by Emily Childs
“Aggie?” I lift one brow. “She’s letting you call her Aggie, now. She only lets me do that.”
Axel shrugs, giving Agnes a high-five. “The kid knows a cool person when she’s sees one.”
“You’re going to make grandpa a new friend?” Agnes asks me.
“Well, let’s hope,” I say, but practically swallow my tongue when Sig and Elias stride past on their way to hug Bastien.
“See you out in the hall,” Sig mutters, then turns to her oldest son. “Ax, sweetie, you need a haircut.”
He rolls his eyes and says, “Grown man, Mom.”
“Always a mother, son.”
I hold my breath and smile when my dad waves, and follows Farfar toward the hall. Inez stops to grab Agnes; she politely smiles when my cousin goes on about how ‘cool’ Axel is and that he knows what her orthotics are supposed to do.
I’ve never been a schemer, but the idea of ambushing two men with a long overdue intervention is a little thrilling. I lace my fingers with Jonas, Axel following behind us, as we weave through the crowds of people leaving the gym. The lunchroom is our goal. No one goes there after the game, most people shove through the front doors of the school, and it’ll give us a little privacy.
“Dad, just hang on, Bass will be out soon.”
My insides coil into knots when I hear Elias’s voice at the end of the hall, followed by . . .
“Nope, this way Pops, we parked out back.”
I hear my grandfather mumble his complaints to my dad about the lighting fiasco in the back parking lot. Pressed against Jonas’s hand, my palm is sweaty, but I still laugh when Axel pokes his head between us.
“This is going to be awesome,” he whispers.
I wish I shared his enthusiasm.
When we round the corner, Viggo, Sig and Elias are gathered in front of the cafeteria. Jonas’s mom gives us a wink, and I feel better knowing she’s on our side. According to Jonas, Sig doesn’t let Viggo rant too long before she’ll give him a piece of her mind. But peace lasts for only a moment before the Jacobson brigade joins.
“Oh, not tonight,” Farfar grumbles, beginning to turn around. My dad stops him.
“Wait, Pops, we’ve got to talk about all this, and there’s something you might want to know.”
“If I die without seeing his face again,” Viggo is telling Elias, “then I will go out with a grin.”
Jonas steps in the center of the warring Scandinavians. He clears his throat, and I must say, looks quite sophisticated. He’ll be a good attorney. When he’s firm on something he knows, a unique confidence bursts out. He’s addicting.
“Grandpa,” he says. “Mr. Jacobson didn’t scam you, and he didn’t take your investment.”
Viggo’s brows knit together. “You don’t know anything that happened.”
“I do. We all do. We took the time to find out, something you both should’ve done years ago.”
“Go Jonas,” Axel mutters, not to anyone, but I’m close enough to hear and agree wholeheartedly.
Farfar scoffs. “You think I took money from you? Add liar to your list of things—”
“Oh, my gosh,” my dad interrupts through a groan. “Will you just listen for once.”
Unexpected, but his insistence gets Farfar to go quiet. Jonas slowly looks to my grandfather, his cracks two knuckles. “Mr. Jacobson.”
Farfar narrows his eyes, and I’m ready to jump between them if need be. Truth told, the entire Olsen family seems ready.
“My grandpa didn’t take your money either.” He backs up so he can see them both. “You were victims of dishonest bankers, a project manager, and a city councilman.”
My dad moves in with two file folders. First, he hands one to Farfar, then Viggo. Elias convinces them to sit at one of the cafeteria tables. They put up some resistance at first, but eventually our crowd drifts to the table. Reluctantly, bitterly, they rifle through the pages Jonas, Sig, and my dad arranged for them.
I bite my thumbnail, leaning into Jonas. He wraps one arm around my shoulders and keeps me close while we wait. Farfar grunts as he does, Viggo clicks his tongue, but slowly—ever so slowly—demeanors change.
Sig steps to Viggo’s side when he reaches a certain point. “See, Dad,” she says softly. “The banker and project manager told you that Philip bought out your half of the lease, but he lied. They manipulated the papers, and took both your investments. Everything appeared very official, and legal, I don’t think there’s any way you could’ve known at the time.”
“Farfar,” I say gently. “The space the city councilman said you could lease, it wasn’t even a commercial property, certainly not for something like a bakery.” My grandfather looks at me, his blue eyes like glass. “There are more reports of immigrants being taken advantage of like this. You both were taken for, and made out to look like you’d underhanded each other.”
“How . . . how do you know this is real?” he asks softly.
“We gathered a few legal records from others who brought suits against these people in the sixties. Looks like they did their scheme from the late forties until the lawsuits.” Jonas says. He shows Viggo some of the copies Sig had made from the historical society. “Then we,” Jonas gestures to himself and my dad, “reviewed a lot of your old documents; it’s all public record. Things just didn’t add up.”
“But my favorite part is when we found your story,” Sig says with a smile, holding up a copy of an old newspaper clipping. “Do you remember doing an interview together?”
Viggo mumbles something under his breath and Farfar glowers at the entire room. Sig goes on anyway. “You never mentioned you met on the ship over here. It talks all about how your upbringing in Denmark, and Philip’s in Sweden brought you together. You, Dad,” she turns to Viggo. “The son of a pastry chef.”
“For the Crown Prince at the time,” Viggo adds with a touch of pride, and I think he’s subtly informing my family. The Olsens, I’m sure, know the story.
Farfar huffs, and Sigrid turns to him. “And you, Mr. Jacobson. Raised in a bread shop? I can see why you two planned to partner together. And it’s impressive how hard you both worked to earn the money for your Scandinavian Market.”
“Chimney sweep,” Farfar mutters. “Twelve hours a day, sweeping ash.”
“Ah, that is nothing to delivering newspapers for a nickel a piece,” Viggo says.
I step in before an argument can begin over who suffered the most as young men. “Farfar, Viggo was at your wedding,” I say in a breathy voice. I read the article, about the friends, as the reporter put it, who planned to build a new life here. My grandfather schools his haggard gaze to the tabletop. I wonder if he’s hiding the emotion we’re all feeling. “And my grandparents were at yours and Clara’s Mr. Olsen.”
“Sounds like you were pretty good friends, Grandpa,” Axel chimes in.
“You cared about each other once,” I say. “And we’ve tried to prove that what happened was an awful misunderstanding with the hope that this . . . fighting can stop.”
No one says anything. Viggo removes his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose. I hug my middle as my grandfather’s chin wrinkles and he ruffles through the file, a faraway expression on his face.
Finally, Farfar clears his throat and closes the file. “As for me, I think too many years have gone by. Too much hurt and unkindness has been done to repair what friendship might have been.”
My heart sinks, and I feel a weariness come over the room. Viggo stiffens and gives a firm nod as if he finally agrees with my grandfather on this one, dreary point.
“Did you read my letter?” I ask, my voice hardly more than a whisper.
At that Farfar snaps his eyes to me. He speaks softly, and with a touch of reluctance. “Yes, I did.”
“May I have it back then? I know you have it. I’m sure it’s tucked inside your wallet behind Farmor’s picture.”
He snorts, and tries to glare, but grins instead. Probably, because I know him so well. He digs into
his tattered leather wallet and pulls out the letter, handing it back to me. I hold it tenderly. Jonas offers me a sad grin, doubtless knowing how important this moment is for me, for my grandmother. Before anyone can protest, I turn on Viggo and hold out the letter. “Maybe you will find more encouragement from this.”
“Brita,” Farfar snaps. “He does not—”
“It’s my letter, and it involves the Olsens,” I retort. “Mr. Olsen if you’d like to read what my grandmother wrote about Clara, I would love it.”
Viggo looks at me, his gray eyes aren’t narrowed in anger against me. As far as I can recall, this is the first time we’ve stood eye to eye, and I think he truly sees me for the first time. He takes the letter with a nod; Sig and Elias move in, curious.
As he reads, I see Viggo’s eyes glisten. He chuckles sometimes. At the end he presses a hand against his chest; his eyes redden. When he folds the letter, he wipes a knobby finger under the rims of his glasses and stares at the floor. Then he laughs. A sound that radiates from somewhere in his belly, growing louder, and louder. He shakes his head and hands me the letter.
“Hair appointments,” he says. “That’s what she told me. I always wondered why the woman needed two hair appointments each month. Sometimes she came back looking very much the same. I never told her that because I am a man who enjoys breathing.”
I laugh and wipe my own eyes, leaning back into Jonas.
Viggo staggers back to his feet and looks at my grandfather. “Philip.”
It is the softest I’ve ever heard Viggo Olsen say Farfar’s name.
“I don’t know what goes on now,” he says, his accent deepening. “Have we been stupid, stubborn men all this time? It would seem so.”
Farfar grunts.
“I will not bury grudges tonight,” Viggo adds and my stomach sinks. Even Axel scrubs his face and loses his smile. “But,” he goes on. “I am making grand plans to do just that.”
With a gesture he signals to Elias and Sig that he is ready to leave. I’m left speechless, and thankfully so is Farfar. His face is not curled into a scowl anymore, simply a pensive expression.
“Whoa, what’s going on?” Oscar’s voice comes from behind us.
“Grandpa is making a new friend,” Agnes says from where she’s playing with her pink bunny against the wall where Inez and Karl have kept her from overhearing too much.
“What!” Now, Bastien comes up behind Oscar, his mouth open. “We missed it!”
“Sorry, dweeb,” Axel says, rustling Bastien’s hair. “Better hurry, Mom and Dad are leaving you. Oh, hey good game sitting on the sidelines.”
“I played in the third quarter!” Bastien shouts over his shoulder as he chases his parents.
Farfar quietly congratulates Oscar, then tells my dad he wants to go home. The group breaks apart, and I have no idea what happens now. But I grip Jonas’s hand and have my answer.
Whatever happens, he is there. We’ve done all we can to change our families. Now, the rest will be up to them.
Chapter 28
Two weeks later I turn on the lights in the bakery display cases as a gray, misty dawn breaks over Lindström. Yawning, I pull out some of the pastries Inez made sinfully early that morning. This week Jonas and I are embracing Spring Break and heading to Michigan, so he can meet Mom officially. I promised to open the shop before we leave, but am excited enough that each step I take kind of bounces. A getaway with Jonas. I’m pathetically giddy.
Stealing a toscabit, a succulent little almond tart that reminds me so much of my grandmother, I flip on all the lights around the tables. Murmurs are coming from the kitchen of the house. Oscar isn’t here until later and Aunt Inez left an hour earlier. Dad won’t be up for work yet. Odd.
Wiping my hands on the white apron, I go to investigate. We open at seven sharp—I still have thirty minutes.
Rounding the corner, when I see who is seated at my kitchen table, I yelp. Yes, like a little dog that has had its tail stepped on.
“Oh, älskling, I didn’t think you could hear us,” Farfar says, rising from his seat.
My hand clutches my heart, my eyes wide as I watch Viggo mutter under his breath and shuffle toward the front door.
“Mister Olsen,” I gasp. “It’s, uh . . . so good to see you. In our home. For the first time. Ever.” I speak so slowly, even Farfar seems impatient.
“Morning,” Viggo says with a similar accent to Farfar, but a little different. “Philip, consider it all, jah? Before we’re both dead.”
“Oh, get going you miser, or all your customers will leave your empty shop and come discover the superiority of the Swede.”
What is happening? The dialogue, the banter, they are playful. Viggo nods, with a smile in my direction. I offer a stiff wave. When the door clicks closed behind old Viggo, I turn and gape at Farfar.
“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” he says. “It isn’t the first time as of late to have that grump in this house.”
“When . . . I mean what . . .” I stammer, but Farfar laughs and wraps his arm around my shoulders. “No one has ever said anything.” Does Jonas know?
“Because we’ve been meeting privately. Since we’ve discovered our families are traitors with the tendency to get too excited, we thought we’d mend a few bridges on our own.”
“Farfar . . .” I hardly know what to say. Shaking my head, I meet his eyes. “I’m happy for you, but what was Viggo doing here?”
He pours himself a new cup of tea, peering at me over the rim of his old brown mug. “I thought you’d be pleased.”
“I am, of course I am.” Is this happening? “It’s just, well after the game it didn’t seem like anything would change.”
“Well, I thought, and he thought. I still think he’s a stubborn fool, but we worked well together once. So, we’ve been discussing combining the shops once again; the reason for our meeting, you see. I’m still not sure how it will all work, but I plan to ask your Jonas and your dad. They seem to have the best business heads.”
No, I don’t miss how he says your Jonas. “You’re thinking of doing your market? Wow, that’s . . . huge.”
He nods and smiles. “We shall see. I feel too old to really think much on it.”
The bell dings in the bakery. I stand and kiss Farfar on the cheek. “You’re not too old.”
“You started all this, älskling,” he says patting my cheek. “I hope you’ll forgive me for the things I have said to you. You are a light in my life, and I am ashamed at how I hurt you.”
“I love you, Farfar.” I hug him again. “Always.”
He taps my nose the way he used to when I was small. “Alright then, go on. Customers await, and your mother will not want you to be too late for your trip.”
My grandfather pats my hand once more before I leave. And all at once, I feel like that last missing piece is finally filled.
***
Our commencement ceremony is dull and I’m sad saying goodbye to Jane. We make immediate plans to meet at least every three months now that she’s taking a job in Pittsburgh. Life has changed, but I sort of like where it’s going.
I can hardly believe we are here, two families once at war, huddled around the long restaurant table. Sigrid and Elias sit across from me, and get this, Elias is laughing with my dad about something, I don’t know what. Sigrid is asking my mom advice on how to redesign her kitchen. Even Todd fits in. Bastien and Oscar refuse to talk about anything other than their basketball season. We are absent a twin brother, but an internship keeps him out of state. Jonas did receive a rather raunchy graduation gift, and I did too. But I think I’ve figured out Axel’s humor by now.
The strangest part that I’m still getting used to is watching Viggo and Farfar sit by each other, talk, grumble, and return to the friendship they once shared.
Dad asks Jonas about law school. He’s applied everywhere and has been accepted almost everywhere. Sigrid votes the University of Minnesota, figures, right? Viggo and Dad suggest LSU in Louisian
a, but Jonas always looks to me as though my input matters most. Talk drifts in and out from the new idea for the bakeries that is underway, to Oscar’s plans for college, even to Mom’s upcoming wedding. That part gets a little weird. Jonas holds my hand under the table, and everything feels right.
When we’re set free from the gang of Scandinavians, Jonas and I lean back on the hood of his car, my head on his shoulder, he plays with the curls in my hair. Jane tried to give me decent hair for the ceremony. We look at the lights of the campus, simply being together.
“You did it,” he whispers.
I kiss his shoulder. “Did what?”
“What your grandma wanted. I kept thinking it all day, watching everyone act like they’ve been best friends forever.”
I smile and hug his waist. “No, we did it. You found out about those sketchy bankers. I think I had the easy part, I just kissed you a lot. Not that I’m complaining, it is my favorite thing to do.”
“I’ll dig up hundreds of scams if you keep doing your part.” He kisses me quickly to prove his point.
My smile fades after a few minutes. I trace his palm. “You know, I almost let the same thing happen with us.”
“What do you mean?”
“A misunderstanding almost kept me away from you.”
He shifts so he faces me. His palm cups my cheek. “You can’t get rid of me that easy, Jacobson. But it’s not going to happen to us anyway. You still owe me a winter cabin, where I can fill you with copious amounts of hot chocolate.”
I brush his hair off his brow, and snicker. “Not until you go snorkeling with me, and I expect an epic sunburn between us.”
He draws my mouth to his. “It’s a deal,” he says in between kisses.
He curls my head to his chest after a moment, I lace my fingers with his. “I am willing to do anything in life, so long as it’s with you,” I whisper.
Jonas kisses my brow and holds me tighter. Something tells me this is the way life will be. Brita and Jonas, scheming, eating too much sugar, and loving each other. And that part is by far the most important piece.
