by Emily Childs
A Little Like Romeo
Emily Childs
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To my husband, Derek. You’re better than Romeo.
Copyright notice: All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Table of contents:
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Epilogue
Sneak Peek
Bonus Scene
Chapter 1
You shouldn’t want to kiss your nemesis.
Well, at least one of your nemeses. How many enemies can one almost twenty-two-year-old woman have, you might ask? An entire family, including all past and future generations, because family loyalty and all.
I practically snort-laugh whenever I hear the cliché that time heals all wounds. Whoever said that never met Viggo Olsen and my grandfather—Philip Jacobson, affectionately known as Farfar. Each man brings back the fury of the Viking invasions with their own touch of Norse cunning and strategy. The problem with all this Northman rivalry is a matter interwoven within secret crannies of my heart. You see, the Olsens not only own a bakery like my family, but I’m utterly in love with Axel Olsen, Viggo’s grandson. Take my word for it, Axel is what dreams are made of. This problem I have is dire.
I should mention he has no idea I will disavow my heritage for a taste of those perfect lips. All true. As far as I know, Axel is completely oblivious to my secret. I hide my heart well.
Honestly, if my family apostasy is ever unearthed then I will be cut off, my name stripped from branches of the family tree, and my Farfar will see to it all my Swedish DNA is surgically removed from my cells. And I’m not being dramatic.
Other than that little thing, my family is great. Especially at Christmastime.
Slinging my canvas messenger bag over my shoulder, I stomp down the walk, the snow soaks my wool socks with each step. Already my fingertips are numb, and I only debussed ten minutes ago. Breathing deeply, I ignore the nip of winter air and inhale until my chest expands to the brink. Aromas unique to my street during the holidays fill my lungs. I am convinced nothing will ever rival the holly wreaths, the carolers on the corners, and the twinkling fairy lights along the shrubs and shops. People bustle about with gift bags in tow, and some with my favorite sight of all: pastry boxes imprinted with the Swedish flag. Doubtless filled to the brim with buttery cookies, lingonberry marmalade, and Swedish ginger treats, pepparkakor.
Home is nearly perfect at Christmas, but it also digs up the same question I’ve asked all my life. What happened between the two bakers of Lindström, Minnesota? This year is different. I want to know. My grandmother’s final, secret words to me are the spark that ignites my hunt for the truth.
A gyrating bell from a rather peppy Santa nearly takes out my front teeth. I’ve stood still too long, and grunt a quick pardon before scurrying down the walk.
Everything from the streetlamps to the snow smells like butter and cinnamon. I pause at my family stoop and study the two festive bakeries. My family owns Hanna’s Swedish Pastries and the Olsens own Clara’s Chokolade Café. From the outside both shops are cheerful, each with a mirroring bay window filled with sweets. Each with a wooden door and iron hinges. If you weren’t already a local, you’d never know turmoil existed in the foundation of such delightful bakeries.
From top to bottom, boughs of real holly with red and green lights deck the frames and windowsills of Clara’s. A spruce advent wreath is in the window. Four white candles are nestled in the live branches surrounded by red ribbon. Already two of the candles are lit, and though I will never admit it to Farfar, I look forward to the next two Sundays when the Olsen family gathers to light another candle—and by light, I mean flip a switch. Viggo conceded six years ago to using false candles once the fire marshal threatened to close his shop after he nearly burned down half the street.
Before she died, Clara Olsen, Viggo’s wife, always winked at me. I have a sneaking suspicion if not for the feud, Clara would have let me try a few of her famous cream cheese turnovers. She passed away nearly three years ago, and to the shock of the entire state Farfar delivered a bouquet of daisies to the funeral home. It only adds to the mystery. But since Clara died before my sweet grandmother, maybe Farmor sent the flowers. I will never know. Farfar, even Mom and Dad, never talk about the Olsen family. Ever.
Silver bells jingle on Clara’s door. I’ve dawdled too long, and am now at risk of causing the third world war.
Clara’s door is ajar, and old Viggo shuffles out, knobby cane in hand to flip the open sign to closed. I don’t blink, but as if Viggo can smell my Jacobson blood his pale eyes drift across the street, piercing me like an arrow to its target.
His eyes narrow. I risk being disowned, but with the smells, the people, the songs, I wave. Bulky, childish mittens and all. I like mittens—we all have flaws.
“Happy Lucia, Mr. Olsen!” I say. Find common ground, something Scandinavians can relate to—the Santa Lucia holiday. Paintings of the young girl with braids curled around her ears and a holly crown of candles on her head hang in every window of Clara’s and Hanna’s But as I offer my olive branch, my voice is hardly more than a soft peep. Viggo still hears.
The old man tightens his lips until they disappear in the folds of his wrinkles. He snaps off in Danish. From what I gather by my limited linguistics, Viggo insults me for stealing Lucia’s day from Denmark. Then some kind of curse against the entire Swedish nation. He goes on until another voice breaks through the tirade.
“Grandpa? Oh, there you are. Hey, it’s freezing out here, come inside.”
Axel.
In the back of my throat my heart bulges. And then…my mittens! I fling my kindergarten hands behind my back and stare, like an idiot, I just ogle. Some girls have ogling pinned to an artform; batting luscious lashes, puckering full red lips. Let me put it out there straight—my dark hair is wet and stringy; my lips haven’t seen lipstick in two months; and one wool sock is tugged up and over my pant leg. I am not an ogling artis
t.
Axel steps onto the porch and takes Viggo’s elbow. His honey hair, his whimsical eyes that look like diamonds. I didn’t expect to see him. Foolish to think I could safely arrive in grunge-chic.
Go inside. Why am I not moving? By some neurological phenomenon, the connection from my brain to my feet severs. Axel nods in my direction, no smile on his lips—his perfect lips—but playfulness lives in his pale eyes. I bite my bottom lip and a genuine fear of drool overwhelms me.
Axel’s voice sounds flat, but I’m pretty sure I see him wink. Like Clara.
“Brita,” he says.
That’s all, just my name. But I can’t feel my tongue.
Axel starts to usher old Viggo back inside as the door to Hanna’s bursts open.
“Brita! My lilla älskling, I was beginning to—” My grandfather’s jovial face falls, his pleasant Swedish accent changes with rough, brisk words. His eyes home in on Viggo, who now swats Axel’s arm to face his foe. “Viggo, hide your grisly face away, you’ll frighten my granddaughter.”
“Farfar, that isn’t…” But my voice drowns beneath the frosty response.
“Ah, Philip, how much did it take to bribe your children to come? I’m surprised to see any at your door this year. You twit!”
My grandfather chortles with a kind of growl he saves special for Viggo. He grips his own cane, waving it in the air. “Jealousy is all I hear, you old relic. You leeching, cheating—"
“Okay, let’s just go inside, Farfar,” I whisper, forgetting about my mittens. With a sharp glance, I silently plead with Axel to do the same.
Because he is simply brilliant, Axel takes the hint and crooks a gentle arm around Viggo’s shoulders, nudging the old man toward the warmth of his shop.
“You are nothing but a dense trold!” Viggo shouts over his shoulder.
Speaking in native tongue is never a good sign. Escalation is imminent. Even passersby on the street begin to belly-up to the show. My grandfather’s jaw drops, a flash of malice crosses over his smoky eyes, and he takes a powerful step into the snow.
Axel moves faster, offering me a dark, flustered expression that creases two lines over his brow. He is swift, and has Viggo locked behind their bakery door in another heartbeat.
“Old feg!” Farfar shouts into the night, drawing a few curious glances from new shoppers. Those who know of the relationship chuckle and go about their business.
I want to melt into the snow and pretend for a moment that I come from a normal, neighborly family.
When my heart is back in my chest, I link elbows with my grandfather. “Come inside, Farfar. Viggo can’t hear you anymore. Come on now, let it be. I made spritz!”
Victory. He whips his eyes toward me, a smirk on his thin lips. “What recipe?”
I roll my eyes, and stomp my boots before we step onto the threaded entry rug. “Farmor’s recipe. I couldn’t do Christmas without a bit of her.”
“Beautiful girl,” he says, patting my cheek.
Time heals all wounds? In my experience time makes stubborn men more sour, causes pleasant people to do the strangest things, and forbids all grandchildren of those sour men from mingling with the enemy—no matter how breathlessly attractive one might be.
Chapter 2
When the cuckoo clock in the hallway sings the official closing time of the bakery, I dare pull back the white linen curtains on the bay window. Clara’s front light shuts off before the clock finishes chiming. Axel isn’t there. I guess part of me hoped he might be looking for me, but then why would he? I’m a Jacobson, he’s an Olsen. My private thoughts alone will send my grandfather to the grave.
Tracing the beautiful Linnea blossoms stained onto the bakery window, I sigh and shove one of my aunt’s almond thumbprint cookies into my mouth. Ah, the sweets, each one is enough to convince me to stay in Lindström and give up dreams of being a literature extraordinaire, entirely.
I snag a second cookie, honestly tell me who can have only one cookie? The house seems quieter than usual.
“Caughtcha!”
Spoke too soon. Two sharp fingers dig into my sides, my blood heats as if waking from a nightmare. I fumble against the bulky shoulders of Oscar, my loving nuisance of a cousin, and fight to keep my cookie in hand, then swat the oaf in the gut.
“Oscar! I told you to stop doing that.”
“You know the freshman fifteen applies to seniors, Brit. Better watch it.” He pats my stomach.
A retort tickles my tongue, but my Aunt Inez stalks into the room, her narrow nose coated in a layer of white flour. “Oscar, hush,” she says. “You could do with a little self-control too. It’ll be you next year and I think Brita’s the last one in this room who needs to worry about junk in the trunk.”
“Mom don’t try to be hip,” Oscar says.
Inez snickers and pinches the back of my arm. “Seriously,” she says and nudges a plate of snickerdoodles into my hands. “Eat up, girly, I see your ribs.”
Lamppost, string bean, skeletor. I mean, I’ve heard all the nicknames. I’m bony, flat in areas you don’t want flatness, and everyone around me always thinks I forget because they tell me all the time. I shove a cookie into my mouth until my aunt smiles and wraps her thick arms around me. I love the smell of her hair; spicy with a spritz of rose, almost as if she mixes her famous cinnamon rolls in a flower bed. On top of being too thin, I look nothing like anyone in my family. The beautiful icy blond hair of Oscar and Inez is far from my bitter coffee color. My dad even has honey golden hair and sea blue eyes. A Jacobson trademark. My family matches every Scandinavian stereotype like they wrote the book. Except me. Nothing about me screams, Sweden forever!
I take after my mom, but she isn’t Swedish. Mom billows in Italian beauty. After she married my dad, I am told my grandmother searched high and low through genealogical records for any hope the blood of their future grandchildren could be saved. My parents’ first Christmas together, Farmor framed the detailed findings of my mother’s minuscule connection to Sweden somewhere back in the twelfth century. The frame still hangs on the wall beneath their wedding photo.
Speaking of which, I nod at the picture and ask, “Why does Farfar keep that up?”
Inez shrugs as she wipes off a layer of flour from the countertop. “Divorce is hard, even for the rest of the family. I guess he likes to remember better days.”
“I guess,” I say, and start to help her clean up the shop.
How many kids can say they grew up in a bakery? I don’t know, but I can, and it isn’t an ordinary bakery. Long ago I determined the shop is a living organism, part of all of us and our customers. Always filled with funny dialects, a lot of Swedish cursing hidden behind polite smiles. Tourists enjoy a few words, but they don’t need to know what we’re saying. I love the place, but I guess Mom didn’t share the same affection. Not that I blame her. I’m sure helping inventory a busy shop, raising me while my dad worked and socialized at the law office sort wore her to bare bones.
The bakery is in the front of the house. A few round tables decorate the shop, with the glass display cabinets filled to the brim with mouthwatering, diet-pulverizing sweets. My room is upstairs, Farfar sleeps downstairs near the shop, and Dad sleeps in the attic. That might sound awful, but the attic is the best part of the house. Mom had it remodeled and decorated before the divorce, so now it looks like a penthouse suite with a little modern flare unique to my mother.
Mom left for Michigan two years ago. I’d already been underway at school, and I wanted to be near Lindström while Farmor was sick. As much as I love the bakery, and Lindström, and all the constant reminders that the Swedish people are superior in every facet of existence, I miss my mom. At Christmastime, more than ever. My mouth tastes bitter thinking how Mom will spend the holidays snuggled up to Todd.
Listen, I’m an adult and all, but the new boyfriend sure slipped into our lives quickly.
I guess he’s okay, sometimes he tries to father me with college advice and stuff. Weird, I know. I’ll
be cliché and say, if Mom’s happy, then I’m happy, but come on, every kid says that through gritted teeth.
“Brita! Look at me!” A high, perfectly adorable voice shakes me from thoughts of Todd with his hands all over my mother. Gross, first of all, and second Agnes is the ultimate sweet distraction.
I clap my hands and beam at my six-year-old cousin. Buried in a white robe she tries to spin, but stumbles a bit. Even still, she’s careful not to mess her curls out of the traditional holly bough crown Inez topped with battery-powered candles.
“You make a perfect Lucia,” I say.
Agnes grins, two teeth missing from the front. The splints on her legs are expertly hidden, and her taut, curled hand keeps catching on the long sleeves. But I hardly notice her limp. Agnes equals pure joy.
Santa Lucia day is a beloved tradition in the Jacobson house. Even after immigrating from Sweden, Farfar insisted on keeping it alive in our home despite most of their neighbors conforming to America. I think we use it as simply another excuse to eat more food.
“Grandpa said I get to plug in the tree this year, and I even helped Mom frost the cookies!”
I am the only one who uses the Swedish terms for my grandparents. Farfar, for being my father’s father, and of course Farmor, for my father’s mother. Oscar always calls Farfar Grandpa, or Papa when he was little. Agnes simply follows her big brother’s example. But for me Farfar stuck and I will keep it.
I pinch Agnes on her freckled nose. “Stop it right now, Aggie. You stop growing up.”
She squeals, a pitchy sound, the kind that rattles in the ears. Oscar groans.
I slug his shoulder. “Payback for pinching me,” I tell him. “You know I can make her laugh the loudest.”
Oscar offers a gesture that relies heavily on his middle finger, but hurries away when Agnes exclaims quite delightedly that she has mighty plans to tattle on her brother straightaway.
We are hurried to the table when Farfar and Oscar’s dad, Karl finally returns from fixing a frozen pipe. Uncle Karl is the only other person in the family with a darker complexion and sandy brown hair. We tagged ourselves as the misfits.