Indeed, she seems much more relaxed and at ease than she was in the storm shelter, more in line with Dad’s description of her as a “real friendly lady.” She must be so relieved to know that her husband is going to be okay.
“I think he’s enjoying the rest,” she adds conspiratorially about Patrik. “It’s the best vacation he’s had in years.”
“And whose fault is that?” Anders asks loudly as he comes down the stairs.
“Yes, yes, I know. I’m working on him,” his mother calls back. She casts her eyes to the ceiling and smiles at me before returning to the kitchen.
Anders has changed into a black T-shirt. His hair is wet and a few very dark blond strands have fallen forward over his green eyes. Teeny-tiny drops of water cling to the ends and Istare at them, startling when he thrusts his hand through those wayward locks and sets them back in place.
“You showered,” I whisper accusatorily. “I feel like a right state.”
“You’re fine,” he replies with a frown, nodding toward the kitchen.
He smells of citrus shower gel, or maybe it’s shampoo.
A door bangs open and we turn to see Jonas walking into the house from the laundry room.
“Where’s my beer?” he demands to know.
“It’s coming,” Anders replies mock-wearily, going to the fridge. He gets out the rosé first and tops up my glass, followed by his mother’s, then pulls out a couple of bottles of beer for Jonas and himself.
“Cheers,” Jonas says with a grin, prompting all four of us to raise our drinks and clink them.
We’re eating in the dining room at an oval-shaped mahogany table with old-fashioned white doily place settings. Jonas is at one end and Peggy is at the other. Anders and I are in the middle, facing each other.
Steam rises from the tops of the serving dishes that Peggy and Anders have set on the table: a boneless lamb shoulder, glistening with succulent juices, crunchy golden roast potatoes, and buttery peppered beans. Jonas brought over a knife and I figure everyone is waiting for him to carve the joint before serving up the vegetables, but instead of getting on with the job, he puts down the knife and offers his hand to me, palm up. It takes me a second to realize that Peggy is doing the same thing on my left.
Oh shit, they’re saying grace!
I’ve never been at a table where people have said grace before and I feel completely out of my comfort zone. But as I sit there, holding Peggy’s soft hand and Jonas’s calloused one, and Peggy’s gentle American lilt fills the room, saying thanks for our good health, for Patrik’s, for my presence at their table, to some people called Ted and Kristie who gifted them Ramsay, as well as Ramsay himself—and I don’t even want to think about whatthatmeans—a strange sort of contentment fills my insides.
I’m not religious, but there is something good and wholesome about this chain of hands that we’ve formed, this feeling of togetherness.
Peggy finishes speaking and we let go of each other’s hands. I lift my head to see Anders looking across the table at me, a small smile on his lips.
And despite everything we said to each other yesterday, I experience a full-body twinge of regret that it wasn’t his hand I’d been holding.
19
After dinner, Anders walks me home.
“First time saying grace, huh?” His gaze flicks toward me, an amused tilt to his lips.
“Am I that easy to read?”
“Not particularly.”
We’re both a little tipsy and conversation is relaxed and easy.
“Who are Ted and Kristie?” I ask as we stop to stare at the sky.
It’s awash with neon stripes, as though a giant toddler has attacked it with purple, pink, blue, and orange highlighter pens.
“Farming friends of my parents,” Anders replies.
“And who, dare I ask, isRamsay?”
“WasRamsay,” he corrects, peering down at me. The amber fleck in his eye looks darker in this light, his irises a cloudier green. “I think you know.”
