looked down the table at me. “What the fuck is eye-tuppin’?”
Connor and I both pointed at him and roared in unison, “Uncuith yuith!”
Alys fell back off the bench, caught by a very narrow margin by her completely confused boyfriend before she could hit the ground.
“Babe, you gotta be more careful!” he admonished, lowering her gently to the grass. “You could hurt yourself, laughin’ this hard.”
Phil couldn’t take it any longer. He stood up and stormed into the house, clapping a hand over his mouth.
“Always nice t’ have th’ family ’round fer a civilized meal,” commented Da sweetly.
From the kitchen, Phil’s unrestrained laughter erupted loudly.
Da gave me a startled look. “Yer mon’s off his rocker, Kenna. Dinna I warn ye aboot the musicians?”
I nodded. “You did, Da.”
He grunted and winked at me, and then he took another bite out of his po’boy.
Phil came back out a few minutes later, looking composed.
“Ye all righ’ there, son?”
“Couldn’t be better, sir.”
We all heard Alys as she sucked in a draft of air from her prone position on the turf.
“So, X, yer a ginger musician. Ye play the bagpipes at all?”
X was looking down on his woman, concern in his eyes. “No, sir.”
“Surrounded by bluidy musicians, an’ none o’ ye play the pipes,” grumbled Da.
“I play the pipes,” snapped Connor. “Remember?”
“Ye’re Sco’ish! Ye hae to play the pipes!”
“Kenna’s just as Scottish, and you never made her play the pipes,” he grumbled.
My gaze crashed with Phil’s as he hunched over, mouth opened wide, about to shove half of a po’boy in his mouth. My lips went flat, and he lowered the sandwich slowly, closing his mouth.
“Phil!” Da barked.
My eyes shot to the heavens, desperately searching for some divine intervention there.
“Kenna!” Da hissed heatedly. “I guess ye hae been blowin’ on some bagpipes, just none tha’ can be considered Sco’ish!”
“Oh my God!” shouted Alys. She lapsed back into hysterics.
My face flushed hotly. Phil had turned the color of a painful sunburn. Even Connor had gone a flaming shade that clashed with his hair.
Phil got to his feet once more and headed inside.
X looked at Connor. “Dude, I have no clue what just happened.”
“Tha’s ’cause ye’re a soulless ginger,” Da retorted offhandedly.
“Bah-ha-ha-ha-ha!” roared Phil from the kitchen.
There was no help for it. I lost it. I laughed so hard that my face started to hurt. Tears and maybe a bit of snot poured down. Connor handed me a napkin at some point, and he was losing it, too. Even Da had given in, boisterous guffaws erupting from his barrel chest.
Only X sat there, dumbfounded, the lone man not laughing.
I could hear Phil absolutely losing it in the kitchen. I’d never heard him laugh so hard. It was only fueling my own laughter.
As our hysterics subsided, Da called out, “Come oot ’ere, son, and finish yer lunch!”
Phil could only snort in response.
“Oh God…I just got the bagpipes thing!” stated X.
He had been assisting Alys back onto the bench, and she lost it again, flopping back onto the ground.
Weakly waving her hand in the air, she cried, “Just leave me here!”
X had lapsed into wheezes as he joined in the laughter this time around. From the kitchen, we heard Phil’s hand slapping the tiled floor.
“Oh God, it hurts!” he cried.
“Bunch o’ uncuith yuiths, all o’ ye!” shouted Da, but he was smiling.
Eventually, we were able to finish lunch, and Da had to head out to pick up Gloria from her shift at the nursing home. Her car had broken down and would be in the shop over the holiday weekend. She still needed to pick up a few things from the grocery store to make four scalloped potato casseroles for their contribution toward Thanksgiving dinner the next day.
“We’ll be gone fer some hours,” Da told us, snatching up his keys. “I suppose ye’ll be out o’ here by the time we get back?”
I nodded. “I’m on stuffing duty, and Alys has to help Mama Sally with carrot soufflé.”
Da’s expression morphed into one of revulsion. “Gloria’s makin’ a bowl of ambrosia, too—fer Connor.”
My look instantly mirrored Da’s. “Ugh.”
“Yeah,” he agreed. He reached out and rubbed his knuckles over my cheek. “Be seein’ ye tomorrow then.”
“I’ll be here around one o’clock to ride with you over there.”
Phil had told his father that the people invited needed to pitch in and would be bringing food to share. It had lightened Mr. Deveraux’s load considerably. He’d only have to cook two turkeys in his double ovens and a shit-ton of gravy. Lili had dragged