“That works, too,” he said with a hint of a smile.
She closed the front door and followed Henrik into the office.
“Now, what did you say when I walked in?” he asked. He picked up the journal he had left on the corner of the desk and thumbed through it absently.
“What was it that you were going to tell me yesterday? Before…”
Mel’s voice trailed off. Before their argument. Certainly she didn’t need to elaborate, did she?
But now he was frowning.
“Oh, I was going to get to that,” he mumbled. He settled into his chair and ran a hand through his gleaming wet hair. In the time since she’d arrived, his hair had slowly grown from boyish and shaggy into something more unkempt, almost wild.
“Sit down.”
It was an order, so she rolled her eyes and leaned against the desk. He was silent for what felt like minutes, looking at the floor. Finally, he met her eyes.
“Melanie, I think there was another woman.”
Mel stared at him. He must be talking about her father, but what did he mean by another woman?
“Do you mean you think he’s—he’s interested in someone else?” she said doubtfully. “Who? Aside from a few colleagues at the university, he doesn’t write about—”
“No,” said Henrik, cutting her off with an impatient wave of his hand. “I don’t mean he’s found a new woman. I mean that there was someone else all along. I mean—” he paused.
When he spoke again, his voice was softer, almost apologetic. “I mean I don’t think the ‘She’ Björn writes about is your mother.”
“No,” she said quickly.
His words sank heavily into her, unsettling her insides as if some very basic matter had been removed.
“No, but those poems…”
She felt his hands on her legs, but her legs felt strangely detached from her body. Everything felt wrong. She started walking, first to the window and then to the door of the office. Just the suggestion provoked a kind of restless anger in her, made worse by Mel’s sudden realization that what he said really could be true. It fit. All the times her father had written about seeing her, about being so close, hadn’t been passages of dreamy escape; the woman was here in Stockholm. Mel felt her face twist. Of course it had been someone else all along—why else would her father have left them and never looked back?
Her mother had never gotten over her father’s desertion. She was a beautiful woman, far better looking than Mel herself, and yet her mother had stayed away from men. Mel knew of plenty of divorces, and no one had taken the split like her mother. The idea came to her in an icy shiver: Had her mother known all these years? Had her discovery brought her this same, sickening shock, like the entire premise that she had built her life on was gone?
Mel felt two large hands on her shoulders. She flinched, but the hands stayed in place. Henrik. She hadn’t heard him come up behind her. He didn’t say anything, just stood silently and stroked her arms. If he had given her a few more minutes, she would have been able to swallow up this feeling into herself. She would have found a way to fit this into her understanding of the world if he hadn’t touched her, but the warmth of his hands was too much.
With a shudder, tears began to fall. Mel closed her eyes, but they only came faster. Henrik turned her around and brought her into his chest. He stroked her hair, clumsily at first and then more deliberately. His tender fumbling almost made her smile. For all his confidence in bed, he certainly wasn’t showing much experience in this area.
Mel took a shaky breath and pulled away.
“How long have you known?”
Her question seemed to have taken him by surprise, and he looked away.
“I don’t know this, Melanie,” he said. “I don’t have anything that could be called evidence.”
“But it’s true,” she said flatly. “I never would have thought of it on my own, but now that you’ve said it, I’m almost certain you’re right.”
Henrik looked at her again, and this time his eyes mirrored some of her sadness. Then he nodded.
“How long?” she asked again.
Henrik sighed.
“Let’s sit down,” he said. He walked them out of the office and over to the daybed, the white cover now neatly tucked in.
But it was still her bed. This was the place where they had lain together, night after night, the place where they had connected in the most intimate of ways.
Mel shook her head. Everything in her resisted walking over there with him now. She felt as if he was going to strip away the last part of her that had kept her standing on her own all these years. She didn’t want to crave his comfort this much.
“Melanie, please sit with me,” he whispered. “Let me hold you. Let me…”
He seemed to be struggling with what to say, and it wasn’t coming out. Then he kissed her forehead so softly, so tenderly that her reasons for resistance didn’t matter anymore. He took her hand, and they walked over to the daybed. He leaned his back against the sideboard arm and settled her between his legs. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into his chest. She could feel his heart beating against hers, slow and strong, and for a moment she just closed her eyes, losing herself in the heat and pressure of his body against hers. Then he spoke.
“When we started reading, I just assumed the ‘She’ he refers to was someone in Sweden. There was something in the way he talked about her, as if she were physically here. When you said it was your mother, I didn’t say anything because I didn’t know. And why…”
His words faded, and she felt him take a long breath against her. Mel turned her head, but she couldn’t see Henrik’s face, and he didn’t loosen his hold on her. When he continued, his voice was soft and sad.
“I thought, why would I hurt her if I don’t know for sure?”
He sighed.
“But now I’m pretty sure I’m right,” he said. “And it bothered me every day when we read. I kept wondering if the journals would reveal a name at some point and you—I’ve worried about how you’ll take it.”
Mel didn’t say anything. She didn’t move. She felt as if the rope that tethered her to her life had been cut, and now she was slowly drifting away.
Mel struggled to sit up, and she felt the reluctant release of Henrik’s arms.
“Then who is it?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “But that’s why I wanted to read the early journal. I can see why you assumed it was your mother, because whoever this mysterious She is predates what we’ve read so far. He’s already said goodbye to her. But maybe that one early journal has something in it.”
Mel nodded slowly. Then she turned to him.
“Did he ever mention my mother? I mean to you, in person.”
The question seemed to take Henrik by surprise. Then he put his hand on her leg and squeezed it gently.
“No, he didn’t. But he talked about you sometimes.”
Mel froze. Just when she thought her insides had been wrung dry, a new opening for pain was in front of her.
“I’m sorry. I would have told you before, but when I showed you your school photos, I—I couldn’t find a way to say it. To not hurt you more.”
She turned around so she was facing him.
“What did he say?”
Mel hated how eager she sounded, but she couldn’t stop herself. She couldn’t resist it. Her father, the man who she had not seen since he walked out the door, the man who had never once tried to contact her, actually thought about her?
“My standards for fatherly attention seem to be pretty low,” she added with disgust. “Just the idea that he thought of me has me begging you for details.”
Henrik closed his eyes and shook his head, pulling her roughly against him again. He stroked her hair until her body relaxed into his. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft and low.
“He just mentioned you, nothing in particular. He told me where yo
u lived, about the biography of Wilson Scott that you were working on—you just came up sometimes. He mentioned that after grad school you had rented a place in New Hampshire to write for the summer.”
How did her father know all that?
Henrik’s hand was still stroking her hair. He must have felt her muscles tense, but he didn’t stop.
“I asked why you didn’t come here instead, and he just shook his head. ‘I’m not a part of her life,’ is what he said. ‘I’m lucky I know even this much.’”
Mel told herself to breathe as she waited for Henrik to continue. When he didn’t say anything more, she turned back around and stared at him.
“Then what? Did you ask him why?”
Henrik sighed.
“No. It was clearly painful for him to talk about, and I didn’t want to push it. I guess I figured he’d tell me more if he wanted to.”
Mel glared at him. He could have asked her father the question that had haunted Mel for her entire life, and he didn’t. If only he had just asked, maybe some of the distrust, the desertion would be easier to handle. Henrik must have registered her scowl, and he gave a dry little laugh.
“Sorry. I didn’t expect this particular turn of events,” he said. Henrik’s words were tender, and his large hand stroked Mel’s forehead, releasing some of the tension she felt in it.
Could she just lie back down with him and forget all of this pain? It was tempting, with Henrik’s hands stroking her face, her arms, inviting her to simply lose herself in his warmth again.
No, she couldn’t.
Because as much as she found comfort in Henrik at this moment, it must have been the same kind of comfort her mother had found with her father. The kind of comfort that had left long, deep scars in her mother that didn’t heal. Henrik had a past with an ex-wife he’d loved, and he’d admitted he wasn’t capable of a relationship.
She sat up. Henrik’s hand fell onto her leg. His face was blank, as if he were reining in his own emotions. But Mel’s mind jumped to the other questions that Henrik’s words had sparked.
“How did he know that I rented a place in New Hampshire that summer?”
Henrik shook his head slowly. He opened his mouth to say something, but she spoke before he could.
“Someone must have told him. Someone must have been in touch with him.”
And then her mind went back to the photos of her that Henrik had pulled out of her father’s drawer. The school photos with the neat handwriting on the back.
“My grandmother had contact with him,” she whispered. “I have to talk to my grandmother.”
Before she could stop it, an image of her grandmother flashed in her mind: standing at the head of their kitchen table, her brown hair—still brown, Mel noted—pulled into the tight bun that was just as much a part of her as her bright blue eyes, glaring at Mel’s mother.
“You’re making a big mistake,” her grandmother had snapped. Mel must have been five years old at the time, but she still remembered the words clearly. She had never seen adults argue before. Her father had disappeared without warning, and now her mother had made a mistake. Did it mean her mother would disappear, too? Mel could still feel the physical chill the possibility had brought on. Now, years and years later, the conversation began to take on new significance.
Mel stood up abruptly, trying to ignore the distraction of Henrik’s hands, soothing her. But she didn’t get any further than that. No land line. No reception. No way to talk to her grandmother. Mel turned to Henrik.
“Do you have a phone I can use to call the U.S.?”
Henrik hesitated, and Mel quickly added, “I’ll pay you back for the charges, of course.”
Henrik waved the suggestion away, but his mouth drew down into a frown.
“It’s not that,” he said. “What are you planning to do?”
Mel crossed her arms and raised her eyebrows defiantly. At any other time, she might have laughed at her own defensive stance, but nothing felt very humorous right now.
“I’m going to ask my grandmother if she talked to my father. If he wanted to know about me.”
Henrik’s frown deepened.
“But what are you looking for? What do you want to know?”
Mel opened her mouth to answer, but she found she wasn’t quite sure what to say. Finally she sighed.
“I just want to know if he wanted me in his life,” she said quietly.
Henrik stood up so that their bodies were almost touching. Slowly, keeping his eyes fixed on hers, as if he were approaching a scared animal, he eased one hand onto her waist. With his other hand he cupped her neck. He seemed to want to say something, something that he was struggling with. His voice was low and careful when he finally spoke.
“Are you ready for her answer, no matter what it is?”
“Yes.”
He didn’t say anything. Mel took a deep breath.
“Well, probably,” she said softly.
“Will you think about it for a day?” he asked. His hand stroked her chin. “Just in case the answer isn’t what you’re hoping for.”
He tilted her head up so she met his eyes, and he smiled a little.
“I don’t have a good phone here, either, at least not one with a reliable connection, but I’ll drive you over to town in the boat tomorrow. You can make your call, and we can stop at the grocery store if you need it.”
That was a polite hint. Her kitchen was noticeably bare, and she was now subsisting on daily supplements from Henrik. Besides maybe Henrik was right. If her grandmother had been in contact with her father all these years, there must have been a reason. And it might not be one she liked.
“Okay,” she said, and she lay her head on his chest, listening to its slow, strong thump. She looked back up at him and chuckled. “Your persuasion skills have certainly improved.”
He gave a snort of laughter and pulled her into him again. Neither of them said anything for a long time. Her father had left her so many years ago that she barely remembered him, so how could these thoughts still make her ache this badly?
Henrik’s voice came softly to her.
“I just don’t want you to get hurt.”
This comment got a sad laugh from her.
“You’re much too late for that,” she said, but her voice didn’t sound quite as bitter as she thought it would this time.
Chapter 16
Mel crossed over the main trail and headed along the narrow path, down the hill to Henrik’s cabin. The combination of rain and sun had baked ripe pine forest scents that rose up around her. She hadn’t been over to this side of the island since their previous trip to the mainland, and after Henrik had docked his boat that time, she’d been too cold and uncomfortable from her unfortunate dip in the Baltic to pry into his private space.
Henrik was very willing to come to her place, where he could leave whenever he wanted, but Mel couldn’t help but feel that he deliberately kept her from his cabin. It must be deliberate, she told herself. Anyone else she had been this intimate with would have at least invited her over once for dinner, right?
By the time Mel stood on Henrik’s small back porch, her optimism had faded. Her clothes weren’t island-friendly today: a short skirt and silky summer blouse. At least she could get one wear out of the outfit that summer. Not that she’d dressed up for the occasion. She raised her hand to the door.
But before she could knock, the door swung open, and Henrik stepped out. His smile faded as he studied her face, as if looking for clues as to what had happened in the few hours since he had left her.
“I want to come in,” she said. It wasn’t a question.
He hesitated. The pause was brief, and she probably wouldn’t have noticed it if she hadn’t been watching carefully for his reaction, but it was there.
Then he nodded and opened the door back up for her.
If her father’s cabin was sparse and airy, Henrik’s cabin was just the opposite. Th
e furniture was all made of wood just as dark as the walls and ceiling. Old oil paintings in ornate frames hung along the walls. The mantle over the fireplace was lined with decorative glass bowls and wooden carvings—some possibly made by Henrik as a boy, judging by the crude shapes.
But none of those details were nearly as interesting as the table next to the sofa, which held one, large, black and white photo of a woman. Mel recognized the background immediately. The woman was sitting in a wooden chair on the deck just outside the double glass doors in front of Mel. The photographer had caught his subject—Mel was positive the photographer was male—as she swept her long, light hair out of her eyes. She was smiling, but there was something sad in her eyes. And intimately revealing.
Mel almost doubled over as a sharp jolt of jealousy hit her stomach. Henrik’s ex-wife. This was why he had never asked her over. He wasn’t willing to give up this beautiful woman, whose presence dominated the room. She picked up the photo.
“Did you take this?” she asked. Her own voice, so cold and distant, startled her. It sounded like the version of her that had stepped off the ferry at the beginning of the summer, and Mel wasn’t sure she liked that version of her as well anymore.
The question seemed to take Henrik by surprise.
“No,” he said, taking the photo from her. “Actually, your father did.”
He looked at her again, and finally he seemed to understand the tension in Mel’s face. He put his hand on her arm, and she wanted to pull it away. But he shook his head.
“It’s my mother, Melanie,” he said quietly.
It took Mel a minute to process Henrik’s words. She stared blankly at him and then looked back at the photo. Of course. In her jump to conclusions, she hadn’t noticed that this photo looked too aged to be from the era of his ex-wife. But nothing Henrik had told her about his mother—her cold distance, her religious fervor—had prepared her for the woman that gazed out at her from the photo.
“Oh,” she finally muttered. “She’s beautiful.”
Henrik nodded warily, as if he were wondering where this was going. And then something clicked inside her. A hunch. She wouldn’t speak it aloud, not yet, but she wondered if the same thing had occurred to Henrik.
Stockholm Diaries, Melanie Page 15