Dad called us to take our seats, and we did. Across from me, I avoided my sister’s eyes like she was a plague rat and it was the year—whatever year the plague was bad in. I’d have to ask Lyssa, that was something she would know.
Caroline and Chase were next to Dad, where he could beam at Caroline to his heart’s content. He was thrilled she was home. My cousin Tessa took her place card from where Lyssa had put it, and moved it to the seat closest to the kitchen, so she could easily fetch more wine.
Tessa said something nice about the calligraphy on the cardboard, and Lyssa beamed, which made me beam, and had the result of making my usually scowly-faced cousin look alarmed.
Still avoiding my sister’s death glare, I carved the roast and we passed plates around the table so Dad could heap vegetables on them. We had fresh garden potatoes with mint, scoops of peas, and some carrots that were all misshapen—everything except the peas had come from Dad’s garden, and he was pleased as punch to be plating it up for his family tonight.
At the head of the table, Dad cleared his throat and got to his feet, his habitual tea towel slung over his shoulder. Unexpectedly, it made me a little emotional to see him standing so steadily. His knee replacement surgery wasn’t so long ago, and it warmed my heart to see him moving more easily now than he had in years. Dad rambled his way through a long toast, the broad theme of it being how nice it was to see us all here together. He was no toastmaster, Kevin, and it took him a while to get all the words out because he kept choking up when he looked at Caroline and Chase.
I still wasn’t sure if I approved of Chase yet, but Dad’s words were softening me toward the rich New Yorker. Plus, Caroline might go slightly easier on me over the Lyssa thing if I promised to be nicer to Moneybags. Slightly. So maybe only partial dismemberment.
We tucked into the meal, complimenting Dad on the homegrown veggies and tender meat. And if Caroline stabbed her potatoes with a little more force than was required, I sure wasn’t going to mention it. We ate in silence for a while, the way you do when the food is good. It was nothing fancy, not like what Lyssa would have had down in Queenstown, but it was a rural staple. I’d had a variation of a roast like this at every family dinner for most of my life.
“Good?” I nudged Lyssa.
She nodded, beaming.
Everything was great. Better than great, actually. Perfect.
Just as I relaxed, thinking no one would ask me anything about the horror show that had gone down in the Woodville School Hall yesterday, Hannah had to shoot her mouth.
“How did your pitch go yesterday, Mike?”
I darted a quick look at my dad and saw his lips rolled inward in an expression of sympathy. He’d known when I hadn’t come to the café yesterday that my pitch hadn’t gone well, but Kevin Holliday wasn’t the kind of guy to press a man for details of his humiliation in front of an audience.
But you couldn’t expect that kind of tact from cousins.
Not my cousins, anyway.
I shrugged, trying to look unbothered. “Crashed and burned. No survivors.”
“What?” Tessa put down her fork. “Why? Your pitch was excellent! Your slides were perfect, and your numbers were airtight. I reviewed everything myself.”
“Why didn’t you say something sooner?” Caroline demanded.
“I’m sorry, Mikey,” Dad said. His tone wasn’t heavy, but the weight of my unfulfilled potential sure was.
Chase wasn’t saying anything, which was wise, but there was a really fucking annoying look of sympathy on his face. If he tried to express it, I’d flip a table. For real. I didn’t need his pity.
Lyssa, thrusting her chin in the air said, “Some people don’t know a good idea when it’s staring them in the face. The Trust made a bad decision, Mike. That’s their folly, not yours.”
One corner of my mouth twists. “Yeah, mine was calling Oz a bull’s dick.”
At that, Caroline groaned and put her head in her hands. Still, no one changed the subject. They were all waiting for me to give them a full postmortem, regardless of whether I wanted to expose my innards.
Looking at their expectant faces, I didn’t really have a choice.
“I told Oz Wylie he was a villainous pigeon turd.” After another forkful of peas, I confessed the rest. “And a crusty-faced goon. Also, a bull’s pizzle—that means cow’s dick. In case you didn’t know.”
Tessa sighed loudly. Dean’s lips were pressed together, his expression unbearably sympathetic. I couldn’t bring myself to look at Dad.
“It’s a bit of a mash-up,” Lyssa told the table. “ ‘I am pigeon-livered and lack gall’ is from Hamlet. ‘Cream-faced loon’ is from Macbeth. ‘Bull’s pizzle’ is from a completely different play, that’s a Henry; I forget which one. But I like your version, Mike.”
“Thanks, girl.”
Caroline’s eyes were narrowed. “Why did you say all that, Mike? What did Oz do?”
“He exploited the Shailor-Chapmans’ bigotry and lost my majority.”
