‘To be honest, I think she’s more shocked at what Rolo’s done. Dammit! You don’t know about that, do you?’
‘That he went on our honeymoon with Lorna?’
‘Jen told you?’
‘She didn’t want me to hear it from someone less tactful or to find out via the photos on social media.’
‘I’m sorry, darling.’
‘Don’t be, Dad. I’m fine about it, honestly.’
‘As long as you are.’
‘Well, look, I’ll keep in touch by text and phone call. I don’t know exactly how long I’ll be away but it probably won’t be long. I just—’
‘You need some time. I know and I understand. Love you, princess.’
‘Love you too.’
Frankie ended the call then stretched out on her hotel bed. She could just imagine how furious and frantic Grandma would be right now, and it was all the more reason to stay away for a while. If she went back this week, then Grandma wouldn’t have had time to calm down and that would mean Frankie would be subjected to all manner of difficult conversations. Sometimes, it was as if she was still a little girl, not a 29-year-old woman with a job and a life of her own.
She knew Grandma worried about her – or her reputation, rather – and that she’d taken over the role of mother figure in Frankie’s life after Freya had left, but sometimes, life with Helen Ashford could become… claustrophobic. That was why boarding school had been a surprising blessing for Frankie; she’d been able to escape Grandma’s shadow for weeks at a time, and to have a chance to assert some independence. She wondered if her father had always been so overshadowed by Grandma, or if it had happened after Freya had left. She couldn’t imagine a woman marrying a man so henpecked by his mother and wondered if Freya had stood up to Helen. It would take a strong woman indeed to say no to Grandma. Frankie had experienced the disapproval of her grandmother many times, something that was often followed by a rolling of eyes and mutterings that suggested that she reminded Grandma of Freya, so perhaps her mother had been strong. It could even explain why she had felt the need to walk away…
But without her baby?
The hurt pierced Frankie’s chest and she pulled her knees up and hugged them. She didn’t know if the hurt of abandonment was something she’d ever be able to forgive and forget, whatever Freya’s reasons were. Although she couldn’t deny that she’d like to try – if the simmering anger that hid in the shadows behind the hurt would allow her to.
Chapter 10
Jonas finished his coffee then returned the mug to the kitchenette at the rear of the gallery. He’d opened up at ten, the gallery’s usual time, as Freya was having the morning off. She usually ran the gallery herself but when Jonas was in town, he liked to help. Freya had initially put up resistance when he’d offered, but she soon came round to the idea, especially when he reminded her that she was helping him out by displaying his photographs for free.
He swilled his mug then walked back through to the gallery. It was a bright airy space with art and photographs displayed on the light grey walls and on boards that were set at right angles along the centre of the gallery. It was a haven of calm and tranquillity, where people spoke softly as they wandered around gazing at the art, and a place that could transport visitors to many other places and times – some of them real as in the photographs, and some straight out of artists’ imaginations. Jonas loved being outdoors, but if he had to be inside, then the gallery was a good place to be.
Jonas was very fond of Freya. She was a strong and independent woman, quite a lot like his mother, and she was also generous and compassionate. She’d give anyone who walked in off the street the time of day, and Jonas sometimes worried that someone would take advantage of her. He’d even tried to speak to her about it on a few occasions but she wouldn’t hear of it, explaining that everyone deserved a chance and who was she to judge anyone?
He’d met Freya around five years ago, when a mutual acquaintance had introduced them. He was back from a year of travelling and photography. He’d been to Iceland, Switzerland and Italy, using the money he’d saved and some of the savings his mother had put away for him after his father had died. He had a whole load of photographs to sell and Freya had been interested in seeing his portfolio. She’d been so taken with his work that she’d invited him to display it at her gallery, insisting that she didn’t want any commission from sales, and it had been too good an offer to refuse. Jonas had been struggling a bit financially, and though he hadn’t told her as much, it was as if she sensed that he needed help.
He walked to the window and looked out at the street, seeing the same grey stone buildings opposite and the same people going about their daily routines. There was something comforting about familiarity but also something that made Jonas long for the wide-open spaces of the countryside, and he knew it wouldn’t be long before he’d pack his rucksack and camera, hop on a plane and head off again. Then something caught his eye… A young woman wearing dark leggings, boots and a black padded jacket with her shiny brown hair falling around her face. She was walking slowly along the opposite side of the road and staring at the gallery. As soon as she’d passed, she turned around and walked back the way she’d come. It seemed as if she was pacing up and down, waiting for something.
His pulse quickened.
It was her… the sleeping woman from yesterday. The woman he’d woken and who’d been startled by Luna. What was she doing out there? Why would she walk up and down like someone casing a joint in a movie?
Suddenly, she crossed the road and headed straight for the gallery. Jonas raced to the desk in the corner and sat down just as she opened the door. The little bell, that Freya refused to replace with an electronic device, tinkled and he slowly raised his eyes from the papers he’d grabbed and pretended to be reading. But she wasn’t facing him; she was gazing at the far wall where Freya had put Jonas’s Northern Lights collection.
She approached the photographs and stood in front of each one in turn, tilting her head at times then stepping back to see them better. He tried not to stare but he found her fascinating. It seemed such a coincidence that she had come to the gallery after he’d spoken to her just yesterday. But then, more rationally, he thought, why wouldn’t she come here while in Oslo? Freya’s gallery had a fabulous reputation and anyone interested in art and photography, who asked locals for recommendations, would automatically be directed here.
As the woman moved on from his photographs and started looking at some of the paintings, he put the papers he’d been holding – rather tightly – down on the desk and pressed them to try to flatten the scrunched edges. He had to admit that this woman intrigued him but he couldn’t pinpoint exactly why. She was attractive, yes, and she had that vulnerable aura to her that he’d seen yesterday, but he met lots of women on a daily basis and they rarely captured his attention for long. It was probably just her English accent and those stunning eyes of hers that had somehow found their way into his dreams last night. But so what? He’d seen a pretty foreign woman and his subconscious had run away with his desires while he slept.
Jonas was no monk. He appreciated beautiful women and had enjoyed spending time with them over the years, but he’d never had any yearning to settle down or to even make any of his relationships into something monogamous, or permanent. He had lots of female friends and sometimes dated, but he always made his position clear and the women he spent time with usually felt the same. There was nothing wrong with spending time with someone as long as you both wanted the same thing. Perhaps… if this woman was in Oslo for a while, she’d like to go out for dinner. There was no harm in that, surely? He hadn’t seen a wedding band and when he asked if she was with a man yesterday, she’d told him she wasn’t.
He smiled then stood up. He really should ask if she wanted any help.
*
Frankie’s heart was pounding as she made her way around the gallery. She’d been outside for about half an hour before she’d finally plucked up the courage
to come inside. When she’d entered, she’d kept her gaze lowered, too afraid to look over at the desk in the corner in case she saw her mother. She’d needed to come inside first, to try to slow down her heartbeat and to get some idea of who Freya Jensen was by having a look around her gallery.
The photographs that caught her attention were incredibly beautiful. They featured snow-swept landscapes, the black shapes of craggy rocks rearing up against the night sky, and the ethereal glow of the northern lights. In spite of her nerves, she’d become quite emotional as she’d gazed at them, wondering how someone could so perfectly capture natural beauty with a camera lens. But someone had, and that someone must have a very good eye and an enormous talent. She’d love to meet the photographer just to ask how he or she had taken these photographs and what it was like to see the lights in person.
As she walked around, she was aware that someone was watching her, and the tiny hairs on her nape rose as if stirred by a gentle breath. She wondered if it was Freya, if the woman who’d given birth to her was looking at her right now and if she recognized her. Would she know her daughter at first sight as people in movies or on those talk shows where families were reunited always did? Would she be happy, sad or shocked to see the daughter she’d abandoned all those years ago?
Suddenly, it was all too much and she needed to get out of the shop. Immediately!
She marched towards the doorway but froze when a large figure blocked her path.
‘Hello again.’
She raised her eyes to the face of the man from the wharf. His smile was warm, his blue eyes twinkling. She took in his dark denim jeans, the slightly creased pale blue shirt that clung to his broad shoulders and muscular arms, enhancing the blue of his eyes, and how he’d pulled his hair back from his face into some sort of bun at the back of his head. In his casual clothing, with his beard and long hair, he was everything Frankie had never been attracted to in a man. He was too big and too golden and he exuded a calm, quiet confidence, so unlike the blatant arrogance of the men she’d dated before and yet… she found him incredibly attractive. It was as if he stirred some primal corner of her psyche and she found herself digging her nails into her palms to prevent herself from reaching out and running her hands down his shirt front to see if his stomach was as hard as the outline suggested.
‘Oh…’ she squeaked. ‘Hello.’
‘Can I be of assistance?’
His Norwegian accent made the words sound so much sexier than they were intended to be and she took a small step backwards, just to try to free herself from his intoxicating scent. He smelt like she imagined the outdoors would on a snowy day: of sandalwood, fresh air and something else that she could only describe as raw masculinity.
Pheromones!
The term pinged into her mind and she smiled in spite of her situation. Yes, she would blame her attraction to this man on pheromones and the fact that she was in an unfamiliar city and dealing with some complex emotional issues. It was probably natural to want to throw herself at the closest hunky man, some kind of throwback to times when men – apparently – assumed the role of protector. Of course, in reality, Frankie had never relied on a man to protect her. Her father had been there for her but not exactly as an alpha male, and she’d never go for that type anyway. She was a modern woman, strong and independent, and had always gone for the more modern man. Like Rolo. But was Rolo really a modern man? Part of her had always known that he was a tad chauvinistic. He was actually downright controlling, for goodness’ sake, so of course he wasn’t modern. But she’d wanted to believe that he was, told herself that he’d allow her to pursue a career and to be her own woman. Yet the fact that she’d even thought the word ‘allow’ had made her hackles rise and she’d had to squash her yearning to run for the hills.
She could see now that it had all been a charade, a hoax, and she was responsible for helping to maintain the whole darned thing. Rolo was not only a fraud but a cheat and the way he had moved on so quickly with Lorna was evidence of that.
She shook her head.
What was she doing? She knew nothing about this man standing in front of her. He might not be at all protective, alpha or any of those other things. He could be a complete sweetheart, gentle, kind, tender and respectful.
And that wasn’t helping with her rising desires, either.
Just stop thinking about him and focus on why you came here, Frankie!
‘You can. Hopefully.’
She turned away from him, needing to stop breathing the same air as him, and walked over to the photographs of the northern lights.
‘Tell me about these.’
‘First let me introduce myself, please. I am Jonas Thorsen and I work here… occasionally.’
‘Hello, Jonas. I’m Frankie Ashford. Nice to meet you… properly.’
‘Properly?’ He frowned.
‘Oh… well, yesterday we didn’t exchange names.’
He nodded as they shook hands and smiled politely at each other until Frankie forced herself to look away.
‘So… the photographs?’
As Jonas described the locations of the images, Frankie listened carefully. She nodded and made the right noises to indicate that she was listening, and her heartbeat slowed and the tightness in her chest eased. Jonas spoke so enthusiastically and so knowledgeably about the setting of each photograph that Frankie felt she was right there in the wilds of Norway, gazing up at the magical light display. She could imagine the bitter cold making her nose numb and her fingers tingle, the crunch of boots on the snow and the anticipation before the light show began.
When Jonas finished speaking, she was breathless, as if he were a master storyteller and she a captive member of his audience.
‘They’re just perfect. In fact, I’d like to purchase one.’
His smile lit up his whole face.
‘Do you know which one?’
She shook her head. They were all so beautiful.
‘Which is your favourite?’ she asked him.
He pursed his lips. ‘I suspect that might be similar to asking an author which book they wrote is their favourite or even asking a parent which child they prefer. They all have their own… significance and allure.’
Frankie walked up and down the gallery, gazing at the photographs again. She could easily afford to buy them all but doing that would be hasty and somewhat frivolous, especially seeing as how she had no home of her own to hang them in now that she’d split up from Rolo, and if she was really going to make a go of life on her own, she would need to rein in her spending from now on.
‘I’ll take this one.’ She pointed at one of the photographs featuring a small, dark hut surrounded by snow. In the distance the dark shapes of trees reached into the sky, their shadows cast across the snowy ground in front of them. The sky above was black except for streaks of lilac, pink and luminous green. She wished that she could visit that hut, sit outside it and watch the magical display happen right above her head. Then perhaps she would find the answers to her questions, the freedom from being the woman others had expected her to be, when all she had ever wanted was to know herself, to understand who she really was. And she was convinced that finding her mother would play a big part in that.
‘If you’re sure that’s the one you want. Come to the desk and I’ll take some details and payment.’
Frankie followed him to the corner and he pulled out a chair for her. When she sat down, he took the chair opposite and typed some details into the computer keyboard.
‘I’ll just pull up the information then I can get to know more about you…’ He winced. ‘I mean, get your address for shipping and so on because it’s quite big and I suspect you won’t want to try to get it on the plane yourself.’
Frankie nodded and watched him as the glow from the monitor lit up his face and reflected in his blue eyes. Perhaps this wasn’t the wisest thing to do, buying a photograph from her mother’s gallery, but she’d fallen in love with it and with the way that Jonas had spoke
n about the Norwegian wilderness and about the northern lights. In fact, it was almost as if he’d taken the photographs himself.
‘Do you know, Jonas, I forgot to ask who the photographer is. He or she is extremely talented.’
He moved his gaze from the screen to meet her eyes and she saw colour rise in his cheeks.
‘It’s uh… it’s me.’
‘Wow! I’m very impressed.’
‘Thank you.’ He smiled and his colour deepened but he didn’t say anything else.
As he took her address and payment details, Frankie had to admit that she was impressed with more than his photographic skills. She was impressed with him, with how he handled himself, with his modesty and with his quiet respectful manner. If she’d praised Rolo for making her a piece of toast, he’d have expected her to keep on about it all day, let alone if he’d done something like take a good photograph. And practically all the men she’d known in her life, except for her father, had been pretty much the same. Realization coursed through her. Had she been going after the same type then? Associating with men who were arrogant and self-assured, who saw women as an extension of themselves and not as real individuals with hearts and minds of their own? Men who married a suitable woman from their own class, a woman with a good fortune to equal their own and a woman who knew how to behave in their social circles.
Why would she have done that to herself? Been a clone for Rolo and his family, a woman who was always conscious of her manners and her behaviour. Would she have sacrificed her own secret desires and yearnings just to satisfy Grandma and Rolo?
She almost had.
And why?
But she suspected that she knew the answer. Rolo and his peers came from a different world to men like Jonas. The majority of them grew up with money and every material item they could wish for. Their parents were often absent, leaving them in the care of nannies and au pairs or sending them to boarding school where they learnt to fend for themselves, and when the children went home for the holidays, they were taken to high-class events and on luxurious holidays. Everything came so easy that a lot of them didn’t know what it was like to need to work for something. Their beliefs were often already formed by their families and went back a long way, to those who had lived in their large homes before them. Not that Frankie would say the same of everyone from her class and social circle, because there were exceptions, of course there were, but she was thinking now of Rolo and his friends, as well as some of the women she’d spent her days with, and to a certain extent, herself too.
Love at the Northern Lights Page 7
