“Actually, they come out of a transmission case,” Gemma said solemnly.
“No, it’s a crankshaft,” Pere said.
“Fueled by the pistons,” Mr. Frazier said.
The door opened and young Shamus came in, art case in hand.
“Too noisy for you?” Gemma asked.
“Ariel,” was his reply as he sat down beside his father and brother.
Gemma ran a big spoon around the mashed potatoes. It looked like a giant lollipop. She handed it to Shamus.
“Hey!” Pere and Mr. Frazier said in unison.
Gemma opened drawers until she found more spoons, then gave the two men each his own helping. She saw the gray duct tape on the corner of Shamus’s wooden box. “What happened?”
“Broke,” he said as he licked his spoon.
“My son the wordsmith,” Mr. Frazier said, also licking.
“Wow!” Lanny said from the doorway as he looked at his father and two brothers sitting at the island with their big lollipops of mashed potatoes.
Gemma got another spoon, filled it, and handed it to him as he took the last remaining stool.
“So what are we talking about?” Lanny asked.
“I don’t know,” Pere said.
“Ask Shamus,” Mr. Frazier said. “He’s leading the conversation.”
The door opened again, but this time it banged against the wall.
“Uh oh,” Mr. Frazier said as he quickly cleaned his spoon. “I know that sound.”
It was Mrs. Frazier, and she was drawn up to her full height. “Out! The lot of you! And you too, Gemma. No more hiding in the kitchen.”
Gemma removed her apron and ran after the departing men. But Mrs. Frazier caught Gemma’s arm, then kissed her cheek. “Welcome, Gemma,” she said softly. “And thank you.”
“It was nothing. I just gave them some potatoes.”
“No, thank you for Colin. I haven’t seen my eldest son smile so much since . . . Since he got out of college.”
“I’m sorry about Jean. I know how much all of you like her.”
“Jean is champagne. You can’t live on wine, no matter how fine it is.” Mrs. Frazier smiled. “But the Irish proved that you can pretty much live on potatoes. Now go!”
“Yes, ma’am,” Gemma said, and smiled back, her nervousness greatly alleviated—even though she wasn’t sure about the potatoes and wine analogy.
When all eleven of them were seated in the dining room, the table laden with enormous bowls and trays of food, Gemma soon found out that she was the center of attention. All the Fraziers, except for Shamus and Colin, bombarded her with questions about her research, where she’d grown up, what she wanted to do in the future.
She tried to answer everyone, but there were just too many queries. Mainly, she didn’t want to talk about herself. If she did, she feared they’d ask about her and Colin, and it was too soon for that.
After several minutes of interrogation, she stopped them with a story of the first Shamus Frazier, the one who came from Scotland to America in the 1760s.
“His wife, the countess,” Gemma said, “wrote a letter telling of a carriage her husband made for the beautiful Edilean Harcourt.” She had their attention now and they ate in silence as they listened to her. “It was a yellow carriage with black seats, and Mrs. Harcourt called it her bumblebee.”
When there was a quick intake of breath and everyone looked at Mr. Frazier, Gemma did too.