Presley, Francine, and I are in the kitchen, taking turns cooking and diverting the twins away from the myriad hot and pointy objects in play, when the doorbell rings.
P“Go ahead. I’ve got things under control here,” Francine says.
I glance up from tending my potful of bubbling potatoes. “You sure?”
“Of course—you’re the hosts. Now shoo, dearies.” She flicks her hand at us with a smile.
We answer the door to a young man I recognize from photos as Presley’s brother, and an affable-looking guy with brown eyes and a mop of unruly black curls.
“Thank you for coming. I’m Dominic.”
Michael shakes my hand, and when he smiles, I can see the resemblance between him and Presley right away. They share the same curious blue eyes and high cheekbones. “Thanks for the invite. This is Elijah.”
“Mak
