He's got it coming: Love is the best revenge

by Alexandra Winter

  I don’t want to talk about it.

  Her soft hand strokes my cheek, but she doesn’t speak as if hearing my plea. We pass the two small stone cottages, turn right by the fountain, and stop the car by the trail to the main entrance of their bed and breakfast. When I leave the car, she doesn’t get out to help me with my luggage, which only means that Dad is waiting inside, ready to welcome me. While I walk toward the entrance, Mom drives the car back to the main parking lot by the fountain.

  The heavy wooden door glides open, lighter now than it felt before. Behind the old merchant’s desk reception, Dad lights up. “Oh, my darling, Daniella.” He wraps his arms around me and holds me, tightening his grip. “Don’t worry, you’ll find the perfect man in no time. There’s plenty of fish in the sea.”

  And whales.

  I blink to keep my emotions under control, to not defend myself and explain that I’m not here because I lost Henrik, but because...because I lost myself. I lift my bags from the floor. “Until I go fishing again, I don’t want to talk about it.” I climb the worn stone staircase to my regular bedroom. Dad follows behind me, sticks the key in the lock, and when it clicks, he swings the door wide open. I freeze.

  My wedding day flashes before me. By the window overlooking the lavender field, I did my makeup. My dress hung behind me on the canopy bed. “Can I stay in another room for a few days?”

  Dad opens the window. “Only the single room is available. This will be much more comfortable for you.” He turns to me with a grin that fades as he sees me waiting in the hallway.

  “The single room is perfect.” I force a smile as he passes me and unlocks the room across the hall.

  At dinner, I give them the envelope containing two tickets for a one-year cruise around the world. Mom gasps. “But we’re only supposed to be gone a week.”

  “I spoke to the travel agency. They changed the trip for you. My treat.” I smile at Dad’s white complexion.

  “A whole year? But what about…”

  I take his hand. “I’ll take care of everything. You two go and enjoy this time together.” It’s a better use for the savings I set aside for my funeral.

  He frowns while studying the tickets before a slight sigh escapes him. “Thank you,” he says.

  We both register Mom’s face as she realizes that what she’s packed won’t be enough for such a long journey.

  “But…what will…are there washing machines?” She runs out of the kitchen.

  “There are washing machines,” I call after Mom, gesturing for Dad to follow her, so she doesn’t have a heart attack.

  Before breakfast the following morning, I open the side pocket on my bag and take out the wedding photo of Isac and me. I was loyal to him until he died. I loved him more than I loved myself. When I discovered that Isac didn’t, I went numb. Although I wanted to view Henrik’s cheating and Isac’s deceit as equal and make myself the victim, they aren’t, and I’m not.

  Mom’s garden spades hang perfectly aligned in the shed behind the house, and the air is still moist outside when I walk towards the tree where Isac proposed to me. Like the damp windows in my apartment the night I had our wedding photo in front of me, ready to never see it again, thin mist covers the ground underneath the tree. I push gravel aside with my hand and stick the spade into the ground, digging a hole deep enough to cover the frame. I lay it with our picture looking up at me. I slide my wedding ring off my finger and place it on top of the wedding bouquet of olive branches I’m holding in the photo. A tear splashes on the ring as if to seal it there.

  “No more lies.” I drop a scoop of dirt onto the image. “Goodbye.” I fill the hole and pat it flat.

  If I ever need the money from my ring, I at least know where to find it. Until then, it’s better kept buried.

  Inside, Mom is like a headless chicken running around worrying about every little detail, which calms my father because he doesn’t have to think about them.

  When they’ve packed their bags, and Mom is out of questions and instructions, she throws her arms out and exhales as though she’s finished a marathon. “Are you sure you’ll be alright here alone? We can go on this cruise another year. Stay here with you?”

  I help my parents with their luggage, kiss her cheek, and open the car door for her. “This is what I need, Mom.”

  I wave them off as a dark cloud covers the sun, and massive water bombs descend. A part of me wants to run inside, but instead, I stay, letting the rain veil me like it did when Henrik and I visited his family. After about ten minutes, I’m soaked and head inside to change into black pants and a sweater. The rest of the day, I’m on autopilot, serving dinner to the guests, wine from the vineyard next door, and talking about our olive oil production. It’s like riding a bike, and it takes my mind off Isac, Henrik, and my life back home. With more guests arriving than I’ve ever experienced before, it’s easy to bury myself in work at our bed and breakfast through the spring and the hot summer.

  In August, a postcard arrives in the mail. It has my name on it, our address, but nothing more is written.

  Why would someone send a blank postcard?

  I flip it over. Oslo is spelled across the front in big red letters, the image behind it is of Ekeberg Park. Henrik and my first date rush through my mind. Nothing went according to his plan. He seemed so closed off, yet looking back on it, I wouldn’t have had it any other way.

  Unable to stop smiling, I head back inside and put the card up on the wall in the kitchen next to the various cards my parents have sent from their journey so far. Although he’s not ready to forgive me yet, this is a sign that he wants to. Perhaps one day we’ll meet again and start fresh. Until then, he’s waiting.

  And maybe I am too.

  After cleaning up from dinner, I install my computer behind the reception desk, and log on to see what Henrik is up to for the first time since I left Oslo. I am surprised to find he’s still using the same machine now that he knows I have access. He doesn’t seem like the same man, though, and looking at his messages to his friends, I reread them to make sure it really is him. It’s as if he’s speaking to me through his texts to Simen.

  I don’t know what’s worse. Losing my mother with no choice of her own, or having her choose drugs over me and still be alive. I need time to figure that out.

  Although hard to believe, it is Henrik, and he’s replaced his bouquet of women with close friends and family. He’s even donated about two months’ worth of wages to a charity helping families of traffic victims.

  My shoulders sink.

  You did change.

  I sit back, my fingers leaning on the desk’s edge. After staring at the screen for what feels like an hour, I lean forward and reread the messages one last time before pulling up the information I have about Henrik’s mother.

  Through the windows past the dining area to my left, a cloud covers the moon, making her photo illuminate brighter on the screen. Judit’s cheeks are hollow. Her eyes are empty with dark circles making them appear deep-set in her gray complexion with thin, dried lips completing the image of a destroyed woman.

  You deserved a better mother than this.

  The floor creaks in front of me, and my head jerks up in response to a blonde woman smiling at me as her suitcase drops to the floor.

  “Boa Noite,” she says in a Brazilian accent.

  Shit, I left the door unlocked. We’re closed.

  “Boa Noite,” I say, wishing her a good night back. My Portuguese is rusty, which makes me talk faster than usual to conceal it.

  Her eyes grow big and shift from my eyes to my lips.

  She has no idea what I’m saying.

  I switch to English and start over. “Do you need a room?”

  She lingers for a while and, to my surprise, ignores my gesture to speak English and instead answers in Portuguese, asking, “Did you speak Portuguese?”

  I nod, and my brows pucker as I reflect on her pronunciation.

  She’s Scandinavian or German.


  I slow my pace as I explain. “You speak Brazilian Portuguese. It’s slower. It sounds more like singing than here in Portugal.”

  She rolls her eyes and sighs before confirming. “Sim.”

  I slide a pen and a check-in form across the desk for her to fill out.

  She writes her first name. Amalie. She holds the pen above the field where she should write her last name as if contemplating what her last name is before deciding to write it, completes her information hastily, and hands me the sheet.

  “Norwegian.” I’m still speaking Portuguese and present her with the silver key on a gray tassel. The key to the white suite, my room. “Don’t worry, you’ll pay the single room price, but the suite is the only room available.”

  Her stomach grumbles.

  “I’ll fix you something and bring it to your room.” I head towards the kitchen, more than ready to be left alone for the night.

  “I’d love to come down.” There’s a desperation in her eyes I can’t understand. Maybe she’s starving, poor thing?

  I sigh. “Sure. I could use the company. See you in the kitchen.”

  She heads upstairs while I lock the front door and pause by the windows overlooking the olive tree garden outside. Leaves glimmer in the moonlight, and for the first time since Isac’s death, my lips curl up in a genuine smile.

  Our marriage was a lie, and I’m done living lies. It’s time to create new memories.

  The ceiling creaks from Amalie’s movement as she enters her room overhead, and I walk over to my desk.

  I grab a postcard from the desk rack, write Henrik’s address, stamp it, and put it with the rest of our outgoing mail for tomorrow.

  Without thinking about it, I sit down behind the desk and write an email to Cecilia, containing only six words.

  I need time.

  Then, I’m in.

  I don’t know what Cecilia has in store for me, but after saving my life, I trust her with it. She’s Whale, and I’d give anything to work with her and learn more about how she plans her infamous hacking jobs, which are more like works of art than anything I’ve ever come across. If I can return the favor and save a life, I’m in.

  My fingers rest on the keyboard, and I can’t help but reflect on the past months. My goal was to give Henrik the same feelings I had, and now he’s felt both heartbreak and deceit. My job is complete. I’ve given my body and what feels like my soul to two cheating men. Although it leaves me feeling hollow inside, it’s different than before. I want to explore what my life can be.

  Cecilia asked me to punish Henrik, and he changed his ways, while I had no idea that Isac had fooled me even until the final moment when his life ended. She saved my life, and the least I can do is repay her for giving me a reason to live long enough to see the lie I was about to die for. I’m not well yet, but I’ve begun my healing. Strangely it started through my experience with Henrik. With time and a focus on something other than myself, I’ll repair my self-worth. Both Cecilia and Henrik showed me that I can.

  The floor creaks above me again as I reread my words to Cecilia. I need time, a purpose, and being here, meeting new people, will hopefully provide that. The arrow on the screen hovers over the ‘send’ button, and the mouse pad clicks as I press it.

  I want to help someone else get through their lowest point, like Cecilia helped me. But I can’t do that until I have my head far above the pool of tears and despair I was drowning myself in. Right now, I’m still bobbing around in it.

  My first stroke towards land is a late-night dinner with my mysterious guest, Amalie.

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  AMALIE

  The mystery guest, Amalie, is the main character of this author’s first novel. Read Amalie’s story while waiting for the continuation of Daniella’s. You find Let Go on Amazon in both paperback and for kindle.

  GRAPHIC DESIGN

  “Mom, no. Please don’t ask him,” I say, sandwiching the phone between my right ear and shoulder. Ticking from the clock above the whiteboard echoes through the empty classroom as the long hand falls straight down to nine thirty.

  Shit.

  The last bus left an hour ago. “I’ll walk home, or grab a taxi or something. I’ll figure it out.”

  “Walking? It’s much too far to walk. I’ll worry that you’re not safe out by the road alone, and you know we can’t afford taxis, honey. I already spoke to your father. He is more than happy to come and get you.”

  That’ll be a first, and utterly untrue.

  I search for another solution. If Dad’s happy about this, it means he needs a favor from me, and I don’t want to owe him. It’s dark outside, no moon, and by the look of the clouds, it’ll rain. I can’t insist on walking. Mom will postpone her meeting and come to get me.

  “Did Mr. Jensen say why you had to stay behind?”

  “No, which isn’t like him at all, so I’m a little worried. I’m sorry. I called as soon as I could,” Mom says.

  “You’re the heart of The Bluebird, everyone knows that. I’m sure it’s wonderful news. I don’t see him springing bad news on anyone, especially not you.”

  “No, he wouldn’t do that. And don’t worry about your father. He’ll finally get to see where you spend your time working on your designs, it’ll be great,” Mom says, in her ever-optimistic voice.

  He won’t be happy, he’ll hate it, and the worst part is he’ll know where I am.

  This time at school is the only place I can be myself and work on my designs without his demands and judgment for how I spend my time. After Nana signed me up for the evening graphics design course, this classroom has been my escape from anything related to him. Knowing he’s coming here infests my mind with fear. I can’t let him in the door. Thank God Miss Ask isn’t here tonight. I’d hate it if she met him, that would ruin everything. This is my world, my escape, and he’s not welcome in it.

  “I’m sure it’ll be great. Good luck tonight.” I hang up the phone, and the pulse in my neck quickens. Only Dad has this effect on me. At least I have a few hours to perfect my poster design until he’s here.

  An hour later, the door to the classroom opens as I pack my sketchbook and pencils into my bag. I stand, subconsciously preparing excuses if it’s Dad. I’m relieved to see it’s not.

  Miss Ask, my graphic design teacher, enters while throwing a yellow knitted scarf around her neck. Always dressed in two complementary colors, it fits perfectly with her purple wool knit dress. “Staying late again? You’re really going for it with this bakery poster.”

  “My first real assignment.” Up until now, only Mom and Mr. Jensen have asked me to design for the restaurant, so I’m giving it my all.

  “A paid job? Well done,” she says.

  Instead of creating a standard poster, I’ve painted a modern version of an old-fashioned commercial for coffee. The letters appear wet, like hot coffee, spilled onto the canvas, floating out into the logo of Mr. Dahl’s Bakery.

  “Um, no. That is…I don’t know if it’s paid work.”

  “Amalie.”

  She doesn’t have to say anything. It’s her mantra. Don’t give away your work for free.

  “I know, I know. I hope so. Josefine, Mr. Dahl’s daughter, begged me to make it for them.” Josefine has been a pain to me since she moved to our town when I was six and she was five, but since her father’s the one who’s asked me to make it, and he’s a friend of Dad, we didn’t talk about the price. “I want to see my work in a window.” And see Dad’s
proud face when people congratulate him on his daughter’s achievement. I have to get this right.

  And, she should leave. I don’t want her bumping into Dad on her way out. “I won’t keep you,” I say.

  “You won’t. I forgot a folder earlier,” Miss Ask says, and raises her arm showing me a blue portfolio. Images of Dad rolling his eyes appear along with his voice in my head: “Art people. Forgetful with no structure in their lives. No wonder they’re all broke.” I respect Miss Ask, so I thrust Dad’s voice from my mind.

  “I couldn’t have done this better myself.” Miss Ask points to the canvas. “The bakery will love it.”

  Hope fills me, but I try to contain it. I don’t want to get excited before Mr. Dahl expresses how he feels about it.

  “I hope so. Dad gave me tomorrow off, so I’m meeting them in the morning.”

  I hope they’ll like it. No, love it.

  The car horn honking outside makes me jump in my seat. Oh no, he’s here already. And Miss Ask is still here.

  Shit.

  I scramble my paintbrushes into a plastic bag, careful not to damage the bristles. Usually I clean them, but tonight, they’ll have to wait.

  Another blast of the horn, a second longer this time.

  Yes, Dad. You think graphic design is a waste of time.

  And now I’m wasting his by making him wait. I don’t want to be that selfish, but ripping myself away from my unfinished design aches my core.

  I throw on my coat. “I promised Josefine I’d have it ready by tomorrow, but I’ll finish it up when I get home.”

  Miss Ask walks over to the window where the moon lights up her olive skin and the strands of gray hair framing her face. “Your mother’s in a hurry tonight. And in a new car?”