Dandelion Girl

by Isa Hansen

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Part One: Summer

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Part Two: Autumn

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Part Three: Winter

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Part Four: Spring

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Acknowledgements

  DANDELION GIRL

  Isa Hansen

  Copyright © 2020 Isa Hansen

  All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a book review.

  ISBN: 978-0-578-40639-8

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  PROLOGUE

  What if she hadn’t followed the stranger?

  Sometimes she would ask herself that still. Less so recently, but arriving in Sweden the thought of him came to mind.

  She had been away for several months and returned at that wondrous time of year—mellan hägg och syren: between the blooming of the Mayday trees and the lilacs—when leaves on branches were the softest of green and the breeze was deliriously floral and sweet.

  On her way home from the airport, she stopped by the cottage to air it out.

  They still called it the summer house even though it now accommodated all four seasons. She brewed some coffee and waited while the rich aroma filled the tiny kitchen, then wandered out to the deck that overlooked the lake, north of town.

  Björkby was as serene as ever, and she took in the veil of blossoms and the birdsong, and she thought of him—the stranger.

  She used to wonder if everything would have been different if it weren’t for him. That the craziness that unfolded wouldn’t have happened. But then she’d conclude, in one way or another, the secrets would eventually have come spilling out.

  A few years ago, driven by restlessness, she went back to Rosenlunden estate. She expected the old manor house to terrify her, or at the very least make her anxious. It didn’t, though. Somehow the place seemed different, peaceful almost, sitting amongst the new green birches, creamy white stucco and tall windows glinting in the sun.

  The estate was owned by the city now. They were giving tours. Twisted curiosity nearly had her joining one. But that would have been too much, even for her—her wandering the halls as a tourist, listening to the history of Rosenlunden as if she weren’t part of it, as if it hadn’t been featured in her nightmares for years after the fact.

  She sank onto the wooden stoop, cupping her hands around her coffee mug. No. The web was too tightly woven to determine the exact pattern of the unraveling that year. At the same time, she couldn’t deny her own part in cracking the case wide open. She had wanted the truth out: that had been her objective all along.

  All she really knew for certain was that the year forever changed her, and the day she landed—the day the stranger was waiting for her—was undeniably when it all began.

  part one

  SUMMER

  CHAPTER 1

  August 15 - 2012

  Landvetter, Sweden

  A dip down, a jolt and a few bounces, and they had hit ground. Over the intercom the captain promised sunny skies and low winds with a temperature of 24 degrees Celsius. Rays of light flickered across the aisle. Celia squinted out the window at pointy evergreen trees rushing by under a deep, clear blue sky.

  During the rumbling descent she had glimpsed a few lakes, a scatter of fields, but mostly there were just trees and more trees.

  She knew to expect the endless sprawl of woods. This was her fifth time visiting Sweden. Although this was the first time she would stay beyond a summer holiday, and more importantly, the first time she traveled abroad alone.

  This was her high school exchange year. A year planned with equal parts excitement and jitters.

  Now she was just glad for the long trip to be over. She leaned down for her Fjällräven rucksack and waited for the line in the middle of the plane to start moving.

  Once she was out of baggage claim and customs, she scanned the lobby for Erik.

  The last time she saw her uncle was about five years ago. She couldn’t imagine that she’d have trouble recognizing him. Or that he’d be late. Erik was about as proper and punctual as they came.

  But Erik was strikingly absent.

  Instead he was there.

  She saw his sign first—a sign that read in big block letters: CELIA LINDBERG.

  Halting at a safe distance, Celia scrutinized the man who was holding her name in his hands. He was in his fifties or so, wiry and tall, looked ruggedly Scandinavian with light eyes and a sharp, stubbled jawline.

  She racked her memory but couldn’t remember that face.

  Why was this man here instead of her uncle?

  She made her way through the lobby, passing flowers and hugs and all the usual airport niceties.

  He waited, unmoving. His eyes didn’t land on her until she was standing right before him.

  “I’m Celia?” she said.

  The stranger reached out his hand, his handshake was firm, but his eyes averted hers.

  “My uncle must have sent you?”

  “Yes.” He gave her a curt nod. “Erik Lindberg.”

  “Is everything all right?” A stab of worry hit her chest. Had something happened to her uncle, or her aunt?

  “Erik’s at work.” The man’s English was laced with a heavy Swedish accent. “I will take you home.” He reached for her suitcase.

  Celia flinched.

  This was OK, right?

  The driver made no notice of her wavering. He was already headed toward the exit with her bag.

  For a brief moment she stayed, feet planted. She knew to never go anywhere with strangers. But what if the stranger had your name on a sign? And they had to have been sent by your own relatives. She considered calling her uncle, just to make sure, but that just seemed paranoid.

  So she shouldered her backpack and followed the driver out through the revolving doors.

  Outside it was warm. People were dressed light, wearing sunglasses, moving toward the airport entry with their rolling bags and handbags and briefcases. A group of blond tween girls squealed and elbowed each other. A little kid with an ice cream cone stopped to give her a once-over.

  She drew in a b
reath of piney air. Already she felt so far away from home. The air was different here. It touched the skin differently; it was lighter, dryer.

  Ahead of her, the driver crossed the airport parking lot, carrying her over-the-weight-limit suitcase as if there were nothing in it. He slowed by a minivan with dark windows, jangling a set of keys. She watched him place her suitcase in the back and draw open a sliding door to the side of the vehicle.

  He waited for her.

  She approached and climbed in slowly, a tinge of doubt stirring at the back of her mind, wondering if this really was OK after all. She caught his eyes, a flash of pale blue, before the door slammed shut behind her.

  ***

  The van smelled of leather and cleaning agents and something flowery and soft, like lavender. Celia sat in the farthest backseat. The van was just like a regular airport shuttle, except the seats weren’t filled with chatty travelers exchanging stories about where they’d been and where they were going next.

  Instead she sat there alone.

  She cast a glance at the driver. The back of his head was blond and graying with ears sticking out like jug handles. She had been staring at his head, off and on, for the past hour of the journey.

  Jug ears hadn’t spoken a word to her since they left the airport, he hadn’t even given her his name.

  She leaned forward, her arms resting against the seat in front of her.

  The road was broader here, not like the narrowly winding one between jagged rock and wild woods just after the airport. And the scenery was more even; pines and spruces and hardwood trees packed in a straight line, ever so often a traditional red cottage or a shimmer of lake peeking through.

  “It’s so pretty here,” she said.

  The driver kept his eyes on the road, no response.

  Maybe it was a language thing. Celia scanned her tired head for the same words in Swedish and tried again. “Det är fint här.”

  Still nothing.

  Uncomfortable, she sat back in the seat. She fidgeted with the plastic gnome figurine tethered to her backpack. The gnome was a gift from her best friend Olivia, given to Celia at her going away party. Within a day, the figurine had been dutifully chewed on by the family golden retrievers Kip and Sadie, leaving the gnome with an amputated leg and a wonky hat.

  Now they were all back home and thousands of miles away: Olivia, the dogs, Mom and Dad, their Seattle ranch house, everything.

  The dizzying reality of being so far away was beginning to sink in.

  Celia noticed the driver watching her in the rearview mirror. His eyes stayed on hers, a little too long.

  She made a face and looked down.

  He wasn’t a talker, fine, but something about him made her uneasy, caused a low-grade prickle of anxiety that flitted through her.

  They passed a roadway sign stating that they would soon arrive in Björkby.

  Moments later, Celia perked up with recognition. She knew where they were. The van was just now passing the abandoned railway station: a square wooden house next to train tracks overgrown with grass and roadside flowers.

  Except they didn’t stay on the road to go to her uncle’s house.

  Instead the car swerved off the highway onto a gravel road.

  She sat up, alarmed.

  “Ursäkta?”

  No response from the driver.

  Celia bit on her nail and stared out the window. A hayfield lined one side of the road and on the other side there were patches of woods and pastures. Why were they taking this detour?

  Suddenly the questions began to ring in her head. Why didn’t Anette come to pick her up if Erik was stuck at work?

  Why didn’t they call when their plans changed? She knew they had her number.

  “I’m not sure we’re going in the right direction,” she called out.

  The driver ignored her and kept his gaze ahead, his fists tight on the steering wheel. Under the car the gravel crunched and clinked—a rock went flying into the ditch.

  The anxious prickle against her ribs turned into cold adrenaline. She rifled through her bag for her phone.

  Just as her fingers clamped around it, the van abruptly stopped.

  The driver put the vehicle in park and climbed out. She twisted around, her heart hammering. He was at the back, retrieving her suitcase.

  “Wait—” Celia fumbled with the sliding door and scrambled out, pulling her backpack along with her. The man set down her suitcase by the side of the road.

  She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could utter any words, the man lifted his arm and pointed up a slanted grassy hill to the side of the road.

  “That’s your house,” he said, his voice gruff.

  He was pointing to a tiny shamble of a house at the top of the hill.

  Celia gawked at him. Her voice caught in her throat, “No, there’s some misunderstanding.”

  But that was it. He said nothing else, simply walked back to the van. Celia stared in astonishment. The driver’s door slammed, the engine revved, and the car sped off. She watched the van travel away from her with a cloud of dust and debris following in its path.

  Soon the black vehicle was small like an ant against the countryside’s shades of green and yellow, curving along the road until it vanished out of sight.

  She glanced around, dazed. For a while she just stood, breathing, waiting for her heart to resume its normal pace.

  Up ahead there was a lake. The road sloped to the right and trailed next to the twinkling mass of water.

  The beach was sand and rock with a long, wooden dock. She paused, recognition overtaking her. There was another dock—the kind that floated isolated, like an island—farther out in the water.

  She knew this place.

  She had been here before, as a child.

  The memory shimmered before her. Balmy water up to her waist, older children laughing and screaming, shoving each other off the floating dock, her grandfather next to her with his trouser legs rolled up, bending down to show her a heart-shaped stone.

  She turned and looked up at the house that the man had pointed to. It was a mess with darkened, dirty windows. Dead branches from an old tree hung over the shingled roof. The mint green paint was cracked and peeling off the boards. Certainly no one lived there.

  She pulled out her phone and scrolled down to her uncle’s number.

  Several ring tones later, an automated female voice spoke into her ear: “Abbonenten du söker kan inte nås för tillfället.” She muttered, “I don’t understand you,” and tried Anette’s number instead. No answer there either.

  She slipped the phone back into her bag. She didn’t have internet or a GPS since she had yet to sign up with a Swedish data provider. But she thought she might be able to find Erik and Anette’s house.

  That left just one thing to do: start walking.

  Although first she had to find a hiding place for her suitcase. She didn’t have it in her to schlep it around. She gripped the bag with both hands and struggled with it up the pathway toward the shabby house. She placed it in the middle of a cluster of trees where it wouldn’t be seen from the road.

  Up close, the house looked even worse. Celia went up to the nearest window. She pushed back the branches that hung over the window and peeked inside. Sheets covered a few pieces of furniture. There were bookshelves, some holding stacks of books, others empty. The wallpaper was faded and torn.

  She took one last glance at her suitcase and started on her journey. She trudged along the gravel road, her eyes tracing along the vast field. Round bundles of hay stood rolled up, spread methodically across the field, waiting to be picked up. Waiting for winter.

  The afternoon sun felt hot against her face, yet she knew the heat wouldn’t last. She had never been to Sweden in the winter, but this was a place that would become bitter cold; she could feel it in her bones. Her tired body and cloudy head reminded her how exhausted she was. All she could think of was how badly she wanted to be back home in the safety and comfort
of her bed.

  A sound of voices from the road behind her.

  Two cyclists, a girl and a guy were headed in her direction.

  Not professional cyclists with fancy gear. No, they were just kids—looked to be around her own age—dressed casually in shorts and tees.

  “Hej!” the girl said as they zipped past her.

  Celia waved her arms at them. The bikes skidded and stopped.

  The girl was small, had a short, spiky ponytail of blond hair that stuck out from underneath a wide-brimmed sunhat. She adjusted her pilot glasses that were too large for her tanned freckled face. “Har du gått vilse?”

  Celia walked toward them with her hand up to shield her eyes from the sun. “Sorry, my Swedish is rusty.” She peered at the girl, then at the boy, lanky, wearing a baseball cap. Under the rim of the cap the boy’s eyes were so vividly blue that Celia did a double take.

  The girl spoke to her in English, “Are you lost?”

  “Yeah, pretty much.” Celia retrieved her phone with her uncle’s address and held it out. “I’m looking for this place.”

  The girl leaned over her handlebar to scan the screen, then spoke to the boy. They exchanged quick words in Swedish.

  “We’ll take you there. No problem,” the girl said, her voice carrying a singsongy tone. She tilted her head. “Where are you from?”

  “I’m from the States. Seattle.”

  “Oh, America,” the girl said, smiling. She nodded down at her bike. “I’d take you, but there’s nowhere to sit. Oskar?”

  The boy rolled forward: “Yeah, of course. Just get on.”

  “Um…” Celia had just wanted directions, she wasn’t asking for a ride. She eyed the metal carrier at the back of his bike. It was narrow and didn’t look overly sturdy. “It’s kind of far…” she said.

  The girl made a fluttering gesture. “It’s not far, at least not if you’re going by bike.”

  They were both waiting for her so Celia awkwardly swung herself onto the carrier, hoping it wouldn’t collapse under her. She wasn’t sure where to put her hands: around his waist? Instead she clung to the metal behind her. Somehow this wasn’t even the weirdest thing that had happened that day.