Page 74 of Ship Wrecked

Maria snorted and nudged him toward the prepared foods section with a warm hand on his back. “How long have you been waiting to share that little gem?”

“Since three-point-two seconds after I found out I was traveling to Sweden.”

The stupid joke shouldn’t tickle him so much, but a long day of overseas travel had left him punch-drunk, as had his visceral terror at meeting her parents for the first time at the airport. Luckily, Stina and Olle seemed perfectly nice thus far. Medium height, several inches shorter than their daughter. Both gone gray, both clad in neutral-colored leisure wear. Both surprisingly bland and nondescript, actually, for people who’d raised a woman like Maria, although they were undeniably loving toward her.

Even now, Olle reached up to sling an arm around her shoulders with casual affection as he peered quizzically at Peter. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Swedish fish?” Stina blinked up at him, wispy eyebrows drawn together. “I don’t understand.”

Maria bit her bottom lip and offered zero help.

Really, of the two of them, she was the true shit-boot.

“Um...” He halted the cart by the deli counter and prepared to explain himself. Because the best jokes all had to be explained, right? Right. “So there’s this candy sold in the U.S.—although I’m not sure it’s manufactured in America, actually. Maybe it originally comes from here in Sweden or somewhere else in Europe? I should look that up.”

Stina and Olle stared at him blankly, while Maria now had both lips sandwiched between her teeth and was gazing down at the tile floor.

“It’s called Swedish Fish. But it’s not fish.” He drummed his fingers on the cart handle. “Well, actually, it is fish. Sort of, although not the ocean type of fish. It’s gummy.”

A choked sound drifted from Maria’s vicinity.

Stina frowned at him, even as she reached to pluck a slip of paper with a number on it from a red dispenser on top of the deli case. “Gummy? So the fish comes from a lake or river and has a bad texture?”

Resting an elbow on the edge of the cart, he closed his eyes and massaged his temple. Maybe he should have suggested a nap before going grocery shopping, instead of agreeing to stop on the way home from Arlanda. But Maria’s parents had wanted him to pick breakfast items he’d enjoy, and he was trying to be as accommodating as possible, so here he was. Jet-lagged and chilled—because spring had evidently not quite sprung near Stockholm—and fumbling to explain gummy fish to a pair of befuddled, bespectacled Swedes in their late sixties.

So much for a good impression. Shit.

He tried again. “I’m not explaining this well. I’m sorry. What I mean is—”

“Peter.” When he opened his eyes, Stina patted his upper arm and offered him a sweet, grandmotherly smile. “I should apologize, not you. Olle and I are merely . . .”

She turned to Maria. “What’s the appropriate phrase in English?”

“I believe that would be ‘fucking with you,’ Mamma,” Maria said. “As in, ‘Olle and I are merely fucking with you.’”

He opened his mouth. Closed it once more.

“Thank you.” Stina nodded, then swiveled to face him again. “Olle and I are fucking with you. As we did when we warned you against openly criticizing Alexander Skarsgård, lest you be sentenced to several years’ hard labor serving meatballs in an IKEA cafeteria. In reality, that’s only for repeat offenders. The first time, you’d simply be forced to assemble display shelves for a month or two.”

“Also when we warned you about a rampaging herd of wild Dala horses menacing the countryside outside Stockholm,” Olle added. “Those are mainly found in southern Sweden.”

At this point, Maria had staggered away from all of them, hiding her face in her hands, but he could hear her distinctive cackle down a nearby refrigerated aisle. She was losing her damn shit.

“Ah,” said Peter politely. “I see.”

As discreetly as possible, he unearthed the cheap cell he’d bought at the airport upon arrival and did two quick Google searches.

Dala horses were, as it turned out, decorative wooden horses from the Dalarna region of Sweden, hand-carved and painted in distinctive colors. And as far as the search engine knew, criticism of Alexander Skarsgård remained both legal and unpunished by hard labor in the IKEA mines.

Okay, now he believed Stina and Olle were truly Maria’s parents.

“You’re still fucking with me,” he noted mildly.

He’d feel worse about swearing in public, but Maria had assured him on the plane that Swedes didn’t object to obscenities the same way many Americans did. Although, in retrospect, he should probably Google that little tidbit too.

“We are.” Olle nodded gravely, the very picture of dignity.

In contrast, Stina allowed her smile to shift from grandmotherly to openly wicked. She might not share a genetic heritage with Maria, but he’d recognize that smug grin anywhere.

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