AND THAT WAS it for Christmas Eve. Well, almost.

The Summerhill family had a drinking-and-driving rule, a rule made many years before. We called it the Double Designated-Driver Rule. All it meant was that there were always two people who had to stay sober for driving. So if one of the two drivers decided to refresh himself with an after-dinner cognac, there was always another person ready to take the wheel.

Claire’s pickup truck was piloted by Claire herself, who had not had a drink in five years. Seth had offered to drive. He’d stuck to Pellegrino all night, because of our rule, but, as he put it, “If I’m driving and a cop stops us, he’s going to think I’m drunk no matter what. C’mon, a car being driven by a guy dressed like a reindeer’s ass?”

So Claire did the driving while Seth, Andie, the twins, and I did the gossiping about the evening.

Ten minutes later Claire was pulling into the long driveway at the house. As she shifted into park, I looked out and saw somebody walking toward us. And suddenly I realized that the night wasn’t quite over.

“That asshole,” Claire said.

It was Hank, of course.

“Am I late for the party?” he said as we got out of the truck. No one answered him.

I had that sense you sometimes get when someone is really good at disguising how drunk he is but you somehow know he’s drunk anyway. That’s how Hank seemed to me.

“Gaby, I understand congrats are in order,” he said.

“And I understand there are some rooms at Motel Six in Lenox. I’ll get you a reservation and drive you there,” I answered.

“Why would I wanna do that when the family is all here?” he laughed.

At that moment Emily and Bart’s little BMW came quickly down the driveway. People started climbing out of it as if it were a clown car at the circus—Emily, Bart, Gus, Stacey Lee.

“It’s a regular fucking Summerhill family reunion,” Hank said. He moved closer to Claire and me. And Seth and Bart moved toward him.

“Ooooh, Dr. Fucking Wonderful and the boy prodigy are here to protect the womenfolk,” Hank said. “Think the two of you can handle me? I doubt that very much.”

“Take Gaby’s advice, Hank,” Seth said calmly. “We’ll drive you to a motel.”

Hank started to shout then, and to wave his arms up and down, and occasionally to leave his feet. “What? And miss the celebration? Miss the miracle that some jack-off is willing to marry this old bag? That somebody, other than you all, is willing to be told what to do and when to do it and how to do it by Gaby? There’s…there’s…”

But the words got caught in his mouth, and in a move both sad and infuriating, Hank picked up a rock the size of a child’s soccer ball. He threw it with both hands at the pickup’s windshield, which shattered and instantaneously looked like a glass spiderweb.

“That’s the end of it, Hank,” Bart said as he walked quickly toward his brother-in-law. Seth was right next to him. And Gus was next to Seth.

“We’re going to get you to the motel,” said Bart, who was a big man, after all.

“Don’t any of you fucking touch me,” Hank said. “I know when I’m not welcome. I get it, I get it.”

Weeks later when we talked about this evening, everyone said my memory was faulty, but I could have sworn that Hank was crying as he headed toward his little rental car. Before he opened the door, he stopped and shouted.

“Gus!” he said. “Come on and stay with your old man. C’mon, son!”

There was no hesitation on Gus’s part.

“Not this time, Dad. Not this time.”

Hank fumed, but then he got into the car and began to drive off. He slowed down as he came by us, and the thought crossed my mind that he just might be crazy enough to plow me down. Or that he might have a gun.

But he just stopped next to Claire and me, and he rolled down the window.

“You know, Gaby, let me tell you something,” he said. “You’re nothing but a phony bitch. Merry Christmas to y’all!”

Then he drove away, and I don’t know if we had ever loved him, but we cried for him that night.