“They got the order wrong. They were supposed to spit-roast a whole hog.”
His hand fishes under the tablecloth and finds my thigh. “I know, I know.”
“Your eyes are still laughing.”
He bites into a chicken leg, looking at me over it. “I’m really happy.”
A flush—another flush—creeps up my face, and when my phone buzzes I jump at the reprieve, slinking around the other side of the nikau to answer Moana’s call.
“Whanau and friends beach picnic next weekend,” she says down the line. “I invited our class tamariki. Promised them ice cream for the awesome work.”
“It’s almost winter.”
“No one says no to ice cream. Anyway, it’s supposed to be unusually warm. And if not, we’ll take it up to the studio.”
“Sure, sure. You’re telling me all this ‘cause you want me to be in charge of the ice cream, right?”
“Oh would you?” Moana says innocently. “How wonderful.”
I peek through palm leaves at the table, wincing. “My track record with food is not great.”
“What was that?”
“Never mind. Nothing will go wrong next time. I won’t let it.”
Moana hisses down the line. “Sounds like a line from a play before some tragedy.”
I hiss. Touch wood! And quickly palm the nikau trunk.
And then another wrinkle comes to light. “Um, do you know which tamariki will come?”
Moana hums shrewdly. “Why do I get the feeling you’re fishing about your pet favourite? No, Holly’s mum said she wouldn’t make it.”
I nod, breathing out the knot, and end the call.
Grandpa’s cane whips out with a gentle snap across my buttocks. “No need to hide. Our family forgives fast.”
“You’ve got chicken skin on your jaw.”
He combs it off. “See, very fast. My legs are achy from sitting. Walk with me.”
We start off slow. Too slow; John and Bev catch up, wanting to tag along, and whatever wisdom Grandpa wanted to impart gets shelved for another time. I let out a relieved exhale, but a knot still sits in my stomach.
I might not be cowering behind the nikau, but...
I glance over my shoulder, but the barn and the picnic tables and Trent are out of sight.
“If you’re not laughing, you’re not doing it right,” Grandpa says, suddenly. A little left field.
John swears as he stumbles over some roots, and Bev steadies him.
Grandpa snortles.
A faint breeze ripples across the paddock, grass folding with it like a wave. Grandpa’s cane taps through it. “Best wake ever.”
Once everyone has schlepped off to bed, Trent and I slink to our room.
The double bed. The single.
