Chapter 12: Sunday Pot Roast
The ginger snaps were store-bought, hard and spicy, the kind that demanded a cup of tea. Paul dunked one, watching the dark tea soak into the latticework. Across the rectory kitchen table, Erin did the same, her smile sharp.
“So,” she said, crunching. “I saw Bev at the post office yesterday. New haircut.”
Paul snorted. “Let me guess. Severe?”
“Like a penitent’s bowl cut met a lawnmower. She was trying to bully Mildred into giving her the parcel for the old Miller place, but Mildred just stared at her like she’d sprouted a second head and said, ‘It’ll get there when the boat comes, Beverly. Like everything else.’” Erin’s impression of Mildred’s dry, unflappable tone was perfect.
Paul felt a lightness in his chest, a bubble of laughter that was pure and free of old, sticky fear. “She used to terrify me,” he admitted, leaning in. “The zeal. The certainty. Now she just seems… small. And oddly dressed.”
“That plaid shirt was a crime,” Erin whispered conspiratorially. “A butch presentation I can respect, but that was assault by flannel.” They dissolved into giggles, the plate of cookies between them a testament to a peace hard-won, the gossip a gentle exorcism.
Across the island, the Flynn kitchen was a cathedral of warmth. The pot roast, a dark, fragrant mountain, surrendered to a fork. Gravy pooled in craters of mashed potato. Riley’s plate was a landscape of comfort.
“And then,” his dad Ed said, gesturing with his knife, “the line goes so tight I think I’ve hooked the damn seabed. But it’s running. My arms are burning.”
Riley’s mom, Annie, rolled her eyes, adding another scoop of glazed carrots to Riley’s already full plate. He didn’t protest.
Tim, his brother, kicked him under the table. “He tells this story every time you eat red meat,” he muttered, grinning.
Riley took a bite. The beef melted, rich with onion and time. The flavor was his childhood, was safety, was a return he’d never dared dream of. He chewed slowly, savoring the proof of it all.
“So, how’s Paul?” Annie asked, her voice carefully casual, as if asking about the weather.
Riley swallowed, the warmth spreading from his stomach to his face. “He’s good. Really good. We’re happy.”
Ed paused his fishing saga. He looked at his son, at the unguarded ease on his face that had been absent for so many years. He raised his glass of iced tea. The condensation made wet rings on the wood. “To happiness,” he said, his voice gruff.
Glasses clinked—a soft, solid sound. Riley drank, the tea sweet and cold, and felt the last of the world’s chill leave his bones.
The lobster was a monster, a ruddy, armoured beast that filled the biggest pot they owned. They ate at the rectory’s small table, cracking claws with wooden mallets, digging out sweet, briny flesh, dipping every morsel in clarified butter that dripped onto newsprint.
“I think we miscalculated,” Paul mumbled, his chin glistening.
“No such thing,” Riley argued, but his movements were slowing. They worked in a butter-smeared silence, picking clean the last leg. When it was done, a monumental wreck of shell between them, they just stared.
“I can’t move,” Riley stated.
“I think I need to lie down forever.”
They managed to waddle to the living room, collapsing onto the couch in a heap of sated limbs. Paul’s head found Riley’s shoulder. A deep, contented sigh travelled through them both. Within minutes, the quiet room was filled with the soft, synchronous rhythm of their snoring.
A new, peculiar hunger arrived. Riley began to drain glasses of milk with a single-minded intensity Paul found baffling and then alarming. He’d open the fridge and find the carton frustratingly light.
“It’s a craving,” Riley explained, drinking straight from the container. “I just need it.”
“You’ll need a lactating cow at this rate,” Paul said, snatching the near-empty carton. “Save some for the baby’s cereal, you animal.” He hid the next carton behind the wilted celery.
Retaliation was swift. Paul developed an insatiable need for fried eggs. The rich smell of sizzling butter filled the rectory at all hours. He liked the edges lacy and crisp, the yolks molten gold. Riley stood at the stove, spatula in hand, a line of eggs waiting on a plate.
“Another?” Riley asked, watching Paul devour his third.
“Just one more,” Paul said, sheepish. “Please?” His hand rested unconsciously on the gentle curve of his stomach. How could Riley refuse? He cracked another egg into the pan.
The church hall bake sale required contributions. Flour dusted the kitchen like first snow. Paul was portioning out blondie batter into a tray. Riley was elbow-deep in dough, shaping snickerdoodles.
“What do you think the Devil actually likes?” Riley mused, rolling a ball in cinnamon sugar. “I mean, conceptually.”
Paul considered, licking batter off his thumb. “Something deceptively simple. Pride, right? So probably… a perfect, humble baguette. But one he bought from a famous Parisian baker at 3 a.m. after a deal.”
Riley laughed. “Too subtle. I think he’s a red velvet cake guy. All that fake red, all that cream cheese frosting pretending to be innocence. It’s a lie. A delicious lie.”
“A sinfully delicious lie,” Paul corrected, smiling.
“We’ll make both,” Riley decided. “Cover our bases.” He placed a tray of cookies into the oven, the warmth washing over him. He looked at Paul, focused and flour-dusted, and thought of lemon poppy seed muffins, shared salads on the dock, broken spaghetti, and the impossible, ordinary miracle of their full and messy table. It was all a kind of grace.