by Gina Azzi
“Rielle?” he barks over his shoulder and I scurry to his side, frowning.
Tension rolls off his shoulders and he mutters a swear word as we pass from the terminal into the arrivals hall.
A man approaches Torsten, speaking rapidly in Norwegian. He takes the suitcase from Torsten’s hand and gestures toward the parking lot.
I frown up at Torsten, not understanding anything in their exchange.
“That’s Lars. He’s worked for my family for many years.”
“As a…”
“Personal valet.”
“To your father?” I guess.
“To me,” he murmurs, almost too low for me to hear. “He’s been employed in other parts of the household since I moved to America. But when I was a boy…” He lets the sentence drop and I fill in the blanks.
Torsten’s family isn’t just wealthy. It’s more than the Carter kind of wealth I grew up around. His family has a history, deep roots that stretch back to a time period when children had personal valets. The realization hits me hard as a thousand little things snap into place. The ease with which Torsten paid off my Jerry Jensen loan. The way he laughed at me wanting to pitch in for rent even though the idea was asinine. The fact that he gave me full use of his SUV and shrugged that he can always buy another. I knew he had money but this is more than money. This is the level above money.
I’m escorted to a white BMW and Lars holds the door open for me without making eye contact. I slide into the back seat, surprised when Torsten maneuvers in beside me instead of riding up front where he would be more comfortable.
“Torsten,” I whisper as Lars closes the trunk. “What exactly does your family do?”
“We socialize. We marry well. We keep up appearances. And we have a family business, oil, that could grow for at least two more generations with little involvement, but we all fight over it like vultures who may not live to see another day.”
My head spins as I process his words, as I note the angry glint in his eyes.
“So your family is…aristocracy?” I ask hesitantly.
“My family are a bunch of assholes,” he clarifies.
In the driver’s seat, Lars’s shoulders stiffen. But he pulls out of the parking lot without a word.
The hospital hallway smells like antiseptic and hard soap. It brings back a slew of memories I’ve done my best to forget.
Mom’s final days. Images of her bald head, her drawn face, cheeks hollow and sunken, flicker through my mind. The feel of her hand, her bones frail, her skin nearly translucent, tugs on my memories.
I bite the corner of my mouth until the prick of pain eases the throb in my chest.
Torsten gives me an empathetic look. “You holding up okay? I wish I knew sooner, sweetheart. You don’t have to stay. Lars can—”
“I’ll wait out here,” I cut him off.
His gaze searches mine for one more beat before he nods curtly, takes the backpack we used as a carry-on from my hands, and steps into the hospital room.
I plop down on a bench in the hallway, letting the random chatter from the nearby nurse’s station roll over me, even though I don’t understand any of it. I’m staring into space, trying to compartmentalize the unexpected zing of emotions, of memories and moments I thought I’d moved on from, when a shadow falls over me.
I look up into the pale, icy blue gaze of a man who looks too similar to Torsten to not be a relation.
“Hi,” I manage, scooting down on the bench in case the newcomer wants to sit.
After a moment, he does. His expression is curious, his eyes narrowed. He doesn’t look friendly or menacing but he gives off a vibe that has my nerves snapping to attention.
“You are American.”
“Yes.”
“You came with Torsten.” He inquires with statements, as if everything he says is a fact. It’s unnerving but since it’s also true, I nod.
“And you are?” I lift an eyebrow.
“Your brother-in-law.” His face remains impassive, his façade even thicker than the one Torsten wrapped himself in when we landed.
I don’t know how much Torsten’s family knows of our marriage so I keep my face blank as I hold out a hand. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Rielle.”
“I know.” He shakes my hand, his touch impersonal, like he shakes hands for a living.
“I’m sorry about your farmor.” I tip my head to the hospital room that Torsten entered.
He swallows and averts his gaze, mumbling a word in Norwegian that I think means “thank you.”
“Far! Far!” A little boy turns the corner of the hallway and barrels toward us. His blue eyes are sparkling and his blond hair is almost white. He slides to a stop in front of the man beside me and I realize this little boy, with the bright smile and glittering eyes, is Torsten’s nephew.
Why didn’t he tell me he has a brother? A nephew?
Like you told him about your niece?
Torsten and I have steered clear of talking about our families. Is it because we both know how painful it is? Or is it deeper than that?
I flick the thought out of my head and turn my attention to the enthusiastic, little boy.
His father speaks to him in Norwegian and his shoulders dip, his expression growing serious. A moment later, an out-of-breath woman appears at the end of the hallway, a shock of fear blooming in her expression when she sees the little boy and his father. What are their names?
Torsten’s brother stands and strides toward the woman. His voice is quiet but his words are clipped as he gestures to the boy.
The boy glances up at me shyly.
I smile at him and stick out my hand. Not wanting to create any additional family drama, I say, “Hey there. My name is Rielle.”
He places his small hand in mine and shakes with a lot more warmth than his dad. “I’m Magnus,” he responds in perfect English.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“You too. Do you like dinosaurs?” he asks innocently, pulling two small dinosaur figures from his pocket.
I study the bright orange and green toys. “Is that a T-Rex and a brachiosaurus you’ve got there?”
His eyes light up, the deepest blue of all the men I’ve met in his family, and he nods eagerly.
I place a hand to my chest and gasp in mock surprise. “How’d you sneak them into the hospital?”
He giggles, delighted that I’m playing along. “I had to hide them in my pocket.”
“You’re lucky they haven’t grown to full size yet or they might not fit in the hallway.”
He laughs again.
“How old are you?” I ask.
He holds up four fingers. “How old are you?”
“I don’t have enough fingers to show you. I’m twenty-four.”
His eyes widen as if I told him I’m four hundred. I laugh.
“You smell pretty,” he says simply, blinking long lashes at me.
“Thank you, Magnus. I just got off a very long airplane ride, with a stopover in London. So I’m glad to hear I don’t stink like rotten eggs.”
He tips his head back, exposing his neck, as he giggles again. I grin, loving how affectionate and sweet he is. “Where did you come from?” he asks when his laughter subsides.
“America.”
His eyes widen. “I have an uncle who—”
The door to Farmor’s hospital room opens as said uncle steps into the hallway. Magnus stops talking as his mouth hangs open in surprise, his eyes wide as he takes in the hulking stature of his uncle.
Torsten’s brother’s eyes snap to us, then to Torsten, and his back straightens. He crosses his arms over his chest and glares at his brother. The older woman, who I surmise is Magnus’s nanny, wrings her hands nervously and brushes hair out of her eyes.
Magnus breaks the tension by exclaiming, “It’s really you!”
Torsten’s head whips to the little boy who’s nearly bouncing on his toes in excitement.
“You’re really a hockey
player!” Magnus rushes him and throws his arms around Torsten’s legs.
Torsten’s brother frowns and steps forward, reaching out to grab his son’s arm. Before he can, Torsten wraps an arm around the boy’s shoulders protectively. “What’s your name, little man?”
“Magnus.” Magnus beams up at Torsten as Torsten bends down to his eye level. “I’m your biggest fan and you’re my uncle.”
Torsten’s face twists as he glares at his brother over Magnus’s head. His brother has the good sense to look ashamed and drops his gaze to the ground. He says something in Norwegian and Torsten nods.
Torsten pulls his nephew close again and Magus practically vibrates with excitement. He grins at me and I wink back. Torsten catches the exchange and his expression softens. He whispers something to Magnus who goes to stand by his father as Torsten takes two strides toward me. I notice he’s hiding his limp well even though his arm is still wrapped in a sling.
“How’d it go?” I whisper as he sits on the bench.
“She wants to see you,” he whispers back nervously.
“Me?” I press my hand to my chest.
Torsten nods. “I know it’s a lot to ask. But will you…” He trails off, an apology on the tip of his tongue.
Before he can finish his question, I nod. “Of course.”
He clears his throat. “I’m going to, um, I’ll just grab a coffee with my brother. I’ll be back in ten minutes tops. I…I’m sorry I brought you here, Rielle,” he whispers, brushing a chaste kiss to the crown of my head.
His words scrape across my soul, cutting deeper than I ever imagined. I shouldn’t have come. Months ago, Torsten admitted he didn’t want me to meet his family, that he’d only bring me to Oslo to fulfill his farmor’s request. But haven’t things changed? Haven’t we grown since then?
The realization that he still feels the same way slams into me. Have I read more into our relationship than he has?
Just hours ago, we had sex and I fell asleep in his arms. I felt cherished and desired. Wanted and safe. Now, I just feel naïve. The depths of my feelings for him rock through me because suddenly, I’m battling tears.
I watch Torsten’s back recede down the hallway. His shoulders are stiff as he nods at whatever his brother says to him. He never turns around but at the last minute, Magnus does, and the little boy frowns at whatever he reads in my expression.
Once they’re gone, I rub my hands under my eyes, pinch my cheeks for some color, and try to muss up the roots of my hair for a little volume. I can’t even imagine how horrid I must look after a fifteen-hour journey, running on minimal sleep, too much caffeine, and a dash of heartache. I blow out a deep breath and stand from the bench. I hate that I’m going to cross the threshold to Farmor’s—when did I start calling her that?—hospital room and pretend that her grandson and I married for love. Especially now, when my feelings for him seem unreciprocated.
18
Rielle
I step into the dimly lit room and the memories of years ago, when my brother and I stood at our mother’s bedside and whispered our goodbyes, rocks through me. The memories flip through my mind quickly and scatter, violently, like shrapnel.
“Rielle?” a voice calls from the bed. Her voice is thin, reedy, floating on top of the air like an ocean breeze. It’s fleeting, here now, gone in how many hours? Her accent is thick, wrapping around my name like a hug I wish I could fall into.
I step closer to her bedside and tuck my hair behind my ears. “Hi, Farmor,” I whisper, using Torsten’s name for her.
She manages a tiny smile of acknowledgement. “I hoped you would come.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I say.
“I wish we had more time. I’d like to know you.”
“Me too.”
“Do you love him?” she asks, her eyes suddenly sharp, searching mine with a ferocity to uncover any deceit.
My heart swells into my throat as tears fill my eyes. The relief that I won’t have to lie to her face on her deathbed fills me with as much relief as the truth does when it bursts from my lips on a sob. “Yes.”
The corners of her mouth lift and she covers my hand, the one clutching the railing of her bedside like a lifeline, with hers. “Then why do you cry?”
“Because,” I stammer, my head whirling as the truth, the past, the now all collide in a burst of light that nearly blinds me. “Because I want him to love me back.”
“Oh, my dear,” she breathes out. A flare of amusement sparks in her eyes, so much like Torsten’s, and for a moment, I see her the way he must have. Full of life and light and energy. Giving of love and understanding and empathy.
A tear spills over onto my cheek and slides down around my chin. I brush it away with the back of my hand, embarrassed that in this woman’s final days, I’m the one seeking comfort. The ache that’s wrapped around my heart since my mother passed squeezes, piercing me with an agonizing pain. Every day since she passed, I’ve missed her fiercely. As I’ve grown older, I’ve wished for a mother figure to reach out to, to look to for advice. Claire’s mom, Mary, has been the closest female role model I’ve had since Mom but this brief exchange with Farmor leads me to believe she would have gladly stepped into the role.
“I know you and my grandson didn’t marry for love.”
Shock zaps through my body and my mouth drops open.
She laughs lightly at the horror that washes over my face. I’m too slow to conceal it and honestly, right now, I don’t want to. I want this kind woman with compassionate eyes to tell me what to do. To help me make sense of this complicated mess I’ve made with Torsten. Have I fallen so completely in love with my husband that I can’t even hide it from his nearly ninety-year-old grandma? Am I that transparent? Does Torsten know? Doesn’t he see it?
She pats my hand again and offers a knowing look. “My grandson has been gone a long time but I still know him. And it brings me great joy to know the truth.”
My brows lift so high, I imagine them in my hairline. “Farmor, I…we—”
She squeezes my hand. “I know, Rielle.” She lifts her hand slowly and points to a box on her bedside table. “Hand me that box.”
I pick it up and place it in her hand.
“Help me open it,” she says, her hand shaking as her strength wanes.
I pull open the top of the jewelry box and gasp at the ring inside. It’s a stunning, deep blue sapphire in a marquise setting in a band of small blue diamonds. My mother used to wear a blue diamond pendant necklace that was given to her by her father on her wedding day. It was her something blue and I used to look at it longingly as a little girl. I always imagined I’d wear it on my own wedding day, until the night I left and tried my best to erase my entire life up until that point from my thoughts. It makes me smile to realize that my something blue was hydrangeas in my hair. And yet, I know for a fact that my fake wedding day to Torsten was just as happy an occasion as my mother’s real wedding day to my father. I take comfort in knowing that Mom would adore Torsten.
“It’s yours,” Farmor whispers, her voice bringing me back to the present.
“What?” I frown, wondering if she’s slipped into another memory like I just did.
But her eyes are clear when they meet mine. “I gave this to Torsten a long time ago. For him to give to his future bride. He brought it back to me tonight to ask my permission for you to have it. Oh, I can’t believe he hasn’t already put it on your finger, my dear. But I want you to have the ring. To wear it. For you are a Hansen, even if it took you longer to realize it.” She plucks the ring from the box and drops it in my palm, closing my fingers around the stone and holding my hand in hers.
“Promise me something?” She rests back against her pillows.
“Anything,” I say, still trying to process the part where she placed an incredibly rare, expensive ring in my hand like I somehow deserve it. This is the small box Torsten stashed in the carry-on. Does Torsten truly want me to wear it? Did he really bring it here
for his farmor’s blessing? Or does he want her to believe he’s happy and secure so she can pass without worrying about him?
My conflicting thoughts are too painful to consider at the moment. Instead, I swallow thickly and give my attention to Farmor’s request.
“Make sure he makes things right with his father. He needs the closure to move on and choose happiness. It will take some time. He will resist it. He may even shut you out. But don’t give up on him. Torsten is a stubborn man, a lot more like my son than he thinks he is. The men in this family take too long to see what is right in front of their faces but in the end, they always wake up.”
I nod at her words, not understanding the full meaning behind them, but grasping that it’s important to her that Torsten and his father make amends. “I will,” I promise, intending to keep it.
“Don’t give up on him,” she mutters again as her eyelids grow heavy. “Will you sit with me? I’m so tired.”
“It’s okay,” I tell her, wrapping my fingers with hers so the stone rests between our palms. “I’m here. I’ll stay. You rest.”
Her eyes flutter closed and for a blink, I’m ten years old, watching my mother slip away in front of my eyes.
I don’t know how long I sit at Farmor’s bedside.
At some point, the door swings open and Torsten and his brother shadow the entrance. Their hulking frames seem to invade the space, the angry slashes of their mouths, the sharp angles of their cheekbones, the concern blazing in their matching eyes sucks the oxygen from the room.
They take me in, sitting at Farmor’s bedside and holding her hand as if she was mine instead of theirs. Torsten’s brother’s expression softens and he looks at me like he’s seeing me for the first time.
But anguish streaks across Torsten’s face. His mouth twists, his eyes burn, and he turns away as if I’ve hurt him. As if my presence fills him with shame.
We’re quiet when we leave the hospital. The tension between us is thicker than I’ve ever felt it. What shifted? What happened with his brother? Why is he upset that I visited with Farmor after he asked me to?
