by Emily Childs
There is an empty chair at the table, and when we’re halfway through our chicken and spuds, I almost think Farfar won’t notice.
I’m wrong.
“Brita, my girl, where is your father?” Farfar says. “I thought he was picking you up from the bus station.”
“Oh, he did,” I lie, sort of creepy how easily I come up with it too. “He just ran to the office for a bit. He’ll be here.”
Oscar catches my eye; his lips pull into a frown. He’s quick enough to hear my fib, but I won’t ruin the night, not with Agnes twirling and humming at the tree.
“Ack, he better hurry,” Farfar mutters, his accent comes thicker the deeper he speaks.
“Pops, remember Nils keeps busy doing all the bakery legal work for free and it takes away from his regular clients, so give him a break, yeah?” Inez says.
“I raised you and Nils to respect our traditions. I will hire a new attorney for the shop if it causes him to miss Lucia.
Inez rolls her eyes. I snort a little. Farfar can’t afford another lawyer and we all know it.
“I’ll keep a plate warm for him,” Inez says.
With a few more jabs at my father’s long work hours, we stack the plates, and the celebrating of Lucia finally begins.
***
“Brita, would you mind taking out the trash? I have to get Agnes up to bed,” Karl whispers. Little Agnes sleeps soundly on his shoulder while Inez eases the splints from her thin legs.
“You don’t even need to ask,” I say.
Outside, the winter winds nip at my ears like a thousand bee stings. The dumpster is already bursting out the top from the busy bakery days. Glancing across the street just to be certain no one can see, I clamber up on top of the bin. Careful not to slip, I start stomping the mess down. Without a little help, trash will overflow before garbage day.
Across the street, Clara’s is dark as pitch, but I look up toward the top floor apartment in the building next door where the Olsens made their home. There is a warm light through the pulled shades. Is Viggo still awake? Or is that Axel’s room? How would I know? I’ve never stepped foot inside the Olsen’s apartment. The only way I even know the apartment number is an accidental mail delivery.
I start to climb off the trash, but pause. Hushed voices come slow and steady from the front of the house.
“Good work today. Sorry for keeping you late. You have a knack for this.”
“I appreciate the opportunity, and the trouble it could cause.” A firm reply follows.
I suck in a sharp breath. The first voice is my father, home late enough I can’t lie for him again, but the second one—I can’t breathe. My legs turn into dead stumps sinking in the countless bags of garbage. That voice. My heart evaporates into mist right there in my chest. The gray can wobbles, but I quickly steady myself.
Keep it together, Brita.
Axel. My father is speaking to Axel. I mean, he’s the only one who could possess such a silky, delicious, baritone. I hate to say it, but at this point I must eavesdrop, and I do so, thinking myself rather sly, rather cunning. I lean just a touch, hoping to catch a little more of this most unusual conversation.
“Tomorrow at noon, then?” my father asks.
With what I imagine as expert balance, I place one foot on the lip of the can, the other shoe lost in plastic filth. Desperate to hear the response of what will happen at noon, I don’t notice the tipping, and by the time I do, it’s too late.
Everything crumbles so quickly. First, I am listening for the reply, then the can that is supposed to be my trusty anchor succumbs to my awkward stance and spills me and the bags of garbage all over the icy walk. I skin my elbow, and a trash bag, smelling grossly of rotting bananas, smashes in the center of my face. Coughing and gagging, I shove the cloying plastic off my face and pray no one notices.
Kind of funny how I thought I might be so lucky.
“Brita?” My dad heaves me up from my trash bag bed. “Sweetheart, what are you doing out here?”
When I find my footing, I keep my eyes focused on the brown loafers I borrowed from Farfar. My hair drapes over my eyes and smells disgustingly sweet. My face feels hot. I swat away snow, dirt, bits of lettuce, and look at my dad.
“Trash duty. I…slipped on ice.”
Someone chuckles, softly. This. Is. Not. Happening. Axel is still here! I need to face him sooner or later. From this day forth, Santa Lucia will always be known as the day Brita Jacobson became Trash Girl to Axel Olsen.
Dad helps gather the fallen bags as I slowly lift my eyes to face my fate. I stumble again, this time truly on ice, and my breath hitches when two hands steady me. He smells like pine needles on a spring day. I love pine needles. Like a psychopath I sniff his shirt; I can because my face is pressed against his chest. My eyes widen with surprise, lashes touch my brows. Even in the darkness I see how the royal blue of his eyes breaks through the obsidian night. His hair is combed neatly; darker than I remember. A brownish blond, and he has trim layer of scruff on his face.
But I am not sniffing Axel.
“Jonas?”
Jonas Olsen. Axel’s twin brother.
Oh, I guess I should’ve mentioned there are two Olsen grandsons. Well, three actually. They have a younger brother, Bastien.
Jonas flicks his brows. His hands are on my elbows. I’ve always believed you can gauge a guy’s strength by his hands. There is a shudder in my stomach. If I took a wager, I’d guess Jonas is strong. And then I realize I’m still clinging to his waist. What is wrong with me?
Trying not to groan and show my hot cheeks I push away, slip on ice again, and my face nuzzles his neck!
When I finally find my feet and take a safe step back, Jonas straightens his suit coat, and clears his throat. In all my life I’ve spoken a handful of words to Jonas. Even with our families being at enemy status, Axel found the nerve to flirt with me in high school. Jonas said very little. To anyone.
“Are you all right?” he asks.
Clearing my throat, I flip into enemy mode. “I’m fine. Thank you.” I smell really bad.
“Jonas is home for the holidays too,” Dad says.
“Yes, I can see. How long is your break?” I ask, maybe a little pompously.
Jonas smirks. “As long as yours.”
“Brita, Jonas goes to the University of Minnesota too,” Dad says. Is he embarrassed?
My lips part, my pulse throbs between my ears. “I didn’t know. How would I know that, Dad?”
“You’ve probably never seen me because I’m usually in the business buildings,” Jonas responds. “Well, I better get going.” Is the curl on his lips for my ignorance, or the fact that I have a plastic straw in my hair? Either way I want to disappear. “Thank you, Mister Jacobson. Goodnight Brita. Watch out for the ice.”
My eyes narrow at Jonas’s tight smile and I quickly tear the straw from my hair. Well, he is agitating.
Whirling on my father, my hands fly to my hips, the same way my mother stands when she is frustrated. “What was that?”
“Oh, come on Brit,” Dad says, closing his eyes and rubbing his temples. “You aren’t playing into the feud, are you?”
“What are you doing with Jonas Olsen that would keep you from Santa Lucia dinner, and I might add, from picking up your only child?”
Dad’s shoulders slump, his eyes weary, but his playful smile already brings my forgiveness. I allow him to pull me into a tight hug. “I missed you kid,” he says. “And I do apologize for making you take the bus. We had a bit of an emergency this morning with a client. I couldn’t get away today. You could always buy a car, you know.”
“How about I pay for textbooks first. Fair warning, Farfar is about to disown you,” I say as I follow him up the side porch steps.
“I’m sure he is.”
My father opens the door, holding it for me, but I don’t budge. “Dad, what are you doing with Jonas?”
“Nothing to get an ulcer over.”
“Okay, then I can tel
l Farfar?”
“No,” Dad answers sharply.
And just like that I cross my arms in a smug victory.
Dad sighs. “Brit, you know how Farfar is, and this isn’t a big deal. Jonas wants an internship next summer and the firm has a competitive program, so he took the initiative today to ask if he could work a bit over the break—without pay, I might add. It wasn’t my decision. Edwin made the final choice, but to be honest, he made the right one. I wouldn’t have given the kid a chance simply to spare your grandfather, but Jonas is impressive with finance law. Even without experience.”
“Finance law?”
“I think I’ve failed you,” he says and nudges me inside. “It’s human courtesy to speak to neighbors, you know. You really didn’t know that Jonas is a pre-law student?”
“Jonas doesn’t talk to a lot of people. I know Axel is going into physical therapy, so not knowing Jonas is clearly not my fault. Still, why did he come to you?”
Dad chuckles, but the sound doesn’t hold much humor. “I’m a lawyer last I checked, and he wants hands-on experience for law school applications. He’s just trying to get a head start on his future.”
“I’m guessing you want me to keep your secret from everyone?” I finally step out of the night; a wall of hot air strikes my face when Dad closes the door behind us.
“Yeah, I hope things can stay between you and me, however after watching that impressive interaction out there, I have something to speak with you about. I think you’ll like the idea.”
“Impressive, huh? You’re right, I think Jonas will be asking me to marry him by tomorrow.”
Dad slugs my shoulder like he always does and hangs up his jacket. We work our way into the kitchen where I hand him the plate of carbs. My stomach churns like a hurricane as we pick at cookies and pie crust, but I don’t let it show.
This is weird. My dad is mingling with the enemy too. I’m not alone, except Dad isn’t in love with the enemy. I am.
Chapter 3
Although darkness enrobes the morning, the fresh snowfall casts a blue glow outside on the street, and I can easily make out Farfar’s curled frown as he sips his tea. My dad joins us for the obscenely early breakfast since he missed dinner. He turns a page in the Sports section of the paper, his eyes flicking to Farfar.
“Pops, are you going to scowl at me all morning?” Dad asks. He neatly folds the paper onto the table.
“I do no such thing,” says Farfar.
Oh no. I hold my breath. The man is going into his proper-talk mode. It’s what Farfar always does when he wants to lay on the guilt-trip extra thickly.
He barrels on, accent pronounced, nose in the air. “It matters not to me whether my children attend the vibrant traditions of their heritage.” Another sip of tea—eyes still on Dad. “It matters not that your mother, may she rest in peace, gave up years of her life teaching you children the splendor of the Homeland.” Sip. Glare. “I have no ill will against you, Nils. You are a grown man. How you spend your nights is of little concern for me.”
Oscar slurps a spoonful of oatmeal, but his two dimples dig deep into his cheeks as he suppresses a smile. I sigh and clear my throat when Dad’s cheeks start shading the same color as the raspberry jelly.
Playing the part of my father’s hero, I toss out my best distraction. “Farfar, you’re still wanting me to make the breads today, right?” And just like that, Farfar breaks his dagger eyes and smiles.
“Yes, love. Inez has an entire batch of cinnamon rolls and pepparkakor to make. Popular sweets this time of year. And Oscar, my boy, I’m so thankful you’ve come to help your mother.”
“Sure, Grandpa,” Oscar mutters as he slops his spoon around the bowl. Inez flicks the back of his ear and burns Oscar with an icy stare. He clears his throat. “I mean, I’m really happy to be here. I love to help in the bakery…teaches me…hard work and all.”
I snicker into my cocoa while Oscar stammers through a prepared speech I’ve heard Aunt Inez drill into his teenage brain for years. The cuckoo chimes five in the morning, I can guess where Oscar would rather be than preparing to open a bakery.
“Then I will prepare the creams for the fillings,” Farfar says with a quick clap of his hands.
“Ah, Pops, maybe you should greet the customers. I promised the creams to Agnes—you know she enjoys licking the spoon when it’s all done,” Inez says.
“Can she stand for so long?” Dad asks.
“Of course she can, Nils,” snaps Farfar. “Where does our blood come from?”
“Dad…” My father closes his eyes.
“Vikings, that’s where,” Farfar goes on. “Agnes will stand just fine.”
“Therapy has been helping, she’s good,” Inez says. She whispers something through her teeth, I don’t hear it, but Dad must because he nods. As the children of a stubborn man like Farfar, Dad and Inez are always muttering secrets.
I do know that Agnes isn’t doing the creams, but Inez knows (as we all do) that Farfar will stand all day if she doesn’t make something up. Farfar will be seventy-three in five months and he still tries to behave as if he is as spry as Oscar and me. Probably to stick it to Viggo, who passed all bakery and café duties to Elias and Sigrid, the twins’ parents. I know my dad went to school with Elias and Sigrid, but it seems, by their indifference, it is entirely possible they have never uttered a word to each other. All the more reason Dad’s secret apprentice comes as such a shock.
I shake my head, scooping out the final three marshmallows from my mug and melting them on my tongue like sugary clouds. Everything about the feud seems so ridiculous this early in the morning. I think about what Dad asked me last night. Then I think about Jonas and the way he laughed at me and my dance with the trash can. That makes me think of Axel and how his twin probably recited my shame all night long. I can picture them both laughing until their sides burst. Finally, all my rambling thoughts bring me to my grandmother’s letter. Our little secret.
I layer the butter on thick and shove half a croissant into my mouth while Farfar and Dad start arguing again. This feud and family nonsense is too much to take on myself. Farmor placed her hope in the wrong person.
“Brita, apart from your bakery mornings, what else do you plan to do during your break?” Farfar asks, pouring more hot water into his mug. Dad holds the paper again. I notice how the edges tremble in his firm grip, a clear sign that he will work away his frustrations late into the night again.
“Oh, I plan to work a bit. You know, help make up for where my scholarship doesn’t fund,” I say slowly.
Farfar lifts one of his bushy eyebrows. “Work? Where did you find such a temporary job? Oh, unless you’ve…Brita have you decided to stay home for the final months? I’ve been told those online courses are quite popular, yes?”
“No, Pops. I hired Brita,” my dad says. “She’s going to edit our depositions and reports.”
“What?” Farfar asks.
“She’s an English major, Pop. I think it would look good on a resume.”
“Well, that sounds terribly boring,” Inez says, though she smiles. “No offense, Brita. I’m glad there are people like you who love to fix words, but I tell you what, I would rather pluck out all my leg hairs.”
Oscar scrubs his eyes. “Nice visual, Mom.”
“Well, as long as it doesn’t interfere with the bakery, I think that’s a wise financial decision,” Farfar says.
“Glad you approve,” Dad scoffs.
Farfar may not have noticed the sarcasm, but Dad layers it on thicker than my butter.
I nod, though I choose not to say anything else. In truth, I’m excited to use what I’ve been studying in school. Dad is right, having an actual job will help with a resume when I graduate. But there remains one awkward downside to the arrangement we discussed last night.
“You can’t say anything about Jonas. Not to anyone,” Dad said once I agreed to work for the Anderson-Collins Law Firm.
“What’s going to happen when Au
nt Inez shows up?”
“Because she always comes to my office? Name the last time.”
“Maybe she’ll randomly decide to take you to lunch or something. Or what if I edit a project from Jonas and Farfar sees it? Why do we have to always keep these secrets, Dad? For crying out loud, what happened with the Olsens?”
I may have gotten a little dramatic, but it was late, and I ate too much pie.
“Just promise, Brita. It might cause trouble for Jonas too, and you know what this would do to your Farfar.”
“Fine,” I grunted. “But then you need to be home Christmas Eve and Christmas, and I mean home. Not on the laptop, not writing reports, not on the phone, or I’m going to go stay with Mom.”
“Are you threatening me with parent picking?” Dad asked, his lawyer shoes laced up. He’d negotiated, debated, and tried to find a loophole in my contract. Then soon remembered I am his child, and learned all my skills from him. I won.
“How is your mother?” he asked after concession. “Is she still dating…”
The conversation then moved into a weird realm I’m not ready to replay this early in the morning.
“Well my loves,” Farfar says. His knees crack, and his back stays arched a little too long when he stands from his seat. “It’s time to get started on the day. We have a public to feed.”
I wipe a blob of butter from the corner of my mouth. Inez instructs Oscar to clear the table—he of course protests. A bold move. Inez is not one I would challenge, and soon enough, Oscar clears the plates.
“You’re leaving already? It’s not even six-thirty.” I say to Dad and help Oscar with the juice glasses.
“Yeah, I thought I’d get an early start. We’re still dealing with that hiccup from yesterday. See you around noon?”
“Well there’s a bus that leaves at eleven forty-five, so I might be—”
“No, just go to the gas station. Your ride will come meet you there.” Dad sips his orange juice before I take his glass. My jaw drops.