Page 139 of Coach
Jeremiah sat back, his shell-shocked expression reminding me of Tom Hanks inSaving Private Ryan—but without all the mortars and war.
Mrs. H let us chatter, drink, and tease for a few more minutes before sweeping into the den, wooden spoon in hand like a queen with her scepter.
“All right, you pack of queer hyenas!” she barked, her faux Scottish brogue thickening with amusement. “Get your arses in the kitchen. Food’s on!”
There were groans and chuckles as everyone scrambled upright.
The kitchen table was barely big enough for six on a good day, but somehow—after much shuffling and a great deal of Sisi ordering everyone around—we managed to wedge in eight.
I ended up between Shane and Omar, which I couldn’t complain about.
Jeremiah, poor kid, had no chance.
“Next to me, love,” Sisi declared, patting the chair beside her. “Or I can sit on your lap. It’s your choice. I promise not to grind or bounce too much.”
“Until dessert when she turns into a right vixen,” Omar jabbed.
Jeremiah’s entire face went crimson. “Uh—I think the chair’s good. Just me. In that chair, right there, withoutany grinding or . . . whatever.”
Mike snorted. “Wise man.”
Meanwhile, Dane and Patrick—who’d arrived with all the confidence of men wearing pornographic Christmas jumpers—were banished to the folding card table in the corner. Patrick eyed the lone Uno card forever fused to the padded top. “Charming.”
Dane grinned. “Remind me to bring cleaner next year.”
“And takeout Chinese,” I whispered, leaning back their way.
Patrick grinned. Dane folded his arms over naughty Santa’s very happy candy cane.
Mrs. H returned a moment later.
And the room fell silent.
On a massive serving platter sat what could only be described as a jellied loaf. It was some color of mottled gray, possibly gunmetal or smeared snot, quivering slightly and dotted with . . . raisins? No—currants, maybe? Slices of hard-boiled egg were layered inside like geological strata.
“This,” Mrs. H declared proudly, “is a meat terrine, my great aunt’s recipe. If we were in Scotland right now—”
“We’d be headed to a pub!” Matty squawked.
Mrs. H slapped his shoulder.
Noone else moved.
Omar blinked. “Is it . . . meant to be that color? Or that, um, lack of color?”
“Aye!” Mrs. H beamed. “Proper dish for keeping a brood alive through a long winter.”
Sisi leaned toward Jeremiah, stage-whispering, “Translation: no one’s eaten this since the plague.”
Jeremiah failed to stifle a laugh.
Mrs. H’s raptor’s gaze snapped to him. “You, new boy. I don’t care how hot ya are or how big your tits may be, you eat my cookin’ or I’ll make more. Got it?”
Jeremiah looked like a Catholic school kid, head bowed before a ruthless nun whose ruler twitched in her hand. “Yes, ma’am.”
Mrs. H cackled. “Hear that, boys? He called me ma’am. Right gentlemanly of the lad. Ya’ll should learn from that one, tits and all.”
Shane remained stoic—but I felt his thigh press against mine under the table, a subtle squeeze, our silent communication.
