The Swede

by Maureen Smith

  More important, they seemed like really nice people. Very down to earth and welcoming.

  Viggo divided a look between his parents. “How’s Farfar doing?”

  “He’s been taken off the respirator and is breathing on his own,” his mother answered, “but he still hasn’t woken up. Even though the bypass surgery was successful, the doctor has some concerns. So he wants to keep your grandfather under observation for several more days.”

  Viggo nodded.

  “We’re just thankful he wasn’t alone at the farm when this happened,” his mother went on. “He could have been dead by now. Your father and I have been trying to convince him to sell the farm and move in with us. It’s not good for him to be rattling around that place all by himself now that your grandmother is gone.”

  Viggo said nothing as he peeled off his coat.

  His mother took it and folded it over her arm. “Are you ready to see him?”

  Viggo nodded. He looked like he was mentally gearing up for battle.

  Watching him, Scarlett was struck by the realization that she and his father and Rikard were the only ones who knew just how difficult this moment was for him.

  She leaned up and planted a gentle kiss on his cheek. “I’ll be waiting for you.”

  He met her gaze, touched her face and smiled.

  Rikard clapped a hand on his shoulder and leaned close to whisper something in his ear.

  Viggo scowled and shook his head at his brother, drawing another one of those fiendishly irreverent laughs.

  They all stood there watching as Viggo left the waiting room and headed down the hall to visit the man he hadn’t spoken to in six years.

  Hedda held his coat close to her chest, as if she were hugging him. “I think everything’s going to be fine from now on,” she whispered.

  A grim look passed between Ludvig and Rikard.

  It was a look Scarlett understood all too well.

  Chapter 41

  Viggo

  Stairway to Heaven

  * * *

  Viggo’s chest felt suffocatingly tight as he entered the room where his grandfather lay sleeping in the bed. Intravenous needles had been stuck in his forearm, and he was hooked up to several machines that monitored his vital signs.

  Even in his old age, Olof Sandström was still an imposing man, strong and physically fit. So it was a shock to see him looking so frail and helpless, the color leached out of his skin and his arms lying limp at his sides.

  A well of deep pain opened up inside Viggo, making it hard to breathe.

  On leaden feet he walked to the bed and stood over his grandfather. It took him several moments to find his voice.

  “Hello, Farfar. It’s me.”

  The old man didn’t stir.

  “I got here as fast as I could.” Viggo’s lips twisted wryly. “If you were awake, you’d probably call me a damn fool for rushing back here and abandoning my team. But I’m only expecting to miss a few games. As long as…” He trailed off, unable to finish the thought.

  The only sound came from the humming machinery and the heat blowing through the vents.

  His jaw tightened as he stood there staring down at the man who had brutalized him for six of the longest years of his life. As the dark memories churned in his mind, he reached out slowly and touched the edge of his grandfather’s pillow.

  As if he were having an out-of-body experience, he saw himself easing the pillow out from under the old man’s head, placing it over his face and slowly pressing down with both hands. He saw himself smothering his grandfather, watching him struggle and flail as he suffocated to death.

  Shaken by the violent turn of his thoughts, Viggo backed away from the bed, his heart beating rapidly in his chest.

  Jesus Kristus.

  He glanced toward the door, half expecting to see a nurse standing there with a look of stern reproach.

  But the doorway was empty, the hall silent.

  Shoving his hands into his pockets, he prowled to the window and looked out over the winter landscape. Patches of ice shimmered on the streets, and light reflected off the snow-covered rooftops of adjacent buildings.

  He stood there for a long time wrestling with his conflicting emotions. Hate and guilt, love and fury, hope and despair. He felt all tangled up inside. So fucked up and confused.

  Turning from the window, he leaned back against the cold windowsill and stared at his grandfather’s pale, unmoving form on the bed.

  “I don’t know why I’m not rejoicing right now.” His voice came out raw. “I’ve hated you for so long, seeing you at death’s door should be a relief. I mean, I figure once you die, I’ll be able to let go of all this hate that’s been eating away at me.” He shook his head slowly. “I don’t even think you realize how much I’ve hated your guts, old man. I hated you for hurting me. I hated you for humiliating me. I hated you for being harder on me than my brothers. I hated you for not being kind and doting like my friends’ grandfathers. But most of all, I hated you for making me fear you when all I ever wanted was to love you.”

  He swallowed tightly, his gaze lifting to the ceiling as he let out a low, bitter laugh. “There were so many times I wanted to look you in the eye and say, ‘Fuck the gods. Fuck Odin and Thor. Fuck Ragnar Lothbrok and our so-called Viking ancestors. They’re all dead and gone, and there’s no such place as Valhalla.’”

  He chuckled grimly, shaking his head. “God only knows what you would have done if I’d ever said such blasphemous things to you. You probably would have killed me. Maybe that’s why I never had the courage to speak up. Maybe I was too afraid. Or maybe…” He swallowed hard before whispering, “Maybe I never wanted to hurt you.”

  The words hung, heavy in the silence of the room.

  He glanced back at the city beyond the window, his expression softening before he returned his gaze to his grandfather.

  “I brought my girlfriend home to meet the family. Her name’s Scarlett. She’s not Swedish. And she’s the most amazing woman I’ve ever met. I am absolutely, desperately, head over heels in love with her. She’s the best damn thing that ever happened to me. I hope you’ll like her. But if you don’t, it’s your loss.”

  After a long moment, he straightened from the window and walked back over to the bed. The old man still hadn’t moved. He looked like death warmed over.

  Viggo reached out, his hand trembling as he brushed his grandfather’s silver hair back from his forehead.

  “Winning the Stanley Cup is the pinnacle of a professional hockey career. I’ve forgiven you for a lot of things. But if you die before I get to hoist that Cup, I will never, ever forgive you. Do you understand? I will despise you to my dying day. So don’t croak on me, old man. Stick around a while longer. If you decide to give up the ghost after we win the Cup, that’s fine by me. Hell, I’ll send you off to Valhalla myself,” he growled fiercely. “But until then, you stay right here in the land of the living. You owe me that fucking much.”

  Still no movement. Not even the flicker of an eyelash.

  Nostrils flaring, Viggo leaned down and pressed a rough kiss to his grandfather’s forehead. As he straightened, weak fingers suddenly seized his.

  He froze, staring down at his grandfather’s hand and then at his pale face. “Farfar?” he whispered, hope stirring in his chest.

  His grandfather’s eyelids were fluttering and his lips were working as if he were struggling to speak.

  Viggo leaned down to put his ear by the old man’s mouth.

  “Svenska.” The word was barely audible.

  Viggo frowned. “What was that?”

  “Sven…” His grandfather’s grip tightened on his hand. “Prata…svenska.”

  Viggo stared down at him in stunned disbelief. As the old man’s words sank in, he threw back his head with a shout of incredulous laughter.

  The sound brought his family running down the hall and into the room, their eyes wide and anxious. “What is it? What happened?”

  Viggo grin
ned. “He’s awake.”

  With a collective cry of excitement, everyone but Rikard rushed to Farfar’s bedside and leaned over him with hopeful expressions. Their hope turned to disappointment when they saw that the old man was unconscious again.

  They looked questioningly at Viggo.

  “Why were you laughing?” his mother demanded in Swedish.

  “Really.” Freya’s tone was chiding. “There’s nothing funny about this situation, Viggo.”

  “Of course not,” he agreed. “I was laughing because Farfar woke up and told me to speak Swedish.”

  Everyone gave him skeptical looks.

  “It’s true,” he insisted.

  “I believe you,” Leif said with dry humor. “You’ve always been Farfar’s favorite. Of course he’d wait until you got here before waking up.”

  The others laughed as Viggo exchanged a look with Rikard, who remained by the door with his arms folded across his chest.

  There was a mocking gleam in his eyes. “You must have kissed the old devil and brought him out of his coma like Sleeping Beauty. Way to go, Prince Charming.”

  “Rikard,” Freya scolded. “That’s not funny.”

  “And technically it’s Prince Phillip,” Astrid corrected. “Phillip is the prince who awakened Sleeping Beauty with a kiss. Prince Charming is from Cinderella.”

  Svea snorted. “Who cares? They’re both responsible for promoting the sexist notion that women are damsels in distress who need—”

  A collective groan went around the room.

  “Not now, Svea.” Hedda reached up and brushed a lock of Viggo’s hair off his forehead, then tenderly touched his cheek. “You’ve had a long trip. Why don’t you take Scarlett home, have some dinner and get settled in. If you’re both asleep when we get home, we’ll see you tomorrow at breakfast.”

  Viggo hesitated, glancing down at his grandfather.

  “We’ll call you if anything changes,” his mom assured him. “Take Rikard’s car—”

  “Wait a minute,” Rikard protested. “Why does he have to take my car? Have you seen the way he drives?”

  Freya snorted. “Have you seen the way you drive? You’re just as bad as Viggo.”

  “Worse,” Astrid asserted.

  “Nej,” Svea disagreed. “No one drives crazier than Viggo.”

  Laughter rumbled around the room.

  Rikard dug into his pocket, pulled out his key fob and grudgingly tossed it to Viggo. “Take good care of my baby,” he warned. “She’s a limited edition.”

  Their mother sighed. “I long for the day when ‘my baby’ will refer to an actual child, not a car.”

  This set off another round of laughter.

  Viggo said his goodbyes to everyone and headed out of the room. His mother followed, touching his arm just as he stepped out into the hall.

  He turned back to look at her.

  She handed him his coat, her blue eyes twinkling. “I like your Scarlett.”

  This made him smile. “Do you?”

  “I do. Very much.”

  “I’m glad.” He grinned. “I like her, too.”

  “Yes.” His mom wore a knowing grin. “That’s very obvious.”

  He laughed warmly as he shrugged into his coat.

  His mother’s expression softened. “Thank you for bringing her home. I look forward to getting to know her better.”

  He smiled. “You’re gonna love her.”

  “Something tells me I will.”

  He briefly cupped his mother’s cheek and winked at her, then turned and headed back to the near-empty waiting room.

  Scarlett met him at the doorway looking anxious. “Is everything okay? We all heard you laugh—”

  Viggo cut her off with a long, soft kiss.

  When he pulled away, she stared up at him, looking a little dazed.

  “How’d it go with your grandfather?” she whispered.

  His mouth curved wryly. “We’re both still alive, so I guess that’s progress.”

  Scarlett gave him a tiny smile.

  He took her hand, linking their fingers. “C’mon. Let me take you home.”

  Chapter 42

  Scarlett

  We Are Family

  * * *

  Viggo grew up in Danderyd, a suburb of Stockholm. It was surrounded by water on three sides and boasted some of the most expensive real estate in Sweden.

  After a short drive from the hospital, he turned onto a quiet waterfront street and drove until he came to a nineteenth-century villa framed by ice-covered trees. The three-story house was beige and boxy with a wraparound porch, upper balconies and a steeply pitched roof. It sat on a grassy slope overlooking the water.

  “Wow.” Scarlett stared up at the house as Viggo pulled into the long driveway. “You grew up here?”

  “I did,” he drawled, cutting off the engine. “My parents bought this place years before I was born, so I’ve never lived anywhere else.”

  “Wow,” Scarlett repeated, admiring the house. “I guess you’d never have to buy them a mansion, huh?”

  He chuckled. “Not that I haven’t offered, but they don’t want a mansion. This house is big enough for their needs, and they have a lot of wonderful memories here. To be honest, my siblings and I would probably stage a revolt if they ever tried to move.”

  Scarlett laughed. “I wouldn’t blame you. This house is amazeballs, and I haven’t even been inside.”

  Viggo smiled, then leaned over and brushed a tender kiss across her lips. “Thank you again for coming. It means a lot to have you here with me.”

  Scarlett smiled into his eyes. “There’s no place else I’d rather be.”

  He stroked a finger down her cheek and gave her another kiss, then lifted his head and smiled at her. “C’mon, gorgeous. Let’s go inside.”

  They climbed out of the car. When the cold air hit Scarlett, she shivered and hunkered inside her coat, hugging herself as Viggo grabbed their bags from the trunk. As he led the way up a set of curved stone steps, icicles dripped from the bare tree branches, sparkling like diamonds in an enchanted forest.

  Viggo unlocked the front door and ushered her into a large entryway where a square mirror hung above a country pine table adorned with fresh flowers.

  “Ohhh,” she breathed, instantly charmed by her surroundings.

  In true Swedish fashion, the décor was mostly white—white walls and white furniture with gray accents arranged on light hardwood floors.

  Though eager to explore, Scarlett remembered to remove her boots at the door. She’d barely gotten them off before Viggo grabbed her face and kissed her again.

  She giggled against his mouth. “Are you gonna get all amorous every time I observe Swedish custom by taking off my shoes?”

  “Probably,” he murmured between kisses. “I can’t help it. It turns me the hell on.”

  She grinned. “Well, don’t get too turned on, ’cause you won’t be getting any action while we’re staying under your parents’ roof.”

  “Wait, what?”

  Laughing, she broke away from him and wandered into the high-ceilinged living room. She turned in a slow circle, soaking it all up. The beautiful architectural details, the intricate ceiling moldings, the antique Swedish chandelier, the arched windows that framed a stunning view of the icy lake. One wall was lined with bookshelves crammed with leather-bound classics. And there was a tiled corner fireplace, the embers of a fire glowing inside.

  Despite the pristine elegance of the décor, the house was unbelievably warm and inviting, the aroma of burning wood and cinnamon scenting the air.

  “Oh, Viggo,” Scarlett marveled, gazing appreciatively around. “What an absolutely beautiful home.”

  “Thank you. I’m glad you like it.” He came up beside her, rubbing her back. “I’ll give you a tour after we get settled in. My mom made dinner. Are you hungry?”

  “I’m not starving, but I can definitely eat a homecooked Swedish meal.”

  “Good,” he said warml
y. “Let me show you my old room. That’s where we’re sleeping.”

  Scarlett felt almost giddy as she followed him up the curved staircase to the second floor. Halfway down the hall, he turned left to enter a spacious bedroom with cool gray walls, a huge bed stylishly layered with white blankets, and tall windows that overlooked a big backyard with a covered pool.

  “Here we are.” He dropped their bags on the floor next to the bed. “It’s been redecorated, of course. But this is where Rikard and I spent our childhood trying not to kill each other.”

  Scarlett grinned as she looked around the room. She could picture the two brothers roughhousing, laughing rambunctiously and sharing secrets—good and bad.

  “I love it,” she sighed, admiring the striking simplicity of the décor. Dangling overhead was a fabric pendant light, a staple of Swedish bedrooms. A large flatscreen television was mounted on the wall opposite the bed.

  When a silver picture frame on a side table caught her eye, she walked over and picked it up. It was a photo of Viggo and Rikard when they were children. They stood together in front of a snow-covered red barn. Viggo was holding a hockey stick while Rikard held a pair of skis spread apart in a V shape. They were both beaming at the camera, blond hair shining in the sun, smiles as bright as a thousand Christmas lights.

  Scarlett grinned, her heart melting at the image. “Look at you two. Heartbreakers even back then.”

  Viggo came up behind her, looking over her shoulder at the picture. “That was taken at our grandparents’ farm.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Rikard was nine. I was eight.”

  A year before the abuse started, Scarlett thought. No wonder he looked so happy. So boyishly innocent and carefree.

  She smiled wistfully, touching his sweet image with her fingertips. “You and Rikard looked even more alike back then.”

  “I know.” He nuzzled her hair. “We were often mistaken for twins.”

  “I bet.” She studied the picture another moment, then put it down and turned to face Viggo. He’d removed his coat and sweater, leaving only his undershirt and slacks on.