and turned to Uncle Marsh. “Hey, Uncle Marsh.” Then I wrapped him in my arms.
Uncle Marsh’s hug was different than his wife’s. My mother’s cool-as-hell brother loved me and he loved me a lot. Therefore, his hug was tight, it was warm and it spoke volumes, every word beautiful.
“Hey, honey,” he whispered in my ear.
“I said open the motherfucking door,” Naomi shrieked with more hammering.
I stepped back but Uncle Marsh kept me close with his hands on my upper arms.
My Aunt Bette was petite, had short, curly hair and big, blue eyes. Aunt Bette was the kind of aunt who was interested in everything you did, supported every decision you made, wanted nothing but your happiness and gave love without conditions. She was a call ‘em as she saw ‘em, did what she liked and liked what she did, said what was on her mind and if you couldn’t hack the honesty that was your problem, kind of person. I adored her.
Uncle Marsh looked like a shorter, but way cooler, Kevin Costner. Uncle Marsh got his news from Aunt Bette therefore communication with Uncle Marsh was sporadic unless you were sitting on his deck (where, the last fifteen years, we had spent the vast amount of our time together). That said, he supported every decision you made, wanted nothing but your happiness and gave love without conditions. He was also a call ‘em as he saw ‘em, did what he liked and liked what he did, said what was on his mind kind of guy but his way was that when he called ‘em, did what he liked and said what was on his mind, you listened and learned because he was wise and he wasn’t a fan of bullshit. I worshipped him.
“I’m here for some meetings,” Aunt Bette put in over the continued pummeling heard at the door. “Your uncle decided to come with me, surprise you and make it a long weekend with his favorite niece. We thought we’d pop by and take you for breakfast.” There was more pounding at the door and Aunt Bette gamely ignored it. “My meetings don’t start until this afternoon then we have the whole weekend.”
Uncle Marsh let me go and the minute he did, Tack was there, warm, lean body to my back, tattooed arm curved around my chest. When he did this, I was surprised for a variety of reasons. First, this was a claiming gesture. Second, it was meant to communicate, clearly, it was a claiming gesture. Third, it was a claiming gesture that was meant also to communicate togetherness and intimacy. And last, although we had been intimate, that wasn’t something I wanted my aunt and especially my uncle to know, I wasn’t aware we were “together” as such and I wasn’t certain how I felt about being claimed.
Aunt Bette’s and Uncle Marsh’s eyes immediately dropped to his arm. Then they shot to my face and I knew that neither of them missed a single thing Tack was communicating.
Aunt Bette’s eyes turned openly curious.
Uncle Marsh’s face wiped blank.
Aunt Bette did not judge. She was who she was and you took her as she was. She returned the favor.
Uncle Marsh had been a fighter jock in the Air Force. Now he was a golf pro. He wore Ralph Lauren and Tag Heuer watches. He still had a military haircut. He also didn’t judge. That was, I learned in that instant, until a big, badass, scary biker dude with an arm covered in tattoos, wearing faded jeans and a tight tee, needing a haircut and needing it four weeks ago and who Uncle Marsh just witnessed manhandling a raving woman who assaulted my front door and hurled obscenities at it curved his painted arm around his much-loved niece’s chest. On those occasions, he judged.
Oh boy.
Tack’s other arm moved in the direction of Aunt Bette. “Kane Allen,” his gravelly voice declared, I blinked, twisted my neck and looked up at him.
Elliott had said that name and apparently that was Tack’s real name. It was a cool name. Though, I wished he’d given it to me directly.
“Hello, Kane,” Aunt Bette took his hand and shook. “I’m Bette, Tyra’s aunt.”
“Bette, you can call me Tack,” he told her.
Her eyes slid to me, her brows went up declaring we were going to have a conversation later but I knew this conversation would be so she could get all the juicy gossip then spread it widely throughout my extended family, all the way down to the cousins. Unlike Uncle Marsh, Aunt Bette was a communicator. She thought family was the most important thing on earth and thus made it her mission to be the hub of family information. If you needed to know anything, you asked Aunt Bette and if she didn’t know it, she sure as heck found out.
Tack released her and his hand went to Uncle Marsh.
Uncle Marsh studied it. And while Uncle Marsh studied it, he also, I reckoned, was wondering if he should call all his fighter jock buds in order to spirit me away Mach Three. Then he took Tack’s hand and shook it.
“Marsh, Tyra’s uncle,” he introduced himself.
“Right,” Tack replied and let his hand go, stepping us back and to the side. “These are my kids, Tab and Rush.”