The Solstice Kings - Kim Fielding Page 0,1

was a kid. Haven’t even visited in ten years. But it’s a little town on the Oregon coast. Kemken.” He hadn’t said the name in ages.

“I hear the Oregon coast is nice. Wet, but nice. But you don’t wanna go?”

He scrunched up his face. “No.”

“How come? Are your people assholes?”

“No.” Miles smiled hopefully at a family strolling past, but they barely glanced at him or his paintings. He’d skipped breakfast and now regretted it, his stomach clenching angrily. He couldn’t afford a lunch break, so he’d just have to hold out until the rain came.

“Well, I know it ain’t because you’re opposed to traveling. So why not go if it’s on your mama’s dime? Ten years. I bet she’s dying to see you.”

Guilt sat heavily on Miles’s shoulders, making him slump. His mother was eager to see him, as was the rest of the family. His dad, his grandma—who wasn’t getting any younger—his aunts and uncles and cousins and… and everyone else.

“Honey,” Deedee said quietly. “I know you’ve lived rough. A lot of us have. But that don’t make you worth any less, and it won’t stop them from loving you. Besides, look at you now. You’re doing just fine.”

Obviously Miles and Deedee had different definitions of just fine. Okay, sure, he’d been sober for quite a while now, but he was also broke. Close to being evicted from a crappy studio apartment. Unable to sell his stupid paintings. Single. Living the kind of existence that might have seemed daring and romantic if he were twenty. At thirty-two, it was just sad.

Still, Deedee was right. His family wouldn’t judge him for his past mistakes or current disasters. If he returned to Kemken, they’d embrace him as fully as they always had, making extra sure to include him in everything, bending over backwards to pretend he was exactly like them.

“My family is… weird,” Miles finally said.

Deedee blew a raspberry. “Boy, I got one sister who’s on husband number six—or seven, I forget which—and every time she divorces one and marries another, she calls it trading up. I got another sister who thinks she can cure any sickness with essential oils and eating raw food, and another who’s in prison for stealing three hundred grand from her bosses. Like nobody was gonna notice that a bookkeeper was suddenly buying Benzes and boats and flying first class to Aruba! And my brother? Well, he got himself one of those MAGA hats and goes on about Benghazi and George Soros. Don’t tell me about weird.”

Miles smiled. He could tell her a lot about weird, but she wouldn’t believe most of it. Besides, Thorsen family secrets had been guarded for generations, and Miles wasn’t about to break that tradition. Even if he wasn’t truly a Thorsen.

“I’m adopted,” he said by way of partial explanation. “My biological parents died when I was six, and my parents—my real parents, the people who raised me—they’re great. But even though everyone always treated me exactly as if I were a blood relative, I… I don’t know. I never felt like I completely fit in.” There was more to it than that, but he wasn’t willing to go into those details. More Thorsen secrets.

Deedee shrugged. “Maybe you’ll feel different now that you’re grown. And if not, you don’t have to stay with ’em forever. Just decorate a tree, watch the kids open presents, have a big dinner, drink too much, and get into arguments about politics. Or however your folks celebrate Christmas.”

“Our, um, celebrations are also… weird.”

A walking tour ended a half a block away, and most of the people were heading this way. Deedee shook her head at him and picked up her violin. With a pointed look in his direction, she began to play “O Come, All Ye Faithful.” Miles rolled his eyes and sat up straighter, Sharpie in hand.

By the time the rain set in, Miles had sold two small paintings and done three caricatures, bringing in a grand total of a hundred forty bucks. That wasn’t awful, but since he doubted he’d be able to set up for a while, he’d hoped for more. Oh well. He could buy a few groceries at least, and he had enough paint and canvas to keep himself busy until the weather dried up.

He tucked most of his stuff into the storeroom of a nearby praline shop. The owner charged him a hundred dollars a month for the privilege, but it saved Miles from dragging his stool, easel, and all