East of the Sun, West of the Moon

by Carole Bellacera

  Margit gave him a stern look. “Gunvor, that is a very rude question. And didn't I tell you that Erik is your father now? You must call him Father."

  Gunny thrust out his bottom lip. “I don't want a father. Just want you.” He reached his arms up to her.

  She bent over and picked him up, casting an apologetic glance at Erik.

  "Don't worry, you two,” Grethe said. “It will take him a little while to adjust. He's never had to share his mother before."

  "Well, we'll have to do something about that, won't we, Erik?” Margit smiled up at her husband.

  Erik looked at her blankly. “Did I miss something?"

  Grethe gave him a wry smile. “I think she's talking about a baby brother or sister, Erik."

  Erik hadn't thought of more children. Curiously, the idea appealed to him, despite his lack of romantic feelings for Margit. He'd always loved being a part of a large family; he especially enjoyed children. Perhaps having another child would put a spark into his life. God knew he needed one.

  "Come on,” Grethe said. “Dordei and Hakon are in the family room, and Bjorn and his family should be arriving soon. They all knew you were coming home tonight."

  As they walked into the family room, Hakon raised his glass of aquavit and called out in an overly jovial voice, “Ah, the newly-wedded couple are here!” He gave Erik a hard slap on the back.

  Erik grimaced. One of these days, he was going to lose his patience and haul off and slug his insufferable brother-in-law. How Dordei could stomach him, he'd never understand. But women loved that classic male-model look, and that was about the only thing Hakon had going for him. Erik thought he was a pompous know-it-all. After exchanging a word of greeting with him, he moved on to his sister and gave her a hug. She held him tightly for a moment, then pulled away and gazed up at him, her blue eyes serious.

  "Is everything okay, Erik?"

  "Yes. Just fine.” He could tell she didn't believe him. But then, why would she? Erik and Dordei had always been especially close. He was the one she'd always turned to when she had a problem. And in the last few years, he'd been turning to her more and more. She'd grown to know him almost better than he knew himself. Only a few days before the wedding, she'd cornered him and demanded to know why he was marrying Margit.

  "It's not because you love her. Not in the way a man is supposed to love his wife."

  There was no way he could pretend with her. “Dordei, I know it must look odd to you, but I have a good reason for marrying her. You see, Gunny is my son."

  Dordei didn't raise an eyebrow. “I know that. Bjorn told me. But Erik, we're talking about your life here. Is this what you really want?"

  Erik's lips tightened. “It doesn't matter what I want at this point. What I wanted wasn't possible."

  "Kayleigh?"

  "How did you know?” Erik asked.

  "I remembered our discussion about a woman you'd fallen for when you came home for Christmas last year.” Dordei shook her head. “I knew it was Kayleigh the moment you two walked into the room. Anyone with half a brain could've seen it in the way you looked at her that night. And I got the feeling she was pretty taken with you, too."

  "She was."

  "You're still in love with her, Erik. How can you marry Margit?"

  In frustration, he spoke harshly to his sister. “What do you suggest I do? I have a responsibility toward Margit."

  Dordei's eyes hardened. “And what about the responsibility to yourself? To Kayleigh? There is only one thing I know, Erik. A bad marriage is a living hell. I'd hate to see it happen to you."

  Now, as Erik looked down at his sister, he could see the doubt in her eyes at his curt answer. A silent message passed between them as she squeezed his hands tightly before letting go. He wanted to ask her about Hakon and their relationship. She'd never discussed it with him, but he was sure she was desperately unhappy in her marriage. Of course, he had no proof, but he had the distinct feeling the man was a blatant philanderer. He'd even flirted outrageously with Kayleigh that night right in front of Dordei. God help him, if Erik ever found out for sure he was playing around.

  "Son, you're home!"

  Arne had arrived home from work at the shipyards. Everyone took seats and immediately began bombarding Erik and Margit with questions about Greece. Grethe entered the room with hot coffee and goro, cardamon flavored cookies with a hint of cognac.

  "Where's Mags?” Erik asked during a pause in the conversation. It was unusual for his younger brother not to be around during a family gathering.

  "Oh, he went to Holmenkollen for ski-jumping,” Grethe said. “He is very serious about making the Olympic team this time."

  The doorbell rang and Arne went to answer it. Margit moved to the sofa to sit down next to Erik. She smiled at him warmly and took his hand. There was a great commotion at the front door and a few seconds later, two little blonde girls rushed in and flung themselves onto Erik's lap.

  "Oh, what have we here?” He laughed, hugging them. “My two little princesses."

  Five-year-old Marit and three-year-old Inger-Lise were crazy about their Uncle Erik. In their young eyes, there was no one in the world like him. Bjorn and Anne-Lise entered the room, followed shortly by Mags. The family exchanged boisterous greetings and kisses.

  Erik felt his heart lifting. Home. It felt good. But later that evening, as he saw Bjorn and Anne-Lise exchange a tender glance, he felt a pang in his heart as his thoughts returned to Kayleigh.

  It should be her on the sofa next to him, not Margit. This was all wrong, but there wasn't a goddamn thing he could do about it.

  * * * *

  Margit drew a comb through her hair and stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. The Mediterranean sun had done wonders for her skin, giving it a subtle golden glow. She didn't care what those stupid medical people said. In her opinion, having a good suntan was the epitome of health. She opened the bathroom door and stepped out into the hall.

  Bjorn was leaning against the wall.

  Her eyes connected with his. “Oh, were you waiting for the lavatory?"

  He smiled. “Don't be cute. How was the honeymoon?"

  "Okay."

  His gaze moved lazily over her. “Was Erik the great stud he thinks he is?"

  Her lips lifted in amusement. “That's a rather rude question, Bjorn."

  "Is it?” He moved over to her and pushed her back inside the bathroom. Smiling, he stepped in after her, closed the door and locked it, then turned back to her. Her heart raced as she stared into his intent blue eyes. He grabbed her shoulders and his mouth came down hard on hers, his tongue thrusting. Her hands locked onto the back of his neck as she returned his kiss urgently. Finally, she pulled away from him, nipples taut, panties moist. A cynical smile touched his lips. “You want rude, baby? You've got it!"

  Breathlessly, she spoke, “Bjorn, you must be mad! Anyone could be waiting out there for the lavatory."

  He chuckled softly. “I'm mad for you. When can we meet?"

  "I don't know. I'll have to call you."

  "Make it soon.” One large hand reached under her hair to the back of her neck and then slid slowly down her shoulder and onto the swell of her left breast. A shudder ran through her. “I can't wait to hear all about your honeymoon.” Then, as quickly as he'd entered the bathroom, he slipped out and was gone.

  Trembling, Margit flushed the toilet and washed her hands again, gazing at herself in the mirror. Her face glowed from the encounter; her green eyes held a spark of excitement. She hoped no one would notice.

  * * * *

  Leigh opened the door of the Georgetown art gallery and walked in. It was quiet inside. Only one other person stood in the elegant room—a rather dumpy-looking middle-aged man studying a painting of a little girl dressed in white. She looked around but didn't see anyone who might resemble the owner, Ward Radcliffe. Her attention moved to the paintings on the wall. Although she'd worked only as a freelance illustrator for years, she'd never lost her love
for watercolors and charcoals. She'd always intended to concentrate on those mediums someday, but time had slipped away and she'd never done it. Perhaps now was the time. If she made a decent salary working in the gallery, she might get the chance to branch out with her art. Assuming she got the job, of course.

  "It's not that good, is it?” The voice behind her had a slight British accent.

  Startled, Leigh turned to meet a pair of friendly brown eyes and an amused smile. It was the man who'd been eyeing the painting when she walked in. His salt and pepper hair suggested he was in his early fifties and a slight paunch under a burnt-orange sweater told her that here was a man who enjoyed his meals. But the most extraordinary thing about him was the warmth of his smile. It reached out and cloaked her in a blanket of good-will. And she knew immediately who he was.

  "The painting.” He gestured toward a charcoal of a nude man holding a huge pumpkin in front of his crotch. “Personally, I hate that one, but the artist is a friend. And if you don't have friends, what's the use in living?"

  Leigh smiled. “You're Ward Radcliffe, aren't you?"

  His smile grew wider. “And you must be Leigh Fallon. Deanna told me you were drop-dead gorgeous, but I thought she was exaggerating. So, are you ready to start working for me?"

  "Without an interview?"

  Ward shrugged. “Deanna recommended you. That's enough for me. Can you start next week?"

  Leigh felt like a character in one of Deanna's books. It wasn't supposed to be this easy. She extended a hand to Ward. “I sure can. That gives me a chance to start looking for an apartment."

  "No need.” Ward enclosed her hand in his in a warm clasp. “Shall we say an apartment comes with the job? I have to charge a minimum rent, of course. Just to keep it legal. I own a brownstone a few blocks away, and one of my tenants just moved out. The question is ... can you stomach me as your boss and your landlord?"

  Leigh laughed. “Oh, I think I can.” Unbelievable. She'd been talking to the man for only a moment, yet, she felt as if she'd known him for years. Just like it had been when she'd first met Deanna. Instant friendship.

  "Great. We close shortly, so if you'd like, we can walk over and take a look at the apartment.” A thought seemed to occur to him. “Oh. Did Deanna mention I have a friend who lives with me? A male friend?"

  Leigh couldn't control a blush. She'd completely forgotten Deanna had warned her Ward was gay. “Uh ... well, yeah, she did say something ... like that."

  "I find it best to be upfront about it. To use a well-worn cliche, ‘honesty is the best policy,’ I think.” Ward peered at her, a speculative light in his brown eyes. “Egan and I have been together for years. No problem with that?"

  "Of course not.” Leigh said, shocked. “Mr. Radcliffe, your personal life is none of my business."

  Ward smiled. “You'd be surprised how many people don't go along with your philosophy. And by the way, it's Ward, not Mr. Radcliffe.” He smacked his palms together. “Okay. Shall we go take a look at your new apartment?"

  * * * *

  Leigh turned around in the empty living room and tried to suppress a shout of pure delight. It was a dream apartment. Freshly buffed parquet floors sparkled beneath her feet. On the ceiling, heavy wooden beams lent a rustic flavor to the room and complemented a large stone fireplace that took up most of one wall. To the right of the fireplace, a window seat added to the charm, looking out onto a small rock garden. Across the room, varnished french doors opened onto a flag-stoned patio and opposite them, burnished wooden stairs led to a bedroom loft overlooking the living room.

  Off the hallway, a powder room done in blue ceramic tiles and pine wood was tucked into the nook under the stairs. As if that and the modern kitchen with oak cabinets and cinnamon-colored Mexican tile weren't enough, the apartment boasted a small “maid's room” in the back—perfect for the kids if they wanted to spend the night.

  Leigh knew right away she had to have it; she couldn't believe how lucky she was to get it at such a ridiculously low rent. Once again, she had Deanna Harper to thank. Grandmother Kayleigh's grandfather clock would look perfect in that corner there. This weekend, she'd hire a rental truck and pick it up. And of course, she'd have to start shopping for furniture. She'd have to charge it, of course, and pay it off as the paychecks arrived.

  "So, this will do?” Ward asked at her side.

  Leigh felt like hugging him. But she didn't. Her smile said it all. “I think I can live with it."

  Ward reached out and squeezed her hand. “Wonderful. Come on. Let's go upstairs. I want you to meet Egan. Now that we're neighbors, you have to come up for dinner."

  "Tonight?” Leigh asked.

  "Unless you have plans."

  "Well, no, I don't, but Egan might not..."

  "Oh, he loves guests. He likes to show off his cooking. He's a chef at ‘Quillen Fein's Irish Pub.’ Luckily, it's his night off.” As he spoke, he locked the door to the apartment and handed her the key. “It's all yours.” He led the way up a flight of stairs. “We're just above you, so if you ever need anything, just bang on the ceiling."

  A flutter of nervousness swept through Leigh as Ward unlocked the door to his apartment. She didn't quite know what to expect. How did male lovers act in front of company? They walked into a tastefully decorated apartment that had the same floor-plan as hers. But instead of a patio, a balcony overlooked the tiny yard below. Ward grinned as he saw her glance out the french doors. “No nude sun-bathing out in your backyard,” he said. “Egan, we have company."

  A slight, red-haired man in his mid-thirties stepped out of the kitchen. He wasn't anything like Leigh expected. Somehow, she'd imagined an effeminate man with a handlebar mustache wearing an apron and a chef's hat. Egan Allister looked like an ordinary young man; the only thing exceptional about him was his smile. It was so sweet that Leigh was immediately under his spell. And when he spoke, she was surprised by his thick Irish brogue.

  "Ah, Durward. You've brought home another stray cat, have you, now?"

  Durward? Leigh looked at Ward curiously.

  He sighed. “For God's sake. He says that to annoy me. Yes, it's my true name, and he won't let me forget it."

  "Ah, but you're a luvly colleen.” Egan grinned at her. “What's your name, child?"

  Leigh laughed. The man was younger by at least five years, yet, he called her child.

  "This is Leigh Fallon, our new neighbor,” Ward said. “And my new employee at the gallery."

  "Fallon, is it? A good Irish name. Does me heart good."

  Leigh smiled. “Well, I can't take credit for it since it's my married name. But my maiden name is Shanahan."

  "Ah, even better! Some of me best friends are Shanahans. Sit down, darlin'. Do you like Irish stew? It's a cold night out, and it'll warm up yer insides."

  "Sounds wonderful,” Leigh said. But she didn't think she needed any stew to warm her up. Egan and Ward had already done it. For the first time since she'd left Norway, she felt optimistic about the future.

  * * * *

  After the last customer disappeared through the doorway of the gallery, Leigh glanced at her wristwatch. Thank God. It was almost closing time. She was looking forward to a long soak in the bathtub. For some reason, it had been especially busy since opening; she'd been on her feet most of the day. Had bonuses been handed out on Capitol Hill or something? More paintings had been sold today than in her entire first week. When she'd mentioned it to Ward, he'd laughed.

  "Yeah, that's how it is here. Feast or famine. It's all these Capitol Hill parties. One senator's wife sees a painting at another wife's party and decides she has to have something even better. It's all a frivolous game to them. After you've been here a while, you'll be able to tell the difference between a pseudo and a true art lover. That's what I call the society people. Pseudos. God, I detest them."

  Leigh smiled. Apparently, Deanna hadn't told him she'd once been a congressman's wife. That she'd experienced that kind of game-playing first-hand. Thank
God, she was seeing it all from a new perspective these days. Just this morning, an elegant blond had entered and without even glancing at Leigh, drew out her American Express Gold Card and said, “I want the most expensive painting you have. Have it sent around to my house at four o'clock.” One of Ward's “psuedos."

  "You worked hard today,” he said now. “Why don't you go ahead and take off early. I'll close up."

  "That's okay,” Leigh said. “I only have fifteen minutes to go."

  The bell at the door tinkled, signaling a last-minute customer. Leigh resisted a sigh. She hoped this wasn't going to be one of those long drawn-out sales, or worse, a long drawn-out contemplation, and then no sale. A man of medium height with thinning brown hair walked toward her. He looked vaguely familiar, but then again, his face was rather ordinary. His blue eyes stared at her intently and then he smiled. Leigh's eyes widened in recognition.

  "Hello, Leigh Fallon,” he said. “Remember me?"

  Her heart thudded at his familiar Norwegian accent. “Yes. Your first name is Knut, but I can't quite remember the last name."

  "Aabel. I'm pleased you remember me at all.” He placed his hands in the pockets of his woolen overcoat and rocked back on his heels.

  Leigh smiled, startled at how pleased she was to see him. “Well, we talked for an hour on the flight to Oslo."

  "Ja. And I really enjoyed our conversation. When I returned to Washington, I'd rather hoped you'd call. I did give you my business card, didn't I?"

  "Yes, you did but ... it somehow got misplaced.” Her eyes lowered. Yeah, it had been misplaced, all right. “I was disappointed because I really had planned to call."

  Knut smiled wryly. “Well, you certainly are a hard woman to find. I had to employ a bit of detective work. First, I called that art gallery in Soho where you told me you worked. They gave me a Deanna Harper's number and she told me you'd moved back to Washington. At first, she was reluctant to tell me where I could find you, but then she suddenly changed her mind and gave me the address of this gallery."

  It was the Norwegian accent, thought Leigh. She probably thought he was a friend of Erik's with a message. She became aware of Ward's eyes upon her, and remembering her manners, introduced the two men.