Stockholm Diaries, Melanie

by Rebecca Hunter

  STOCKHOLM DIARIES,

  MELANIE

  REBECCA HUNTER

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  STOCKHOLM DIARIES, MELANIE

  Copyright © 2015 by Rebecca Hunter

  ISBN: 978-0-9964556-3-3

  Cover Design: The Killion Group

  Photography: Laura Turbow Photography

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any print or electronic form without permission.

  Acknowledgments

  This book was shaped, nudged and coaxed into its current form with the help of many generous people in my growing community. First, my wonderful writing partner, K.D. Hazzard, talked me through the process and helped me solve some plot problems along the way. My sister Leah gave very helpful input on this manuscript in its much rawer form, as did Julia Victorine and Laura Burtness. Mike O’Donnell added a male perspective as well as some very helpful direction. I want to also thank Betsy Grim for one round of proofreading and thank Ella Swift for combing through the manuscript and giving all sorts of much-needed tips.

  And, of course, thank you to my husband, who introduced me to the romance of summer island life in Sweden.

  Chapter 1

  Melanie trudged up the forest trail, cursing all things travel-related. Her rolling suitcase bumped unsteadily behind her, kicking up clouds of dust. The suitcase, advertised for its “convenience,” clearly wasn’t convenient on the rough dirt. A camel would have been preferable. But it had tricked her into bringing much more than she probably should have taken on this trip—did she really need a hair dryer in an island cabin in Sweden? Still, after two taxis, one trans-Atlantic flight and a boat ride, it was a little late for regrets.

  She steered the suitcase around a rather large rock in the middle of the trail and stopped at the clearing to catch her breath. Leaning against a tall birch tree, she set down the bag of groceries to search through her overloaded purse. She found what she was looking for: a photograph of a cabin, painted deep red with white trim. The photo was now bent and scratched after battling with keys, books and who knows what else stuffed in her oversized purse. Glancing from the photograph to the little red house in front of her, then back to the photograph again, she breathed a sigh of relief. She had found it. Her father’s cabin. Now her cabin.

  Mel grabbed the handle of her suitcase again and yanked it forward, sending the heavy baggage toppling into a bush.

  Of course. She dug into her purse once again and emerged with her phone. The camera should still work internationally, right? She posed for a picture of herself with the suitcase in the background, specially taken for the suitcase company. Who knows—maybe if she posted it somewhere, they’d send her some sort of all-terrain model for free?

  It was a petty move, but she felt better. Except that went she tried to send it, she had no phone reception. Of course.

  A trickle of sweat ran down her temple. She looked through the trees to the ferry dock and then back again at the cabin. Almost there. Sighing, she righted the suitcase and picked up her groceries, lugging them both the rest of the way, the bulk of the suitcase hitting her legs at each step. The executor of her father’s estate had warned her in careful English that the door on this side of the cabin didn’t work, speaking of convenience, so she continued past it, along one side of the house and around to the side that faced the water. Finally, with one last burst of energy, she pulled her suitcase up onto a rather new-looking deck and collapsed, trying to catch her breath again.

  The island seemed much bigger than it had from the ferry. Its long, narrow shape meant that clumps of cabins lined the shore, with nothing but forest in between. If she was looking for a place to work without distractions, this was definitely it. Down the gentle slope in front of her, the Baltic Sea stretched out, shimmering in the afternoon sun, uninterrupted except for a narrow, rickety dock with a metal ladder at the end. Even without knowing her father, she could understand why he had kept this place all these years. The view alone was enough.

  Yes, this place would help her capture the elusive pieces of her father’s life. Maybe she wouldn’t have to return the book advance after all.

  After months of work, most of the money was gone anyway, despite the fact that the book wasn’t anywhere near done. And she had to admit that the money spent on coming to Sweden was for more than just research. She was also hoping for a little reprieve, though her more pessimistic side called it running away. Her mother hadn’t spoken to her for weeks after she learned about the project, so Mel’s decision to spend the summer in Sweden hadn’t gone over well. But this was her chance to get to know her father. And if she could uncover the last hidden bits of his life, she’d have a chance at finishing his biography. She had convinced her publisher she could get more access to this private, reclusive man than anyone else had managed. If she could pull it off, maybe, just maybe, she’d finally be done with him forever.

  More sweat fell down her cheek—she definitely under-researched the weather possibilities. Mel had been warned that Sweden could be surprisingly cold in the summer, despite the perpetual sunlight, but today seemed to be the exception to the rule. The enormous expanse of water in front of her looked delicious. Priority #1: A swim.

  She unzipped the top pocket of her suitcase and pulled out an envelope stuffed with papers and a lone key. Mel jiggled the key in the lock, and the white door swung open to her new summer home.

  Timber—that was the word that came to mind when she stepped into the cabin. The walls were bare panels, and what little furniture her father had was also carved in thick, rough wood. A small kitchen table and two chairs. An old daybed, with white pillows that shone against the worn wooden frame. The large room even smelled of it—not freshly cut, but the aged scent of wood that had been shut inside for years.

  The only things that suggested that this place was a home and not just some sort of interactive museum display were the bookshelves, incongruously messy, overstuffed with an assortment of every shape and color of book imaginable. And across the room was the other sign of life: two plastic-covered holes where the windows should have been.

  What the hell?

  The executor didn’t say anything about the cabin needing repairs. And while she usually considered herself pretty handy, Mel had to admit that installing windows in a climate known for heavy rainfall wasn’t in her current repertoire.

  Oh well. She’d worry about that later, preferably before it rained. Right now, it was time to wash away the jet lag along with the sticky layer of sweat and dirt so she could think.

  Mel rolled her suitcase over to the daybed, just under one plastic-covered hole in the wall. She shuffled through neatly rolled t-shirts and socks, her laptop and toiletries until she found what she was looking for: her bathing suit. It was an old, stretched-out blob in faded greens, but after searching through a string of stores for a new one back in Boston, she had decided that this green mess was still her best option. How often would she really need a bathing suit in Sweden? And why did stores only stock bikinis for women under size 16 these days? She would probably need to treasure the baggy green one-piece.

  No one will see me here anyway, she thought as she lifted her shirt over her head. It clung to her body, and she wondered idly if the cabin had a washing machine. Not likely.

  She peeled the rest of her clothes off and grabbed her bathing suit when a sound made her freeze, halfway back to standing position. F
ootsteps. Close by, maybe on the stairs of her deck—someone was here. And she was naked. Had she locked the door? Of course not. Why would she lock her door when she was in the middle of nowhere? The footsteps came closer.

  Bathing suit. She fumbled with the top opening and shoved her foot in, pulling up at the same time.

  Rrrrrrip.

  She felt the old material give way as her foot pressed into the seat.

  Shit.

  She looked down, assessing the damage. Where the chest and the butt should have fit were now two, great, gaping holes, held together only by the side seams. Seriously, what were the chances? Shit. She had made lists and planned and done everything she could to make sure she had what she needed for island life. She had lugged it all across the Atlantic, all the way up the dirt trail…

  The footsteps. They stopped. Mel’s heart pounded hard as she stared at the flaps of material hanging off the suit.

  Get dressed, Mel. Anything.

  Her dirty shirt lay in a heap on the floor. But as she lifted her foot back out of the suit, the plastic that covered the hole in the wall in front of her was suddenly loose. Then it was gone. And it certainly felt chilly now.

  What she saw on the other side of the hole made her gulp. Her brain finally kicked into gear: a hot man, dressed in jeans and a white t-shirt, holding something. A hammer. His other hand, frozen half way down his body, held the corner of the plastic.

  Her heart jumped, and a hot flush crept up her neck. Instinctively, Mel glanced down at herself, as if clothes might have magically appeared on her body. No, they hadn’t—she was still completely nude, with a ripped bathing suit around her ankles. Very classy.

  She glanced back up at him. He looked just as stunned as she felt, but it took another beat before he turned away, mumbling something in Swedish.

  She took a deep breath and, in as dignified a manner as she could muster under the circumstances, she looked back down at the scraps of material.

  Just pull it on. Without ripping it further.

  She lifted her foot back into the hole, but the trembling in her legs threw her off balance. She toppled forward, but before she hit the ground, she caught herself. The flush burned all the way up to her forehead.

  She heard a hint of a breath from the guy, and he said something she couldn’t understand. He was doubtlessly watching her again after all that noise.

  Entertaining show, Mel.

  The second attempt to get her legs into the bathing suit proved more successful, and she started the delicate and decidedly ungraceful process of shimmying it up her body. Finally, Mel pulled up the straps.

  Except that her breasts were hanging out of the front hole. She wanted to run, but the fact that her butt hung out the hole in the back stopped her from turning around. Mel crossed her arms over her breasts and took a deep breath.

  Slowly, she lifted her gaze until she met the stranger’s eyes.

  Oh my.

  He was indeed staring at her again with what looked a lot like pure, hot, unguarded lust. Her own body tingled in response, and she was too thrown off to fight it. She wasn’t sure which of these reactions were worse—her embarrassment or her desire.

  Mel closed her eyes for an extra beat, and when she opened them again, he was looking at the ground. A flush crept up his cheeks, and he rubbed the back of his neck.

  Now it was her turn to stare. The guy was bigger than average. His wavy brown hair fell into his eyes, and he had a few days worth of stubble growing on his cheeks. A rip in his t-shirt had her staring at the well-defined muscles in his stomach for a moment before she caught herself. She narrowed her eyes into a look she hoped he read as calm, cool and collected—or, at the very least, something besides humiliation.

  “Vem är du?” he said.

  Finally, she found her voice.

  “I don’t speak Swedish,” she said. With a note of irritation, she added, “What are you doing with my window?”

  Surprise crossed his face as he looked up, but he recovered almost immediately.

  “You must be Björn’s daughter,” he said. It was a statement, not a question, and it came out in perfect British English. “I heard about you, but I didn’t know you were coming. You surprised me. I thought someone had broken in…”

  “…to strip for you?” she filled in.

  The corners of his turned up into the hint of a smile.

  “Sorry about that,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck again.

  “And you must be something like… the handyman?” she said dryly, glancing down again at his hammer.

  He raised his eyebrows and gave her a wry smile. A glint of the look she had first seen flashed across his face again.

  “One of my many talents,” he chuckled.

  What did that mean? His choice of words and the low rumble of his voice sent another jolt of heat through her. She swallowed.

  “Does my father’s handyman have a name?”

  If she could keep the edge in her voice, maybe she could recover at least a little of her dignity by the end of this conversation. But he had caught her naked in her cabin—shouldn’t he apologize for intruding, or for standing on her deck, or for being distractingly hot… or something? Instead, this man made her feel as though she were the one out of place. She tucked her arms tighter across her chest.

  “He does have a name,” said the man, grinning. “Henrik.”

  He hadn’t moved at all yet, and his hand was still frozen halfway down his body. Despite the hint of arrogance in his demeanor, Mel wondered if he wasn’t quite as confident as he came off.

  “Well, Henrik, if you don’t mind, I’d like a little privacy.”

  “Of course,” he said, but he didn’t move yet. He took a breath and opened his mouth to speak, but he hesitated.

  “My father is dead, you know,” she said.

  It was a stupid thing to say. He had died two months before, an event this handyman surely had noticed.

  “I’m sorry about your father,” said Henrik. The smile was gone. He sounded genuinely sad.

  Mel shook her head. “I hadn’t seen him since I was four years old.”

  Mel regretted the statement even as it left her mouth. Her father’s abandonment of her and her mother was no secret, but in her current state, the well-worn topic had a sharper edge than usual, and she could hear her own bitterness leak through. Or maybe she just preferred to discuss this, or anything else, with a little more clothing on.

  He seemed to register her tone, because his voice was gentle when he spoke again.

  “I promised your father I’d help him fix up the cabin,” he said. “We made all the plans last year.”

  Maybe it was the jetlag, but Mel was having a hard time keeping up with the turns of this conversation. She studied the man in front of her, all muscle and physical power. Guarded. Closed. A hint of wrinkles creased his bright green eyes. He looked a little older than she was, though she wasn’t sure by how much. Why was he here when it clearly no longer mattered to her father if the work was done? Did her father owe him money? Did this mean that she owed him money now?

  “You don’t have to fix the cabin up. It looks fine to me,” she said. “Do I owe you for your work?”

  Henrik scowled momentarily before his expression recovered. He took a step back and let go of the plastic.

  “I’m not here to collect money.”

  He motioned for her to peek out the hole and onto the deck.

  “We ordered these windows back in the early spring,” he said, pointing to the piles of wrapping, “but they didn’t come in until last week. Hard to get things delivered out to the island. I didn’t want to leave them in the yard to break, so I’m installing them. I’m almost done. I hope you don’t mind.”

  His accent made it hard for her to tell if his last sentence was sarcasm or if it was the closest she’d get to an apology from him. His face gave nothing away.

  “Thank you,” she said c
arefully. “I appreciate it. Hopefully this means I can get dressed more privately in the future.”

  Although maybe she should have asked if he had curtains out there, too.

  Mel watched as his gaze dipped down and then snapped back up again. He was suppressing a smile. It would have been a good time for her to turn around and end the conversation if it weren’t for the fact that her swimsuit still had a gaping hole that exposed her butt. And while she wasn’t particularly shy, providing a view of her ass at this point wouldn’t do much to assert her dignity.

  Much to her irritation, she felt her face flush one more time. It was no wonder that Henrik was smiling.

  Nice one, Mel—really subtle.

  “If you don’t mind?” she said lightly. “I need a couple minutes.”

  “Of course,” he said quickly, turning away. But after a few steps he turned back.

  “Does Björn’s daughter have a name?”

  She couldn’t help it—the corners of her mouth tugged up into a smile.

  “She does,” she said without turning around. “Melanie.”

  Chapter 2

  Well, swimming was out now, unless she wanted to go skinny dipping. And after the nude encounter with the handyman, who would be returning any minute now, she wasn’t sure he would ever take her seriously. No matter how sweaty she was, she wasn’t putting on another show.

  Mel unrolled a sundress from her suitcase and slipped it on. Then she poked her head out of the hole in the wall. Henrik was standing at the end of the deck, looking out at the sea.

  “I’m decent,” she called.

  He turned around and nodded, but he didn’t move. His face was clear of emotion again, as if his mind was elsewhere. As if their very memorable introduction had never happened. That kind of guy. He was probably the kind who liked to keep his distance, which was just as well. If Mel trusted her mother’s account of her father, it was little wonder that they were friends. Of course, she had only known this guy for five minutes, three of which she had been naked, but she knew his kind.