by Lynn Shurr
“Mom!”
“Only telling the truth, my little tomboy.” Mrs. Lindstrom reached up to ruffle her daughter’s hair. “Always straight as a board, and she’d never let me perm it. Jeans and athletic shorts, tees, and flannel shirts in her closet. Cleats, running shoes, and flats on the floor. But today, we put a dent in that signing bonus with a whole new wardrobe. She doesn’t believe me yet, but she will need those special occasion dresses. And in a city like this, we could find her size even in shoes! That is no small accomplishment.”
Mr. Lindstrom and Ancient Andy had dumped their loads of clothing on a bed and subsided into two chairs on either side of a window that almost had a view of the Mississippi River. A tall black vase full of red roses sat on a table between them. It bore a gold ribbon reading, “Welcome to New Orleans, Alix.” While Tom shifted from foot to foot amid the chaos, the other men waited silent as the north woods in winter for the feminine hustle and bustle to subside. Eventually, it did.
“We’re going on over to Tom’s place to check out those rooms, Britta. It’s not far if you want to come along.” Nels Lindstrom rose up and stretched, then helped Ancient Andy to his feet.
“Of course, I want to go along.” His wife regarded the piles of bags still on the bed. “I don’t know how we’re going to get all this home.”
“If you approve my place, Alix could leave the stuff there,” Tom offered.
“Maybe.” The mother reserved judgment. “Let’s go see what you’ve got to offer.”
Because of Andy’s slow pace, they made it only to the neutral ground on Canal Street and had to wait for another change of the light, but eventually they got to the brownstone condos on the corner. Arturo, the doorman, smiled pleasantly at the herd of Wisconsonites traversing his lobby in Tom’s company to the elevators, though he raised his eyebrows at one of his most interesting tenants. Undoubtedly, he recalled Ilsa, another tall blond, whom Tom had given free rein to come up to his place and lived to regret it.
Relieved that his cleaning lady had just been there in the morning and that he, thanks to his upbringing, was no slob, Tom watched Britta Lindstrom examine not just the suite of rooms offered to her daughter, but his as well. She seemed to pace off the distance between the two sets of rooms as if wondering if it would be sufficient to keep the two roommates comfortably apart. Alix trailed her, shutting doors behind them. Her face seemed to have turned a permanent shade of red. Tom still thought she looked beautiful.
After a cursory glance at the spare bedroom and bath, the men settled themselves on the brown velour couch in front of the large, wall-hung TV and gas fireplace and made themselves at home. “Built-in recliners, nice, eh Pappa Andy? Let me put your feet up.” Nels provided that service for his father-in-law whom the walk across the street seemed to fatigue greatly. He began flicking through channels with the remote.
Meanwhile, his wife inspected the kitchen. “What I wouldn’t give for a refrigerator this size! Though I do have a freezer for all that deer meat and fish the men bring home. Granite counters, very nice, and a dishwasher, but it is good to see someone washes out his own cereal bowl and coffee cup.” She pointed at the strainer where Tom’s early morning dishes dried on a rack. “Nothing sours living with a person more than being messy. I remember that girl you shared an apartment with your sophomore year, baby. She left a peach pit sit on the arm of the couch for a week and just piled dirty dishes and pans still half full of food in the sink expecting you to clean up after her. I don’t think that will be a problem here.”
“I do have a cleaning lady,” Tom admitted.
He received a sharp glance from Britta Lindstrom. “Would you expect my daughter to pay half her wages, or do you think Alix will take over those duties?”
“Neither, ma’am. I’ve been paying Krayola all alone since Dean left. It’s no problem.”
Britta sighed. “Imagine having a cleaning lady. Not that they ever do as good a job as I would.” She patted Tom’s cheek. “Ma’am, I do love these southern manners. Nels, Pappa, have you spoken to Thomas about what we expect of him in the way of behavior?”
“Ja,” came the reply from two throats.
“Good. We’ll take the rooms. Pappa, you just wait here while we go get those new clothes. That walk-in closet is to die for, Alix. Then, maybe dinner. I’m thinking seafood.”
She led the others from the apartment and loaded them up across the street. Arturo’s eyebrows went up even higher when they returned laden with women’s clothing bags. Tom stopped Alix from climbing aboard the elevator. With her arms still draped in shoe bags, he marched her over to the doorman.
“This is Alix Lindstrom. You might have heard of her, the Sinners new punter. She’s going to be rooming with me for a while. Consider her my teammate just like Dean.”
“Yes, sir. Whatever you say.”
“That should take care of any nasty stories,” Tom mumbled as they turned for the elevators again.
“There have been nasty stories?” Alix asked.
“All Dean’s fault. Don’t worry about it.”
He treated them to a glorious seafood dinner and offered to drive them to the airport in the morning. Mrs. Lindstrom demurred. “No, no, you’ve done enough. A limousine service is coming for us, but we’ll be back in two weeks with the rest of her things in time for that whatchacallit.”
“Mini-camp, Mom,” Alix replied, her voice strangled with embarrassment as it had been most of the evening.
“Yes.” Britta held out her hand to Tom. “Now that I’ve met you, I know you will take care of our girl as if she were your own sister. Thank you in advance.”
Her grip was quite firm for a small, older woman. Tom shook and wished dearly that he hadn’t given his word to the entire Lindstrom family.
Chapter Four
The caravan hauling Alix Lindstrom’s goods arrived after a three-day drive from Madison. They could have made it in two and a half, but turned in early every night out of consideration for Andy’s health issues since he could not be discouraged from making the journey. While Alix drove her stretch following her father’s truck which towed a small trailer, she kept wishing she rode with the men instead of in her Ford Escape containing her mother riding shotgun and her two sisters, Rika and Tille, in the rear chattering away. They could have flown down and spared her the agony of their company.
But no, Mom called it their last road trip as a family and equated it to the many times they had driven Alix to various athletic events and stayed to watch the games. Britta Lindstrom’s eyes grew a little misty, and Alix caved. Her mother immediately perked up and began earmarking the stuff she should take along to her new apartment. This included the slipper chair in Alix’s bedroom because men never thought to have a place to sit down to put on their shoes, the high school desk purchased especially to give her enough leg room, and an entire box of Pyrex casserole dishes because Mom noticed Tom didn’t own any.
“The place is already furnished,” she protested. Secretly, Alix enjoyed the idea that she would be sleeping in Tom’s former bed since he’d moved into his brother’s suite. Why change anything? She’d get her own place someday.
“But so very masculine and rather sparse. I am certain you don’t want that hideous red and green plaid bedspread. Let’s go to Bed Bath & Beyond and get something more feminine with sheets to match.” And so they had.
They settled on a sky blue duvet embroidered in white with a matching dust ruffle and enough coordinated throw pillows to take up half the bed after Alix vetoed anything pink or flowered. Though her mother tut-tutted about the price of king-sized sheets, she bought two sets in white and pale blue and fresh bed pillows, too. “Curtains,” her mother said. “We’ll have to take down those red ones.” Off they went to another department to select those and some dotted Swiss sheers that would let in the light but slightly obscure the view. The words “throw rugs” sent them in another direction. “We need them to bring the room together in case the carpeting doesn’t match w
ell.”
The trailer preceding them carried more linens and kitchen goods than furnishings. As Alix drove past the exits for LSU in Baton Rouge, Tom’s alma mater she recalled, she felt as if she were going off to college for the first time instead of joining the NFL. Once out of the city traffic they made better time passing through woodlands that crowded the road and eventually came to a vast cypress-studded lake that set her sisters to looking for alligators though they only saw egrets, blue herons, and gulls. Traffic clumped up again as they approached the airport exit and remained heavy into heart of the Big Easy.
Arturo welcomed them with a wide smile on his brown face. “Mr. Billodeaux’s new roommate has arrived. I’ll let him know. You can park in front of the building until you unload, then you’ll have to move across to the parking garage. A space is provided for your car, but there will be a fee for the other.”
“That sounds good to me,” Alix said as the men, wasting no time, opened the trailer and handed sackloads of bedding to the women. Her father shoved the large plastic bag containing the duvet into her arms.
“No sense wasting a trip up,” he remarked and gave her mother the two bed pillows. “Pappa Andy, you go with them and tell that young man to come down and help with the desk.”
“If you need help…” Arturo began.
“Oh, no. You can see I brought my crew with me.” Smiling tightly, Alix started for the elevator and crashed directly into Tom. It couldn’t be called a chest bump, not with a huge folded duvet between them, but close enough. She seemed doomed to be flushed for the rest of her life.
Tom simply grinned. That smile, she’d seen it in photos and on film, puckish as if he plotted a practical joke. Now he directed it at her and asked, “May I take that?”
“I’m fine. It isn’t heavy. You could help Dad with the desk.”
“Didn’t know you’d be bringing furniture, but hey, Dean and I moved four girls in and out of so many dorms and apartments we lost count. I have experience.” He went to heave one end of the desk out of the trailer and showed more muscle than she would have figured his long, lean body possessed. The women stepped aside to let the furniture-bearers and Ancient Andy go first, angling the desk inside the elevator. Rika Lindstrom, the eldest daughter, squeezed in with the bag of sheets and a mattress cover just before the door closed. The others waited for the next car.
By the time they arrived, they found Pappa Andy ensconced in a recliner. Rika was already in the process of briskly stripping Tom’s former bed of its plaid spread and red sheets. Having deposited the desk in the spare room, he stood bemused in the doorway of his old quarters. Rika winked at him. “You’re cute, but this bedding is ugly.”
“Now, Rika, young men think red sheets are sexy. Fold it all neatly. He can take it to the Goodwill or the Salvation Army.” Mrs. Lindstrom stuffed the fresh bed pillows into pale blue cases and then into shams matching the new bedspread. Tille dropped her load of throw pillows on the floor next to her mother.
“Tom, you ready to bring up the chairs?” Nels Lindstrom asked.
“Ah, sure.”
“Tille, come along and get some more bags since the others are making up the bed. No lagging,” Nels ordered.
A second trip yielded up the slipper chair and the one that matched the desk plus sacks of what Tille called Alix’s Uglies, her usual garb: flannel shirts, worn jeans, tees, snow and hiking boots. Her mother had packed a parka with fur around the hood she’d never need in Louisiana but might take on a trip to Antarctica someday. “Please put that stuff in the back of the closet. I’ll get to it later,” Alix begged as her sister began piling her sports bras and Jockey shorts into the top drawer of a large oak dresser. She thanked her recently very lucky stars that Tille hadn’t chosen the second drawer where the Victoria’s Secret purchases were stashed, still wrapped in black tissue.
Tille opened the walk-in closet, turned on the light and goggled at the array of new clothes hanging there. She chucked the black trash bags in her grip and began pawing through the largess. Seizing a gown from the bar, she held it up before her. “Can I borrow this? You hardly ever wear dresses.”
If Tille got her hands on the item, a very chic black cocktail dress that would be the last Alix ever saw of it. She kind of liked the garment even if she doubted she’d ever wear it. Mom had picked the gown out claiming it showed off Alix’s now-famous legs. “It won’t fit you, Tille.”
“Well, it might be a little too tight in the bodice since I’ve got more up top.” Alix’s sister glanced sidelong at Tom. “On me it would be a midi-dress, but I think it could work.”
“Put that back, Tille. Alix paid for all her new clothes. Let her get a chance to enjoy them,” her mother said.
“Go get the boxes,” their father ordered.
“Set those down in the kitchen,” Mrs. Lindstrom directed. “Nels, before you leave lift the mattress so we can get the dust ruffle on. See how it’s all coming together with the light oak in this room?” The men nodded but declined to comment.
Tom stepped up after positioning the slipper chair by the window. “I’ll take care of that.” He heaved the large mattress off the box springs and leaned it against a wall.
“Strong.” Tille gave him a coy look with her big, blue eyes.
Tom simply smiled and assumed a body builder pose. “Kickers have to stay in shape, too.”
“I guess that’s why Alix has all the muscle in the family. I could never move that mattress without help. Alix would be able to do it. She’s great at heavy lifting. We’re sisters, but we couldn’t be more different.” Tille held out her arms as if to display her petite body clad in short shorts and a pink stretchy tee covered in sparkles that molded to her full round breasts. She shook long, flaxen ringlets over her shoulders and stayed posed, waiting for Tom’s comment.
He knew how to be a diplomat. “The Lindstrom girls are a bunch of beautiful women. They take after their mother.”
Mrs. Lindstrom shot him a pleased look. The older sister, the one with a wedding ring on her finger and a little extra baby weight around hips covered in yoga pants, smiled at the compliment and swished her high, curly blonde ponytail with pleasure. “I had a baby girl six months ago, but I’m almost back to my original size three.”
Andy Mortenson, having escaped the recliner on his own, leaned in the doorway. “Ja, all we get is girls in this family.”
“You know you love her, Morfar,” Rika said.
“I do. Named Isabel after my dead wife. All of them little curly heads except my Alix.”
“Pappa, you should be resting. Would you like orange juice? I’m sure Tom has some,” Britta Lindstrom fussed.
“Beer?”
“Not with your meds. Please sit down. Everyone else haul.”
Haul they did, until the granite kitchen counters were covered with boxes, the fluffy white throw rugs had been unfurled in Alix’s bedroom, the bed drowned in throw pillows. Tom had helped take down the drapery rods to hang the sheers and new curtains. “See how nice this looks. You can sit here in your slipper chair and look out on the world, but you should have a little table right here, too, for your coffee and magazines. That’s what I would do,” Mrs. Lindstrom said.
“Mom, the view is of the parking garage,” Alix countered. “I won’t have that much time to sit around.”
“More than you’d think. We don’t have practice every day. Um, looks nice—like I never lived here at all.” Tom fingered a ruffle on a cushion. “Lots of pillows.”
Mrs. Lindstrom explained, “This one has arms for sitting up in bed. This is a bolster for putting under your neck. The rest are just for pretty or to prop up your head when you have a cold. Well, let’s get that kitchenware unpacked, then we’ll be done. Plenty of empty cupboard space as I recall.”
Ruthlessly rearranging the shelves, Britta had the mixing bowls and bundt pans, the casserole dishes, a good set of cookware, and canned goods containing Wisconsin delicacies put away in no time. She paused at the very
end to ask Alix whether she wanted the ebelskiver pan and rosette irons up or down low.
“Low, I guess. Really, I don’t see myself doing much baking.”
“I don’t know. Those skiver things sound pretty delicious.” Tom’s lips quirked into a smile.
“She should make them for breakfast tomorrow. Now, I put some hornsalt in with the spices, not that these boys had much but chili powder and hot sauce. I did find cinnamon, but you’ll never be able to get hornsalt here.” With a final flourish, Mrs. Lindstrom took the last item, a small deeply carved wooden box, from a carton and placed it reverently on the counter. “All of my mother’s recipes and also mine.”
Despite her frustration over the chaos she had unleashed and her deep desire to be alone with Tom, Alix moved forward and gave her mother a fierce hug that lifted her off her feet a few inches. “Maybe I will find time to cook.”
“That would be great! As an officially adopted Cajun, I eat almost anything.” Tom’s grin broke free.
“Oh,” said Tille. “Alix knows that. She downloaded Joe Billodeaux’s deep fat fried turkey recipe off the internet to put in her album, didn’t you, Al? She’s been filling scrapbooks on your family for years and years. Didn’t you bring them along, Mom?”
“No. When Alix has a place of her own, I’ll insist she take all her stuff just like I did when Rika married. Teenage things, you know.”
“I mean you should see them, Tom. I thought she gave that up when she went to college, but I caught her cutting out articles on Dean and Stacy’s wedding last year. And, she put her selfie with you in the album, too. Once she said she wanted to be part of your family and not ours. Quite possibly you are rooming with your stalker.”
Alix went red in the face again, but not with embarrassment. She seized some of the colorful little cushions off the brown velour sofa and pelted her sister with one after another, showing she had a fairly strong and accurate arm to go with her legs. “You, you and Rika are why I wanted to be part of another family! What were you doing in my room, prying into my business?”
