by Sara Blaedel
“Just her mom, I think. Do you want me to go down and buy the meatball mix?”
Louise felt a prick and quickly shook her head. Politeness and uncertainty always lay just below the surface, as if he were a well-raised boy over for a visit. If he’d been her own son, he’d no doubt have remained lying on the bed with his nose in the book and only reluctantly have allowed himself to be disturbed. It was heart-wrenching how transparent his vulnerability was.
Jonas’s mother had died of a congenital blood disease when he was four, and at the age of eleven, he’d lost his father, too. There was no family, distant relatives, or other relations left when tragedy struck. He’d only known Louise for a brief time, but since he’d expressed his own desire to live with her, she had given the matter careful thought and decided that if she was the safest base he could find, then he was welcome to stay with her. At least until he got some distance from his traumatic experience. At that point, they’d have to find a more permanent solution. But for now, she was his substitute mother, and for as long as she was, she’d do her best to live up to the role.
“We’d better see about getting those chairs out,” she said and looked at her watch.
Jonas promptly snapped his book shut and got to his feet.
* * *
Louise had folded down the back seat of her old Saab 9000, and between the two of them they’d managed to cram eight folding chairs in the back, plus the two step stools she’d found in the loft. Once they made it out past Svanemøllen, she turned right down Strandvænget and parked in front of his classmate’s white garden gate. On the mailbox, it said “Fasting-Thomsen.”
“Signe wrote on Facebook that we’re going out sailing.”
Jonas smiled and looked out at Svanemølle Harbor.
“It’ll be awesome. Then afterward we’ll eat.”
The garden path smelled of late summer roses. Louise stopped for a moment, and Jonas ran ahead. Classical music from inside the house poured through the front door and reached them all the way out at the storm porch, where Jonas already had his finger on the doorbell.
It was Signe’s father who opened the door. He stood with his coat on but smiled and offered his hand, introducing himself as Ulrik. As they stepped into the entryway, he apologized for the loud music and called through the living room door for Signe to turn it down.
Louise had only met Signe and her mother, Britt, when Jonas had gone to their house once after school and needed to be picked up in the evening. But she knew that his classmate played the cello and was a talented musician—like her mother, incidentally, who was a pianist and had played chamber music for many years. But as Louise understood it, Britt Fasting-Thomsen had had to end her career when she suffered something that Jonas thought was called writer’s cramp. Now she taught at the Music Conservatory.
“Signe is still over the moon about getting in,” Ulrik said. “So now she and her mother have started relistening to everything in our classical music collection. And that’s not so few.”
He smiled and shook his head.
Less than a week earlier, Jonas had come home from school and told Louise that Signe had been accepted into Saint Anne’s School of Song and Music. She’d taken the entrance exam for the first time when she was in the third grade, but hadn’t gotten in. Nor did it work out for her in subsequent years. But now, finally, they’d gotten lucky.
Louise had had difficulty hiding her smile when Jonas chattered on about how Signe’s parents were called by the school, which suddenly found itself with a vacancy and wanted to know if Signe was still interested.
“She’s crazy talented, and when she starts going there, she’s sure to wind up being famous and getting to play a whole bunch of concerts all over the place.”
He’d looked earnestly at Louise, then told her about the going-away party.
“It’s on Saturday, so we can say good-bye to her before she starts at her new school. May I go?”
They’d been planning on driving out to the country that weekend, down to Louise’s parents’ in Hvalsø. But now she didn’t have the heart to insist on it. It was the day after that she offered to make the meatballs.
“Everything’s happened so fast this past week,” said Ulrik. He ran his hands through his dark hair, which had a touch of gray at the temples. There was something in his facial features that made Louise think of a younger and somewhat taller version of Robert De Niro.
“Unfortunately, I can’t be at the party tomorrow,” he said with annoyance. “I’m an investment consultant, and my firm’s strategy weekend starts tonight at Dragsholm Castle up in Odsherred.”
Jonas listened politely, but she could tell he was impatient to go inside and say hi to Signe. Ulrik went on about how, six months ago, he’d hired an investment strategist from Switzerland to come and give a motivational speech to the staff, so it was impossible to reschedule the seminar on such short notice.
“Those kind of people are booked solid.”
He shrugged his shoulders and nodded to the piles of tablecloths and stacks of dishware lying on the floor.
“But I’m skipping out on the welcome dinner, so we can get all that over to the sailing club. Britt thinks she can manage the rest—and if I know her, she can.”
He smiled and said that it was a stroke of luck that they’d been able to rent the sailing club’s party room so late.
“It’s just been completed, and they don’t even have tables or chairs. But they’re coming up with the tables and we’re bringing the chairs we need. I think it would have been easier to hold the party here, but Signe wouldn’t hear of it. She’s planning on everyone going sailing before the meal’s set out.”
“Is your wife taking care of the sailing, too?” Louise asked, remembering how slight Britt was.
“No, no!” he laughed and shook his head. “I’ve joined forces with a sailor we know. He keeps a big wooden boat in the harbor. Our sailboat is pretty big, but we can’t cram twenty-five children on board.”
The classical music continued playing loudly, and Jonas peeked impatiently into the living room.
“They’re probably out in the kitchen,” said Ulrik, and led the way. “They just must not have heard you come.”
Louise looked around as they were led through the dining room. It was spacious and light, with modern art on the walls, and a dining table long enough to seat ten people on each side. There were two or three more rooms that all looked out on the harbor. In one of them stood Britt’s beautiful grand piano, and behind it Louise saw Signe’s cello.
The kitchen was easily the size of Louise’s living room. At first glance, it didn’t look like much had been done to it over the years, except for an addition of an exclusive French stove with double ovens, which stood along one wall. The rest was kept in the original classical style of the 1920s with tall doors and glass cupboards. If you looked closely, though, you could tell that all the cupboards had been restored to look that way.
“Hi!” Signe shouted happily. When she gave Jonas a hug, her red curls fell over her face. Her green eyes shined. Louise got a quick hug, too, before the girl dashed off into the living room and turned down the music so they could talk without shouting.
“Should I unload the chairs here, or drive them up to the sailing club?” Louise asked.
Britt finished rinsing dough off her fingers and greeted her guests properly.
“No, you don’t need to bother with that,” Ulrik said, standing behind them. “I have to take all the other stuff there, then afterward I can come back for the chairs.”
“If you have to go there anyway, I might as well follow you. Then we won’t have to keep loading and unloading them.”
“Can I stay here while you’re gone?” asked Jonas.
Louise looked over at Britt, leaving it up to her.
“Absolutely,” she said.
“OK, great. I’ll come back and pick him up after we’ve unloaded the chairs.”
Signe pulled Jonas into her room so they
could pick out CDs for the party.
“There won’t be all that much classical,” her mother said as they left. “That’s mostly for when she’s home and can get absorbed in it.”
A little blob of dough landed in Britt’s pageboy hair as she tucked some loose strands behind her ears. Now it sat there distracting Louise. Signe’s mother was short and slender, elegant without being too delicate, and when she talked about her daughter she exuded warmth.
“I hope she can settle in at the new school,” Britt said. “It’s a hard decision when you’re perfectly happy with your current school and all your friends. But the music environment at Saint Anne’s is on a whole different level from where she goes now. Out there, she’ll be trained in the fundamentals of musical structure and become a strong reader of music. And then there’s the chorus, which she’s looking forward to being part of.”
Louise nodded. Her knowledge of Saint Anne’s School for Song and Music was severely limited, just that the school was for children with exceptional musical talents. In fact, she hadn’t even realized that they had regular school classes on top of the music ones.
Britt walked over to the windowsill and blew out two pillar candles, so their wax wouldn’t drip on the expensive kitchen floor. She checked the bread in the oven and put the next batch of dough into a bowl to rise.
“I ordered sushi for tomorrow. The ones who aren’t into that kind of fare can have the meatballs you’re bringing. And I’m roasting chicken drumsticks. And then there’ll be bread. Do you think that covers it?”
Louise shrugged her shoulders in apology. She confessed that she really didn’t have much experience in that area.
Britt smiled and shook her head.
“Jonas seems very happy with you. We were so worried that he wouldn’t recover after what happened to him. He’s such a nice boy, but very sensitive. He’s come here a lot over the years since he and Signe get along so well. And, clearly, they’ve got their music.”
Louise nodded. Jonas played guitar and had taken lessons since he was nine. But not classical, and he was nowhere near the level Signe was at with her cello. She had been fed music with her mother’s milk. Ever since she was very little, she’d gone with her mother whenever the ensemble played.
“It’s really sweet of you to take care of the meatballs. I think we’re starting to get a handle on it now. The soft drinks and sushi are being delivered down there. Signe and I will have plenty of time to set the tables and decorate, and then I’ll have a little time, too, when they’re out sailing.”
“I’ll get the meatballs there in plenty of time,” Louise said.
Ulrik came out and said he was ready to go. Louise zipped her jacket.
“Jonas can spend the night here, if it’s OK with you,” said Britt. “He can go home on Bus 14 or the train from Svanemøllen. If he wants to.”
Louise thought it over. It was only a little past seven, so she could easily fit in a trip to Holbæk, if Mik didn’t have plans. That was another thing she had to get used to now that she “had a kid.” Weekends weren’t free for that sort of thing anymore.
Although Louise sometimes longed for her lanky colleague from the Holbæk Police, she wouldn’t go so far as to call what they had a relationship. Mik called it an unstable long-distance relationship that they were trying to normalize, but she was happy just to call it casual sex and confessed that she was fine with it. Still, she had to admit she missed him sometimes, and right now she yearned to see him. Maybe, if they didn’t sleep in too late tomorrow, they could even take the sea kayaks out on the fjord.
“YES!” screamed Signe when she was presented with the idea of Jonas spending the night.
When she smiled, her freckles smushed together over her nose.
“Then you can help me with the place cards,” she told Jonas. “You write so neatly.”
“They’ll be busy,” Britt said with a smile.
She and Louise joined Ulrik, who’d already packed the car.
“And it’s also fabulous for her to have something to do,” said Britt. “Because she’s so happy she can barely stand it.”
3
The stall door on the wing where Mik kept his workshop stood open. Louise drove up and parked in front of the farmhouse, then walked across the yard. She was joined by an overenthusiastic wirehaired pointer that herded her in.
“Hello!” she hollered as pebbles crunched underfoot.
“Hi!” she heard from the workshop.
Soon after, Mik stepped out in torn jeans and a long-sleeved shirt with a stain on it.
“Pardon me,” he said, pointing to himself. “I had to fix the kayak so it’s ready for tomorrow. Pretty soon, it’ll be too cold to go out. I’ve talked with some of the others about going out this weekend since the weather looks to be nice. You’re welcome to join us.”
Louise smiled at him. She’d already told him she had to drive back to the city before noon tomorrow.
Mik came over and pushed her long, unruly black curls out of her face. He put his arms around her tightly, and she felt the muscles in his arms and back, an added bonus of kayaking. He kissed her. Louise smiled and slipped her hands along his bare back, lifting his shirt.
“Should we go inside, or do you want to undress here?”
He pulled away from her and looked over at the workshop.
“I just need to take care of that kayak,” he said.
She let her hands fall.
“I pulled it a little too hard onto a stony beach, and a little stone got lodged under the drop keel. I tried to wiggle it out, but then the cable fell off. Now the kayak’s a bitch to steer.”
“Can’t you fix it tomorrow? We could get up early.”
She followed him over to the stall door.
“I just want to finish it up.”
He walked over to the kayak, which he’d set across two sawhorses. He found a Phillips screwdriver on his work table and started turning a screw.
The pointer had settled in a corner. It looked at Louise as if it couldn’t understand why she was taking so long to come over and pet it.
“Why don’t you go inside and make us a pot of coffee or open a bottle of wine?” Mik said.
He smiled at her.
“I’m sanding out some scratches on the bottom side, too,” he said. “Since it’s already up on the sawhorses.”
Louise sighed. She didn’t want coffee. She wanted him and hadn’t counted on all this screwing and sanding before it was her turn.
She edged past the kayak and walked over to the workbench, which stood along the wall and had the only fairly clean surface in the workshop.
“You’re also welcome to go into the living room.”
Mik tore a piece of sandpaper from a roll he had on the table.
“I came here to be with you,” she said and sat on the workbench.
“And that’s terrific.”
He smiled at her, and the sight of his crooked front tooth made her feel warm inside.
“And if I’d known you were coming, I would have taken care of this first.”
She nodded; she knew. He was always very considerate. At the beginning of the week he’d asked her if they’d be seeing each other that weekend, but she’d said no because Jonas was going to Signe’s party. So, she couldn’t really blame him for having things to do when she popped in on short notice. Still, she was a little irritated about being put on hold.
She studied him as he went to work, sliding the sandpaper over the bottom of the kayak. He’d rolled up his sleeves, so she saw the bulge of his tendons and muscles every time he passed over small, uneven places. He was so meticulous his movements sent a shiver down her spine.
Suddenly, she was flooded with a memory. She was seventeen or eighteen, and hanging out in a workshop with a bunch of boys messing around with mini-bikes and motorcycles. She had gotten together with the boy whose parents owned the farm where the workshop was. Her Suzuki had been the most souped-up, drilled, and chopped in the entire d
istrict. And it was also thanks to that boy she got her motorcycle license at the age of nineteen.
Louise smiled to herself, and Mik gave her a questioning look.
She shook her head.
“Nothing.”
“Yes,” he said and tossed the sandpaper on the floor. “What is it?”
“I just started thinking about how it often pays to have patience when having to wait in a workshop. Especially if you have designs on the person you’re waiting on.”
Mik raised an eyebrow.
“Is that your experience?”
He looked at her inquisitively.
Louise nodded and smiled as he walked over to her. He dried his hands on his blue jeans, then pulled her to the edge of the workbench. His hands slid up under her blouse. It tickled her ear when he bent over her and whispered, “Why don’t you go inside and make us a couple of Irish coffees?”
4
Camilla’s leg fell asleep. The airplane blanket had slid down to the floor, and the little pillow had given her a crick in her neck.
The flight attendants were going through the cabin collecting the passengers’ U.S. arrival papers. The info-screen on the headrest in front of her showed one hour and fourteen minutes until landing in Chicago. She still hadn’t set her watch back the nine hours for West Coast time, couldn’t bear the thought of going through the hours of the day all over again.
Markus kept his eyes glued to a Disney film and hadn’t said much during the flight. His blond hair stuck straight up, and his sweatpants scrunched up around his small hips. He had one leg tucked up under him, and he’d stuffed his blanket and pillow behind his back so he sat in an uncomfortable position with his elbows resting on the tray table and his head in his hands.
Camilla stroked his cheek, but he pulled away, didn’t want to be disturbed. She dropped her hand. The mood between them had been silent and a bit gloomy ever since they’d hugged and waved good-bye to Louise under the escalator in Terminal 3. She’d tried to talk with him about it, but he’d refused. Shrugged his shoulders, averted his eyes.
