Food.
Mel made her way to the refrigerator and grabbed the first thing she could find: leftover pasta and tomato sauce with a glass of milk. A cold but surprisingly delicious breakfast food under the circumstances.
She fixed herself some coffee and sat back in her chair. The story was complete—she finally had all the pieces of her father’s life. Whether or not the woman her father had loved was Henrik’s mother, Mel was sure that it wasn’t her own mother. This is why he had left, and this is what had prompted him to isolate himself: He loved a woman who wouldn’t or couldn’t be with him.
After his failed attempt to move on with Mel and her mother, he gave up on that idea, too. Instead, he wrote beautiful poems, poems about love, loss and loneliness. As art, they were remarkable, even if none of the poems had anything to do with Mel’s life.
That was the bottom line, wasn’t it? That’s what had upset her when Henrik had first presented the idea that her father’s love poems weren’t about her mother.
And now she was supposed to write this man’s biography?
Mel stood up. She had to write. Her deadline was coming. She walked into her office and sat down. Mel opened her laptop and stared at the screen, trying to muster up some sort of enthusiasm for the project. Henrik’s chair was empty.
God, she wanted him here. She needed his help, and not just for translation. Writing her father’s life was too personal to do on her own. She needed him with her.
No. She wouldn’t let herself go further with those thoughts, not now. She stood up and walked out of the room.
Mel wandered through the cabin, much like she had the first day, taking everything in, until she came to a stop in front of her father’s bedroom door. It was time to look.
She took a step into the room and stopped. During the whole summer, she had only been in here a few times. She looked around at the sparse room and tried to imagine who would live in a place like this. Someone who wanted to live in the past?
She walked across the room to the rough, wooden dresser and began opening the drawers from top to bottom. She took each pile of clothes out and placed them in the center of the room. She had no idea what she’d do with this inventory of t-shirts, socks and neatly folded work pants, but she wanted to see these last parts of her father that remained. She worked her way down the dresser, examining each article before adding it to the growing pile.
But when she opened the final drawer, she didn’t find clothing. Instead, it was stuffed with photos and letters. Unlike the neat stacks of photos and journals in his desk, this drawer was a mess. And completely out of character for her father—even she knew that much about him—a mess of loose ends hidden away in the bottom of a dresser.
Why did he leave me all of this?
Her father hadn’t planned to die. It probably wasn’t meant for anyone else, but now it was hers. Mel sat down on the floor next to the dresser and began taking out the photos and letters, inspecting each one. There were old black and white photos, bent at the edges with faded writing on the back as well as more recent shots from places that were certainly not Sweden.
She took them out, one by one, until her hand stopped, mid-air. Mel’s own face was staring up at her next to her mother’s. The picture was fairly recent, from the summer after her freshman year in college, if she remembered correctly. The photo was taken on the porch swing in her grandmother’s back yard. But what struck Mel most about the photo was that both she and her mother looked happy.
She had no doubt now that it was her grandmother who had sent it, but why this particular photo, one that included her mother as well? Mel flipped over the photo, but nothing was written on the back. Was this a message for her father? It seemed to say, don’t worry; everything turned out okay. Was that true? Mel wasn’t so sure. She set the photo aside and turned back to the drawer.
She dug further, and in the middle of the loose pile she found a stack of letters bundled in twine. The careful, elegant curve of each word itself felt like a relic of the past. Slowly she untied the twine and opened the first letter. Of course, the page in front of her meant nothing—aside from some dates and a few names, the text was a mystery. Again. She turned the letter over and scanned to the bottom. There she found a name: Ann-Kathrin. The name meant nothing to her. They had never come across it when reading the journals. But maybe it meant something to Henrik.
Mel looked down at the letter in her hand. Did she even want to know what was written in it? She had poured over personal letters when researching her other book, but this time, just looking at one felt… wrong. Like she was peeking in on someone else’s intimate scene. Did she really want to find anything more? His journals were already too much to take in. She had lost all objective distance from her subject.
Mel stood up, letting the pile of photos on her lap fall to the floor. She needed to think a little more before she continued. It was time to clear her head with a swim.
She changed into her bikini, grabbed her towel and ran down to the dock. For the first time, she was glad the water would be cold. The Baltic Sea welcomed her, enveloping her in the frigid blanket that took over her senses and smothered all other thoughts. She swam out this time, towards the mouth of the little cove, and then headed back in. Her arms shook as she pulled herself up the ladder, but she didn’t care.
Mel didn’t notice Jonas until she was back on the shore.
“Melanie?”
Her heart jumped—he said her name the way Henrik did.
“Hi,” she said, trying to keep her teeth from chattering.
“You look cold,” he said, chuckling. “Yesterday, Alice came home from your place so happy. She’s in town right now, but she told me that if I saw you, I should invite you over for dinner this Friday. We’re having some other North Americans over as well. You and Henrik could come?”
“Right… Henrik,” she sighed.
She had no idea when she would see Henrik again. As if she needed another reminder of this. She tried to think of a response to Jonas’s invitation.
But as if by some sort of magical summoning, when Mel looked up onto her deck, she saw him there. Was it him? She closed her eyes and looked again. Henrik was still there, arms crossed and looking too surly to be a figment of her imagination.
“Thanks. We’d love to come,” she said to Jonas. She had no idea if Henrik would agree, but she was no longer thinking about the dinner. It was taking all her will power to not turn and run up to her deck.
Jonas glanced up in that direction and then laughed.
“It looks like he’s waiting for you.”
Mel’s cheeks flushed, and she rolled her eyes. Henrik’s impatience would have irritated her under any other circumstances, but right now, she didn’t care about anything else except the fact that he was standing on her porch.
She said goodbye to Jonas without turning her head and started up the hill to the deck, telling herself not to run. Her legs shook as she grew closer, though she wasn’t sure if it was from the cold or the excitement.
“H-H-H-Henrik,” she said, unable to keep her teeth from chattering.
His eyes widened. He took the steps two at a time and met her at the bottom, wrapping his arms around her tightly.
“My God, you’re cold,” he said, and she felt his lips on the top of her head. “Let’s go inside.”
“You c-c-came back,” she whispered. “I didn’t think you would.”
“I’m so sorry,” he said, squeezing her tighter. “I couldn’t stay away.”
He ushered her in and then turned her around to face him.
“Take off your swimsuit and get in bed,” he said gruffly. “No clothes.”
“H-h-h-ello to you, too,” she said, “You don’t sound s-s-s-o mad anymore.”
Her teeth were chattering even more violently now. Henrik gave an exasperated sigh.
“I’m going to warm you up, Melanie. Your lips are blue,” he said, but the corners of his mo
uth tugged up into a little smile. “So take off your clothes.”
He turned and walked into the kitchen while she stripped down and crawled under the covers. It didn’t help much. The sheets felt cold and rough against her skin, and her body was too cold to warm them up. She pulled the blanket up to her neck and watched as Henrik filled the kettle with water and placed it on the stove.
He turned back and walked over to her bed. He tugged off his white t-shirt and unbuttoned his jeans, letting them fall to the floor so that he was now naked except for his boxers. He stood there for a moment, watching her with an intensity that sparked a hint of warmth in her shivering body. She drew in her breath. My God, she had missed him.
He closed his eyes for a beat and then lifted the covers. He crawled into bed next to her, drawing her body up against his. She could feel his muscles twitch and tense under the onslaught of cold, but he didn’t let go. She pressed herself against his warm skin, tangling her feet with his, trying to reach for more of his heat. Gently, he turned her so her back was against his front, fitting her into his body. Both arms encircled her, and he held her frosty hands in his.
“It’s better this way,” he whispered in her ear. “Warmer.”
They lay still together, the heat from his body radiating into her.
“I’m sorry, Henrik. All that stuff with your m-m-mother—I was being selfish. I wasn’t thinking about what you were feeling,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”
“Shhh,” he said, kissing her neck.
“I messed up,” she said. “Badly.”
“This is part of a relationship, right? Mistakes and forgiveness.”
She felt the words in his chest as much as she heard them. As she relaxed, her body melted into his. They could discuss what had happened later. Just being close was enough for now.
His warm skin was as distracting as it was enticing. She struggled to press her lower back closer to his stomach, and he let out a little groan.
Oh. That’s why he had kept some distance there. Now she could feel his erection hard against her.
“You’ll just have to ignore that,” he said, chuckling softly. “I’m trying to.”
She grinned and turned her head so she could see him.
“Maybe that’s what I need to warm up.”
Henrik shook his head.
“Where’s your sense of self-preservation?” he asked, kissing her on top of her head. “Besides, as much as lying in bed with you turns me on, you look really cold.”
She was still shivering, as though the heat couldn’t reach the core of her body.
“You don’t have to take care of me,” she said quietly. “You know that, don’t you?”
His smile faded a little.
“What if I want to sometimes?”
Was it so bad to have someone take care of her? Why did she resist the idea, even at a moment when it felt so good? She swallowed.
“Sometimes it feels good,” she whispered and smiled a little.
The kettle began to whistle, and Henrik slipped out of bed to take it off the stove. He pulled a mug out of the cabinet and found a teabag on the top shelf. She watched him as he moved, still looking more comfortable in her cabin than she was.
When he turned back with the steaming cup in his hand, she couldn’t suppress her smile: Sexy, almost-naked Henrik, aroused, carefully trying not to spill the tea.
He stopped and looked down at her.
“Are you laughing at me?”
“Never,” she snickered.
He tried for his most overbearing look, though his mouth twitched in amusement.
“Do I need to teach you how to appreciate my help?”
Mel gave him a lewd smile, trying to keep her still-chattering teeth under control.
“Don’t worry,” she said, letting her gaze travel down his body. “I’m having no trouble ap-p-ppreciating you.”
Henrik let out a snort of laughter, and a splash of tea hit the floor.
“It’s hard to take those comments seriously when you’re still too cold to get a sentence out straight.”
He set the mug beside the bed and sat down next to her.
“I think you’ll feel a lot better if you drink something hot,” he said, running his hand over her lips, which were probably still pale, if not blue. “If you sit up, I’ll warm you from behind.”
And then he smiled. Just those words heated her core a little. Mel made room for him to sit down against the end of the daybed. He reached for her as she sat between his legs, urging her back against the warm muscles of his chest. She closed her eyes when she felt his lips on her neck.
“My God, I’ve missed you,” he whispered.
“Me, too,” she said as the heat from his skin covered her once again. “I was so worried you wouldn’t come back.”
He reached down and handed her the tea, and she drank small sips, enjoying the path of warmth that the liquid made inside of her. His arms came around her sides and held her against him, and he rested his cheek in her hair.
At this moment, there was nothing more that Mel wanted. This was what satisfaction felt like. The kind of satisfaction she had been afraid of all her life. The kind she had always believed wouldn’t last.
“Where’s your mother?” she asked.
Henrik chuckled. “That certainly wasn’t what I was thinking about.”
Mel laughed.
“She’s taking a nap,” said Henrik. “Actually, I came over to invite you to fika—like English tea—with us this afternoon.”
His voice had taken on a more serious tone, and when she didn’t respond immediately, he continued, “I didn’t tell her you were Björn’s daughter, Melanie. I only told her that I—I met someone, and I wanted her to meet you.”
Mel nodded slowly.
“She’s very curious. You see, since my divorce, I swore to her I’d never get involved with anyone again. So this should be interesting.”
“Oh,” she said softly. “Are we involved?”
He looked at her for a few more seconds before he answered.
“I don’t know about you, but I certainly am.”
She leaned over to set her mug back on the floor. She turned around and kissed one of the broad, muscular shoulders that had rested against hers.
“I’m so sorry I made it sound like I was threatening you with the book,” she whispered. “I know this is personal and sensitive for you, just like this whole project is personal and sensitive for me. And I didn’t apologize. I can’t get over that.”
Mel watched Henrik’s face as she spoke, but he showed no sign of even registering what she was saying. More silence. Finally, Mel lifted her hand and ran it down the bare muscles of his side. Henrik’s eyes closed and his lips parted. He placed his own hand over hers and held it there. He took a deep breath.
“These are people’s lives, Melanie—my mother’s, my father’s, mine. We’re not just characters in your father’s life. Your research has consequences beyond just the book.”
She knew this; people’s lives held secrets, secrets that could hurt others. But she had been so focused on the discoveries she personally needed that she hadn’t fully considered how much this affected Henrik as well.
“I told you that my mother doesn’t believe in affairs or divorce. Even after all these years of living apart from my father, they’re still married.”
He was going to try to discuss this. It was more than she had hoped for. Mel smiled a little and looked at him again. He was willing to try for her, even after she had messed up.
“But if your mother was the one my father wrote about,” she said, “it doesn’t have to mean that they acted on it. This could have been his… fantasy, right?”
Now the discussion was getting into uncomfortable territory for her. Though her memory of her father was hazy, she had no desire to discuss his fantasies. Going by the look on his face, Henrik seemed to be feeling the same way.
�
�Look,” she said quickly, “doesn’t it make sense? He wrote those poems in the years right after he met you and your mother that summer. And they may have stayed away from each other all those years because she didn’t believe in affairs or divorce. You said she hadn’t come out here to the island for years—why now?”
She looked up at Henrik again, his mouth pulled down into a frown. He didn’t look angry anymore. She recognized his emotion from her own repertoire: betrayal.
Mel took another breath and then said, “If she was the one, and if she cared for my father, too, his death is probably painful for her, even after all these years.”
The last of Henrik’s reserve fell away, leaving only pain. That’s what she had seen through all these discussions—sadness and pain. Mel gently pulled him down so they were lying next to each other again, face to face. She stroked his cheeks, his neck, his shoulders until his expression softened.
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” she said.
Henrik frowned.
“My mother’s life could have been so much better without me,” he said.
Without him. If it weren’t for him, his mother would have been able to love someone, to be happy. Instead, his mother spent her life tied to a man she didn’t love. This was the simple truth he believed, the idea that had guided his life, his relationships, everything. Whether or not it was true, he had spent his life under the weight of this idea.
“You’ve never talked with her about it, have you?”
He shook his head.
“I think you should, but not for me,” said Mel. “Now I regret I never once, in all these years, even tried to contact my father. To ask.”
She tried to gauge Henrik’s reaction, but he avoided her eyes.
“She decided, Henrik. She might have had reasons for staying with your father that went beyond religion or obligation.”
Henrik was silent. If he was anything like her, his anger had probably stopped him from thinking through any of this rationally.
“Maybe,” he finally said, but he looked doubtful. “Why dig up all this past?
“I won’t. I won’t ask about it. I don’t want to hurt you. I’ll try my hardest not to.”
Stockholm Diaries, Melanie Page 20