Chapter 13
VARIOUS DISASTERS
This was not going well.
What, exactly? Well, let’s see. It was four-thirty on Sunday afternoon, and Zane and his whanau were due at five.
Everything was ready to go food-wise, so it wasn’t that.
An enormous pot of water was simmering on the cooker, meaning it would be ready to cook the pasta at a moment’s notice.
Her broccolini was sliced, so were her lemons, and the sweet was prepared and keeping warm in the barely-heated oven.
So what was the problem? The problem, for one thing, was that her neighbors, Carl and Roberta, were standing in the entryway, explaining.
Explaining extremely slowly. And Skylar was still wearing the dressing gown she’d thrown on when Finlay had knocked on the bathroom door.
Precisely one eye was made up, making her look like some sort of horror-movie figure, and the effect of that had been fully evident in Carl’s startled glance.
“Sorry, love,” he was saying again now. “Steve promised he’d bring back my table and chairs directly after the poker game—well, this morning, anyway—but here we are, and no sight of him.
I rang, and his wife said he’d been on the piss—overindulged, that is.
Don’t poke me, Roberta. I can speak for myself—and that he wasn’t in any shape to bring them back.
I’d go myself, but they’d never fit in the car.
It’s a fine wee car, but I can’t possibly wrestle all that into the back.
Now, as far as petrol? It barely needs a sip, and it fits into any carpark you can find.
” He launched into a catalog of the virtues of the Suzuki Ignis, droning on in a way that was nearly impossible to interrupt.
Skylar was still waiting for an opportunity to cut off the flow when Roberta said, “Oh, stop, Carl. You’re a dead bore about that car.
And you’ll shift that table and chairs by yourself, will you?
You’re not allowed and you know it. Heart,” she told Skylar, her beady eyes darting around everything she could take in: Granddad, dapper as always these days—he’d been to the barber today, Skylar happened to know, for a fresh haircut and shave; George, who’d insisted on wearing his school tie with his jeans and T-shirt—to impress Georgia, probably—and Olive, who hadn’t changed and was still in leggings and ancient T-shirt—“It’s comfortable,” she always objected—sitting on the stairs behind Skylar and reading a book.
“You could go collect it yourself if you really need it,” Roberta told Skylar. “Having guests for tea, is that it?”
“Uh … yes,” Skylar said. How could she go collect it herself?
She was in her dressing gown! Her own insufficient table was probably half-laid, since Finlay had been meant to do it and she could see him at this moment, lying on the floor with his legs up on the battered couch and reading a book of his own.
Olive had lent him the first dragon book, and he was engrossed.
Which was good, except when you were meant to be getting ready.
“I can collect it,” Granddad said.
“It’s pretty heavy, mate,” Carl said.
“You saying I can’t lift a folding table?” Granddad stuck out his chest as if that would convince anyone. “I’m only seventy-seven, and my ticker’s going along fine.”
“Inherited that dining set from my mum,” Carl said.
“Mahogany, that is, and fine pieces even if they do fold. They don’t make furniture like that anymore.
All these things you get now, barely fastened by a few screws or just glued together, and made of pine—if you’re lucky.
If we drove your car over there together, maybe … ”
“You are not lifting all that,” Roberta said. “Not over my dead body, because it’ll be your dead body, and I’m not ready to be a merry widow yet.” Since Carl and Roberta were pretty far into their eighties, Skylar could well believe it. This day would get even better if she killed her neighbor.
“Never mind,” she said, calling on her best the-teacher-never-panics calm. “We’ll find a way. Cheers for trying.” She didn’t look at her watch. It was surely four-forty by now.
“Who’s coming by?” Roberta asked. Her face might be a map of wrinkles, but she’d lost none of her keenness—or her curiosity. “About time you had a bit of company around the place. Is it a party, now? Or maybe a special man?”
“Not with a whole extra table, it’s not,” Carl said. “Not unless it’s four special men.”
“Carl!” Roberta said.
“I read about it in the Herald,” Carl said. “It’s the new thing. All the young people are doing it. Poly-something. Polycarbonate? Nah, that’s plastic. Poly- … Why can’t I think of it, now?”
“Polygamy,” Roberta said, “if you have to say the word in front of the children.”
“I think you mean ‘polyamory,’” Granddad said.
“Polygamy is men with extra wives, like you read about with the Arabs and all. Polyamory is the new thing. Chop and change, chop and change, boys and girls both. Dead tiring, I’d think, and above Skylar’s touch anyway.
Can’t even get her to try one man. Nah, it’s me with the new partner.
” Out went the chest again. “Fine figure of a woman, and clever and kind with it. A strong woman, that’s what a man wants, and that’s just what she is.
Maureen, her name is. Coming for tea with her grandson and his kids. ”
“Oh, now, that is exciting,” Roberta said. “Isn’t it, Carl? The grandson’s single, then?” Gaze back on Skylar with her one made-up eye. “Who knows, maybe a double wedding in the cards? You’d have all the papers round for that, wouldn’t you? Maybe even the telly. That’d be a real feature.”
“No,” Finlay said. He’d wandered in at some point here.
In his track pants still, and Skylar distinctly remembered telling him to change as soon as he’d laid the table!
“That’s probably not going to happen,” he told the neighbors—and probably the world.
“It’s Zane Mahuta, and he’s famous and rich.
Famous rich All Blacks don’t marry people’s mums.”
“Crikey,” Carl said. “But then, your mum’s a fine-looking woman herself. You never know where a man’s eye will land.”
“Oh, my. When are they arriving?” Roberta asked, no doubt so she could be peeking through the gap in the curtains.
“In about fifteen minutes,” Skylar said. She’d have looked at her watch to get the point across, but she wasn’t wearing it. That was because she was In. Her. Dressing. Gown.
“You’ll need some help, then, dear,” Roberta said.
“Getting dinner started, maybe? I hardly like to mention it, but I don’t smell anything cooking.
A big strapping man like that, a rugby player, too, and winter nearly here?
He played a match just last night, didn’t he?
I’d think lamb, or roast pork, maybe, with root veggies and potatoes and heaps of gravy, and it should’ve been roasting for hours.
I hope you’re not feeding him some sort of rabbit food. He’ll be hungry again an hour later.”
“None of our business what she feeds him,” Carl said. “We’d best let her get on with it, if he’s arriving in fifteen minutes.”
“Pardon?” Roberta said. “Who went on for hours about his car, not to mention his folding table?”
“You’ve been very helpful,” Skylar said, in her firmest “this-has-been-lovely-but-school-starts-in-five-minutes” tone, the one you used when a parent buttonholed you about their child at the most inopportune moment.
“Thanks for the offer of the table.” She stepped forward, and they finally got the hint and moved to the front door.
Did they walk out of it, though? Not quite. Roberta turned as Carl held the door open and said, “No matter how much you still have to do, love, go fix your face first, and put on a pretty dress, too. If he likes what he sees, he won’t mind waiting for his tea.”
Zane pulled the car to a stop outside the little white house behind its trimmed hedges.
Nothing wrong with it, to his relief, except that it looked pretty small for five.
He gave a private sigh of relief. For some reason, he’d been having unwelcome images of Skylar struggling to hold things together for her whanau.
Maybe because of her panic over the unexpected possibility of a café breakfast last weekend.
She’d hidden it well, but it had been there.
None of your business. He said, “Here we are.” Unnecessarily, and too cheerfully.
Scarlett said, “I still don’t see why we had to dress up. It’s just tea at somebody’s house. Somebody’s house where they don’t even like me.” She made no move to get out of the car, either.
Georgia said, “The sea’s right there, Dad! Look, you can see it! Can we go down to the beach and run and twirl? I like to twirl on the beach best of all.”
“As the sun’s about to set, there’s a pretty sharp wind blowing, and it looks like rain,” Zane said, “I’m going to say ‘no.’ We’re going to have dinner, is what we’re going to do. George will probably show you his toys, though.”
“Oh,” Georgia said. “OK.”
Zane got out of the car, since nobody else was, and gave his grandmother a hand out.
She said, “Thank you, love,” with total serenity, as if she had no doubt this would be a perfectly lovely evening.
Since Zane’s communication with Skylar had consisted of a text from her that read, in its entirety, Five o’clock Sunday OK?
It’s fish, Zane wasn’t positive he agreed.
And yet he still wanted to be here, bruises, late night, hours-long flight this morning, and all. Odd.
Up the walkway to the front door, which was painted a cheery blue, and he put his finger on the doorbell and pushed.
And waited. He could hear scuffling in there, and muffled voices, and then a more audible voice, a boy’s, saying, “I’m going. I said I’m going.” The door swung open, and it was Finlay. Looking guarded.
“Hi,” he said. “Come in.”
As they did, a streak of white dashed across the floor, went straight through the forest of legs, and was out the door.