I know. I don’t follow your dress code.
I think of Mom to calm my mind. She would be so happy for me if she knew I was dining here, and I want to memorize everything good to share with her later, not the bad. And ask her about Gunnar Moen. If he’d been anywhere near The Bluebird, Mom knows who he is.
When William returns, he carries two flutes of champagne in his hands and places one in front of me.
I panic. “So, what’s your favorite tradition?” I have no idea why I ask that, and it seems completely random. Maybe I ask because I want to get to know what he cares about or because I want to share mine; Mom and I huddled up on our couch on December twenty-third, laughing at our favorite short film, the Christmas sketch called “Dinner for one.” As the film starts, how we reminisce over the laughter of my great grandmother, Mom’s grandmother, who always used to watch it with us when I was little, and the people that now only exist in our minds. Thinking about that always calms me. I picture William there with us.
William nods at my glass.
“Oh, I’m driving.” If not for our stupid alcohol limit of zero point two percent, I’d gulp the glass down. As if that would help.
“We’re eating, so don’t worry about it. Have some.” William holds up his glass.
A few sips won’t hurt.
I clink mine to his and swallow a tiny amount.
Not pleasant, strange aftertaste.
William’s not the one going to jail if I get pulled over on my way home. “I think I’ll stick to water.”
He shrugs. “Hmm, traditions. I don’t know, we don’t have that many to choose a favorite one. My mother takes care of our family’s traditions. She’s the one you should be talking to.”
“Your mother isn’t here for me to ask.” My response is harsher than intended, but it gets my point across.
Answer the question.
William laughs. “Alright. My birthday celebration. That’s my favorite. Mom stalks me down to celebrate no matter where I am, always bringing a chocolate cake formed as a soccer field. It’s silly really.”
The little blush in his cheeks makes me smile. “It’s sweet. Did you play?”
“No, and I don’t even like soccer. No idea how it started.”
The waiter returns to take our order for lunch. I open my menu, but William is already ordering for us both. “We’ll each have the chef’s three-course menu, please.”
That’s when I see the prices. It’s like the floor is shaking. Dad’s voice buzzes in my head: “I told you so.”
I want to scream back at him to shut up, but he’s right. I’m an idiot for not thinking about this. I can’t afford anything on this menu.
Surrounding us, ladies in silk blouses, men in shiny suits stare at me through their eyelashes, as if I won’t notice.
How can I be so stupid?
Josefine warned me William was like Dad, and if Dad had brought me here, he’d expect a considerable favor back for this sum of money, and I’m not that type of girl. I’m not for sale, and I never will be. Who am I kidding? Of course William’s like that. Aren’t all men? He knows where I work, that Dad’s struggling, he even asked me about it.
I lean over to William and whisper. “I can’t afford this. I’m sorry. I think I’ll head home.”
Women ogle me like wolves would a weakling that’s hurting the pack. I want to baaa at them, show that I’m not trying to infiltrate their way of life. I’m a stupid sheep, nothing for anyone here to worry about.
William takes my hands in his. “This is why I like you.”
“What?” I scramble my thoughts to figure out what he’s referring to but find myself blank.
“You’ve met Erica already. That’s one of the reasons we broke up. She never offered to pay for anything, while here you are warning me you can’t afford to cover your meal.”
“Well, I can’t, so no need to offer.” I pull my hands out of his and stand.
“Sit down,” William says. But I don’t want to. I want to get out of here, I don’t belong, and everyone here knows it. Like a cloud covering, relieving you of the harsh rays from the sun on a grueling hot summer day, the relief around me is undeniable when I gesture to leave.
“Hey, don’t be silly. You’re making a scene.”
Hesitantly, I sit back down.
“Thank you.” He takes my menu, folds it and hands it to the waiter. “I do consider myself a gentleman and would like to pay on our first date.”
I calculate quickly that the bill probably will resemble the sum of a week’s work for me. That is if Dad paid me my salary. “How about we finish our champagne, and go somewhere else?”
William shakes his head. “No. Don’t worry about the bill. I eat here every week, so it’s fine.”
So my week’s pay equals his lunch cost? Suddenly he’s not as handsome anymore. A part of me wants to be grateful while another wants to know what he expects in return.
As if I don’t know.
Or am I flattering myself too much here? Like the sheep I am. Nobody spends this much money on another person without expecting something in return. That I agree with my father on. “Please pretend to be a bit less smug saying something like that.” I lift my glass and lean over to him. “To humility,” I say.
William throws his head back, chuckling. “I love that! Cheers!” He clinks his glass to mine, and I lower my shoulders, telling myself over and over again to relax. Still, when the waiter comes back with our first course, they’re right back up by my ears.
He slides his chair around the table, closer to me. Warmth spreads through my body.
“Look around you.” He glances around the room, and I follow his direction. “The reason why I want to move back to Årøysund is right here.” He leans in closer and whispers. “Have you ever raked your fingers through a head filled with hair extensions?”
Sorry?
He wrinkles his nose as if a stench fills the room before throwing a glance at my hair.
I comb my fingers through it. “All natural.”
“Color?”
“Nope.”
“Nails?”
I hold my hands out to him wishing I’d put on nail polish. “Too natural.”
“Too fake exists, not too natural.” He clears his throat. “Well, I’ve whitened my teeth, so that’s not natural about me, but it doesn’t count, I think.” He grins at me, showing them off and looking ridiculous in doing so.
It makes me laugh. “Agreed.” I flash my smile back at him. Blessed with white teeth from Mom’s side of the family, it’s one of the few things about myself I’m happy with. “Also natural.”
“You truly are a dream.”
After dessert and coffee, William looks down at his platinum watch and grins. “I must be enjoying your company, Amalie. We’ve been here for three hours.”
What? Dad will kill me if he finds out I’m not at home.
I stand from the table and instinctively turn towards the exit. “I have to go.”
William looks shocked. “I didn’t mean it as a hint.”
“Oh, no, sorry. I have to get home before…” Thoughts of Dad arriving home before me brawl around my brain, like maggots in a bucket ready to be used as bait. “…I have to go.”
“Okay? I’ll walk you to your car. Will you go grab our coats?” William signals for the waiter to bring the check.
Grateful, I walk out to the entrance area and wait for him by the exit. “Sorry to have kept you from work for so long.”
“I took the rest of the day off. That’s why I had to finish my call before going. What’s your rush?”
“Um, I…I have to start a new application.”
“For what?”
A scholarship I almost lost my chance for because my father opened my letter.
At least I think Dad did it. I have to confront him when I get home.
We walk towards William’s office building.
“Actually…” I want to tell him about DAP, but that might scare h
im off. There are thirty finalists for the scholarship. Winning is like throwing dice with thirty sides instead of six, hoping mine comes up on top. I always lose in Yahtzee, and with even lower odds, winning would be impossible. “I’m a finalist for a scholarship.” He doesn’t have to know that it’s in Portugal.
“Wow, that’s great. Congratulations. When is it due?”
A painting in a gallery window catches my eye, leaving me puzzled, and I stop outside. “Friday.”
William’s left brow raises in wonder. “Not in too much hurry not to enjoy art?”
Looking back at me through the glass is a painting of The Bluebird. “This is Mr. Jensen’s painting.” I rush inside.
A short woman, my age, with dark brown hair put up in a neat bun greets us. “Welcome,” she says.
“Can I see the painting by Balder Jensen, please?” I point to the canvas in the window.
“Which one?”
“There are more?” I glance around the gallery and recognize his art on every wall.
“This is Balder Jensen’s gallery. We only sell his paintings here, but I must warn you. He’s quite particular about meeting and approving potential buyers. If you’re interested.” She’s talking to William, ignoring me.
On the wall in the back of the gallery is a painting reaching from the floor to the ceiling of the oak behind The Bluebird. I walk over to it. On the second thick branch is a blonde little girl in a white dress with daisies on it whom I recognize. It’s me. “How much is this one?”
“What?” The sales woman turns to me, clearly annoyed with having to drag herself away from William. “Oh, that one’s not for sale. That’s one of his first paintings owned by a collector here in the city.”
“Who?”
“He likes to stay anonymous.” She walks back to William to continue her conversation. “If you’re interested…?” She’s not aiming her question at me, but at William who has followed me into the gallery, where the main focal point is a painting of me as a child, in my favorite dress, sitting in a tree.
Sure, hit on him. Classy move.
“We’re not,” I say. I take William’s hand on my way out. “Did you see anything you like?”
He smirks at me, apparently reading my annoyance over her flirtatious behavior. “I do now.”
The woman scoffs. As the door is about to close behind us, she calls out. “Balder Jensen chooses his customers carefully.”
“Not worried,” I say. But I am. I can’t put my finger on it, but something’s stirring inside me, not sure if it’s her behavior, Erica at the office, or William being so popular. I don’t know.
William talks on about how much he enjoyed Mr. Jensen’s painting while we walk back to his office building and Mom’s car, but he stops in the middle of a sentence when I stop to open the door. I need to race home, but I don’t want to leave.
I open my mouth to ask if I will see him again, but close it fast. Dad’s back in my head saying, “Asking will give him the power to reject you.”
In the window, William’s reflection shows him walking closer to me, running his hand through his hair and sticking his hand in his pocket. “I’m going down to Årøysund on Friday. Want to meet up?”
Yes!
Like jelly, my legs seem to lack any muscle or structure, so I lean on the car to support myself. “Sure.” Is this happening? “Visiting your parents?”
“Job interview.” He takes a step closer. His facial expression changes from insecure to a smug grin. Is he going to kiss me?
William closes in, his body heat burning its way into my core, as if someone has grabbed my heart, squeezing it. I’m stuck, unable to move.
He is, he’s about to kiss me.
He cups my cheek in his hand, then leans in with his eyes closed.
I stare at him, his face closing in, his breath on my lips. Dad’s voice is telling me, “Cheap.” I wiggle out of his grip and look to my feet. “Please, don’t.” Not able to look him in the eyes, I scramble through my thoughts to find a reason to use for why I don’t want him to kiss me. It’s blank. All I have is a feeling telling me this is wrong, I’m not ready. It doesn’t make any sense.
He’s perfect.
William pulls back, his hands back in his pockets. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No.” I bury my face in my hands. What am I doing? “I don’t know you.” Stating the obvious, I glance around us. Surrounded by Mercedes, Porsches and other fancy cars, I straighten out my sweater, pulling it down. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” William kisses my cheek. “Let me tag along when you mail your new application instead.”
I nod. I don’t know what else to do.
He strolls off, leaving me stunned.
I call out after him hoping he’ll turn to see me off. “Thanks for lunch.”
When he doesn’t, I waste no time and speed out of the parking lot hoping to beat Dad home.
QUESTIONS
I turn the corner, leaving William and the square city blocks behind, and head for the highway.
Driving onto the entrance ramp, brake lights flare ahead. I put my foot on the brake and press it all the way down when the traffic comes to a complete stop. I drum my fingers on the steering wheel and notice the long string of taillights flashing red. To my left, three long-sounding signals roar through the air as a cruise ship leaves its slip. Behind me, a pick-up truck joins the queue with a man slamming his hands on the dashboard in frustration.
I check my phone scared that Dad has called. No missed calls.
I lean back in my seat. Is Dad sitting behind his desk at Skar’s, waiting for me? Has he closed early and gone home to talk to me, only to find I’m not there? Is he disappointed in me? I am. I can work tonight, archive documents and help clean up the shop, make a sign for the front door to make it more welcoming. Convince him to promote me so I can help with sales?
A flush of heat runs through my body. I sit up straight.
What am I thinking? No!
I have to work on my application tonight, not clean his cars. A smile spreads across my face as I recall William toasting with me for humility. How his lips had arched up in a grin when he smiled. He’s coming next Friday, only eleven days away and until then, I have to keep him out of my mind to concentrate on my application. I can’t allow him to occupy my thoughts. I need them for my poster project. I nod to myself and proclaim out loud, “Keep out.” According to the post office, it will take five days to get there, but I’m not risking any delays, so I’m sending mine ten days in advance. The only problem is that it steals from my own time to create what they’ve asked for. I wish I could email my application, but they insist on receiving every application by mail, the old-fashioned way. That’s what you get when the principal is a legend and almost eighty years old.
The image of William’s back in the charcoal suit pops into my mind and stays with me until, an hour later, my foot hits the gas as the car in front slowly accelerates. I jerk the steering wheel, slide into the other lane, cutting in front of the pick-up truck. No matter what, I have to be home before Dad. Speeding the car through the last bit of forest towards our house, rays of sun glimmer through the trees.
“Woohoo,” escapes me. The driveway’s empty. I’ve beaten Dad home.
I don’t care how I park Mom’s car. Our driveway is big enough to fit six vehicles, and he can be here at any second, so I run inside to grab the family photo from the wall. My foot hits the top of the stairs when the thump from a car door closing sends chills up my spine.
He’s here.
Fast strides on the trail leading up to our house can only be from Dad. I race into my room, closing the door behind me.
Muscles in my neck tighten as I open my sketchbook and put the photograph next to it. If Dad comes upstairs, I have to stay calm, pretend I’ve been here working.
“Amalie!” Dad yells from downstairs. His voice is hard.
Nausea spreads through me. I don’t want to, but I peek my head out
. My voice is careful. “Yes?”
“Get out here and park your mother’s car properly! It looks like it landed by parachute.”
“Can’t you park behind it?”
Like a raging bull, he storms up the stairs and into my room. I back myself in so fast my body slams against the wall. He grabs my arm and pulls me down the stairs. My heels skid down steps. “Stop, Dad! You’re hurting me!”
“Then perhaps you’ll understand that I am the man in this house. When I tell you to park the car, you do it!” He lets go.
His hands clasp up in fists. I back away from him, rubbing my upper arm. He’s never hurt me like this before, what’s happening to him? With a trembling voice, I say, “I’m sorry I didn’t come to work today if that’s why you’re angry at me.”
“I’m not angry. Now go park the cars properly.”
I sigh.
I don’t get you.
But I’m not going to dig into that now. “Where do you want me to move it?”
He releases his fists. “A meter to the left.” He flicks me his car keys. “And move mine next to it.”
I fumble to catch the keys but get hold of them before they hit the floor. When I get into Mom’s car, my hands are shaking. Like the teeth of a zipper, I entangle my fingers together. On the water below between the trees, a rowboat passes by with a woman and a man with their little girl at the back of the boat. They’re singing, “row, row, row your boat” together, laughing.
Mom walks out of the forest towards me. I take a deep breath, force a smile, and wave. She waves back, and I finish moving the cars when she reaches me.
“I’m going to get Nana for dinner,” she says.
I glance back at the house, where Dad is waiting, then move over to the passenger seat. “I’ll join you.” It’ll give me some time to build up the courage to confront Dad about the letter from DAP.
When we return with Nana, Dad’s car is gone. One part of me is relieved, another upset for not being able to get the confrontation out of the way.
Let Go Page 10
