16 #2
the origins of the Great Chicken Rebellion to this very incident and blame you for the carnage.”
Peter could now identify the owner of the sci-fi novels stacked on the coffee table.
“And without those eggs, we’ll all starve.” Stina shook her head and removed a stack of plates from a white-painted cabinet.
“It’s a shame. I actually like one or two of you. Mostly Filip, if I had to specify.”
Filip snorted and kept stirring his pot of gravy.
Astrid, Maria’s younger sister, grinned at Peter as she set the table. “Mamma and Pappa didn’t help you pack the bags?”
As if. “The three of them sat down on a bench to watch and laughed until they cried.”
“That sounds like them. Monstrous, aren’t they?” After distributing the last of the silverware, she straightened. “Rest assured,
Peter, if I’d been there, I wouldn’t have been laughing on the bench with them.”
“Thank you, Astrid.” Despite Stina’s flurry of objections, he got up, claimed the plates from her grasp, and deposited one
in front of each chair. “So you’d have helped me?”
“ Nej ,” she said. “I’d have gotten closer and captured the whole thing on video so I could sit on a bench and laugh at it whenever
I wanted.”
She winked before returning to the kitchen, and he found himself laughing as helplessly as Maria and her parents had earlier
in the day.
Just then, Maria herself came tripping lightly down the stairs, as fresh and energetic as someone who’d spent the entire day relaxing at a goddamn spa. It was aggravating as fuck, frankly.
“Gods above, I needed that nap.” The kiss she planted on his lips was over before he could react, and she bounced toward the
kitchen. “How can I help?”
One way or another, he was stealing a longer, better kiss from her tonight. More than a kiss, if he could figure out the logistics.
“You look much better, ?lskling .” Stina stroked her daughter’s cheek. “Finish up the mustard sauce while I deal with the cabbage?”
Without any fuss, Maria slotted herself into the organized chaos and took her place at the counter. Beneath the short sleeves
of her tee, her triceps visibly tensed as she began vigorously whisking oil into a small bowlful of yellow sauce, and Jesus .
Those dumbbells in her Irish hotel suite obviously hadn’t gone unused. Which he’d already known, and he’d witnessed countless
displays of her strength before, but...
She was so round, so soft, sometimes he forgot.
Sitting back in his chair, he watched, rapt.
When Filip carried a steaming platter of food to the table, he lightly bumped his shoulder against Peter’s in a friendly gesture.
Peter jumped a little, startled out of his Maria-induced fugue state.
Before then, her second-oldest sibling had remained in the kitchen all evening, so he and Peter hadn’t had much chance to
talk. But from what Peter had seen, he got the sense that the rest of the family was taking turns checking on the slim, soft-spoken
man, giving him searching glances and brief pats on his arm or back whenever they passed him. They didn’t force him to talk;
they just silently let him know they were there and they cared.
That quiet cocoon of love and protection resembled nothing Peter had ever seen before. At least, not outside the pseudo-family Maria had gathered on the island.
What would it have been like, growing up in a home like theirs?
What would he have been like?
After setting down the platter, Filip offered Peter a sweetly sincere smile. “Don’t worry about the checkout line. We all
have trouble in the beginning. The first time I tried to bag groceries on my own, an elderly woman ran out of patience, shoved
me aside with her walker, and filled my final bag for me. I think she stole a package of frozen pancakes too.”
“Didn’t she leave you her number on your receipt?” Astrid asked with a smirk, flicking her long brown hair over her shoulder.
“Yes.” Frowning, Filip adjusted his thick-rimmed glasses. “Even though I wanted my pancakes back, I didn’t call her. I hope
I didn’t hurt her feelings.”
“If you’re wondering who the nice one in the family is, Peter, look no further,” Vincent said, then stood, strode into the
kitchen, and removed stoppered carafes of sparkling water from the refrigerator, returning to set them on the table. “Filip
carries the rest of us when it comes to human decency.”
Peter had his doubts.
Several times in the store, he’d watched Maria’s parents unobtrusively assist other customers who couldn’t reach the top shelf
or the farthest depths of the freezer compartments. Maria’s mom had insisted on buying Peter whatever food looked good or
interesting to him—although he planned to pay them back for that somehow—and in line at the deli counter, a wailing child
had forgotten his misery when Stina crouched low and played peekaboo with him, while the boy’s young mother nearly dissolved
into grateful tears. On their way out, Olle had gathered stray carts from the parking lot and added them to a nearby covered
corral.
Their actions weren’t dramatic. Just observant. Just considerate.
Astrid had washed countless dishes, carried any pot or pan she deemed too heavy for her mom, and coaxed Stina to sit down
and let Olle or Filip take over the cooking at several points in the afternoon, because Stina apparently had back problems.
Vincent worked for an environmental organization, and he’d drawn Filip aside shortly after his brother’s arrival for an intense,
whispered conversation, during which he helped dry Filip’s tears and held him for a long, long time.
“Girlfriend issues,” he’d murmured quietly to Peter when he’d returned to the table.
Filip had retreated to the bathroom for several minutes. When he’d returned, he’d had a freshly scrubbed face, a determined
smile, and nothing but kind words for their guest.
No one needed to tell Peter about Maria’s inherent goodness, obviously.
And he didn’t intend to stand out as the only lazy, self-centered one in the crowd, so he ignored all of Stina’s entreaties
and helped bring out the rest of the food. In the end, the table fairly groaned with all the dishes Maria’s family had bought
and prepared. Smoked, herbed salmon with mustard sauce. The egg-crushing ham. Little oblong boiled potatoes. Sautéed green
beans. A sweet dish of boiled red cabbage and apples. The inevitable jar of herring. Some unidentified type of paté. Meatballs,
because of course meatballs. Brown gravy. Lingonberry jam. A huge, curved cylinder of pale sausage called falukorv, sliced
partway through and stuffed with mustard and cheese. A toasted baguette and butter.
Shortly before they all sat down to eat, Filip tugged Maria into his arms, exactly as the other siblings had after they arrived, exactly as her parents had as soon as they saw her in the airport.
Like the rest of his family, he squeezed her tight and said something affectionately.
Something that ended with jag ?lskar dig , one of the few Swedish phrases Peter recognized.
I love you .
Maria returned the words, face tucked against her brother’s shoulder, and Peter wasn’t sure he’d ever seen her look so peaceful
and content.
And although he wanted that for her—wanted her happiness with an intensity he’d never experienced before, not even with his
ex-fiancée—the open generosity of her family’s love strung his chest tight, and for more than one reason.
She cared about him. Without question. She also had a blossoming career and several auditions waiting for her back in LA.
But for the first time, he wondered whether all that—whether he—would be enough to keep her by his side.