Natural Thorn Killer

by Kate Dyer-Seeley

  I knew one thing. Tomorrow I was going to check in with Jon and see if he would tell me what accusations he made about Frank. For the moment my focus had to be on Elin. She was hurting and I had to find a way to break through her steely exterior and talk to her about Eric.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Once we had sent the last of Elin’s students out the front door and picked up the cottage, we headed for home. I kept the conversation light as we drove along the Willamette River. I knew I was going to have to choose my words carefully so as not to betray Nora and to create a space for Elin to open up.

  At her house I offered to make dinner and sent her off to take a bath. I decided to make a Swedish meatball soup. It was a recipe I had created to appease Chad’s bland palate, but it was comforting and homey, which is exactly what I needed for my conversation with Elin. I started by sautéing onions, mushrooms, carrots, celery, red potatoes, and fresh herbs in olive oil. Then I added beef stock and let that simmer while I started on the meatballs. Making meatballs is second nature to me. For the soup I wanted mini meatballs, so I crushed crackers into a mixture of beef and pork and bound it together with an egg. Then I rolled little one-inch meatballs and dropped them into a sizzling pan of oil. Once they had been browned on all over I added them to my soup stock and brought the pot to a boil.

  By the time Elin came downstairs with cheeks rosy from the bath and wrapped in her robe, the soup was ready to serve. I finished it with a splash of heavy cream, fresh chopped rosemary, and black pepper.

  “Hungry?” I asked placing a bowl with a slab of rustic bread in front of her.

  “Famished. This smells wonderful, Britta. What is it?”

  “It’s sort of a mashup recipe. I call it Swedish meatball soup.” I ladled a bowl for myself and joined her at the table.

  She dipped her spoon into the soup. “If it tastes as good as it smells we might have to package this and sell it at Blomma.”

  “Soup and flowers. Hmm? I don’t know about that combination.”

  “Maybe not.” She laughed and blew on her spoon.

  I couldn’t decide how best to steer the conversation toward Eric. Elin and I had been close my entire life, and now sitting across from her I struggled to find the right words. How could I ever thank and repay her for what she had done for me?

  She must have picked up on my unease, because before tasting the soup she gave me a concerned look. “Is something bothering you?”

  Without giving myself time to chicken out, I set my spoon on the table and said, “I know about Eric.”

  Elin’s face dropped. She dumped the soup on her spoon back into her bowl and placed her hand over her heart. “I see.”

  “I’m so sorry, Aunt Elin.”

  “Why would you be sorry, dear? It has nothing to do with you.”

  “It has everything to do with me. You gave up love and marriage for me.”

  She patted her chest. “No, no, never. I didn’t give up a thing. I got you.” Her eyes misted.

  “Why haven’t you ever said anything?”

  She inhaled deeply then took a bite of the soup. “There wasn’t much to say. You were so young when Eric and I parted ways and then later when you were old enough it didn’t matter. It was so long ago and I never wanted you to think exactly what you’re saying now. It wasn’t a choice, Britta. It was always you. Eric knew that. I never hesitated. I never even gave it a thought. When Anna and Diego died it became you and me. We were a team, and nothing was going to tear that apart.”

  “Yes, but you were in love.”

  “I was.” Her voice sounded as misty as the tears forming in her eyes. “Eric will always have a piece of my heart. I admit that, but you are my heart, Britta. To lose everyone you loved and then lose me. No. Never. And this might be hard to believe, but I needed you as much as, if not more than, you needed me.”

  Tears streamed down her face. My eyes were wet too.

  “That was a terrible time. I’ll never forget getting the call.” She reached for her napkin to dab her eyes. “Your mom and I had been shopping the night before. She was helping me pack for London because she was a good sister, but I knew that she didn’t want me to go. She never said anything, but I think that she had reservations about Eric.”

  “Why?” I bit into a hot meatball. It reminded me of childhood dinners enjoyed at this same table. How had I not known that Elin was hurting?

  “Oh it’s hard to put into words. Anna and I weren’t just sisters, as I’ve told you before. She was my best friend, she was my mentor, my confidante, my mom after our parents died too. I wanted to believe that it was that she didn’t want me to be far away from all of you, but with time I think that some of the questions she asked me about Eric were her way of trying to nudge me into reconsidering.”

  I thought about some of the questions Elin had asked me when I first brought up the idea of moving to Minnesota with Chad. She had done the same thing. I remember her saying things like, “Have you considered leaving your friends here in Portland?” and “How does Chad feel about you starting your own shop?” At the time I had figured she was helping me process, but now it was suddenly clear that she’d been worried about me, just like my mom had worried about her.

  “Then a day later they were gone.” She snapped her fingers. “In one terrible moment everything changed, for both of us.”

  Hot tears pooled in my eyes. That day was forever etched in my memory, too. My parents had been on their way home from dinner when a drunk driver slammed into their car, killing them both instantly. Elin had been babysitting me so that they could have an evening away. I remember the sound of her screams and how she dropped to her knees when she got the call. She didn’t have to tell me they were gone. I knew. It was evident by her empty stare and the way that her mouth tried to form the words.

  Now as an adult I could only begin to imagine how hard that must have been for her. How do you tell a child that her entire world has been ripped away from her? How do you begin to mend the pieces of that kind of loss? I wasn’t sure how she had done it, but she had found a way to hold both of us together. She would stroke my hair while I sobbed on her shoulder. Leave little notes on my bedside table and tucked into my lunch box. We celebrated bittersweet holidays like my parents’ birthdays and the anniversary of their death by planting flowers of remembrance in her garden. Their death shaped me, and Elin helped me grow through it—grow with it.

  “Britta, do you know how proud your parents would be of the woman you’ve become? They loved you so much. I’ve always tried to live up to their legacy, but it hasn’t been easy. They left huge shoes to fill.”

  “But you did,” I managed to squeak out between sobs and wiping my dripping nose on the back of my napkin. “You gave me a wonderful life. That’s one of the reasons I feel so bad that I never knew how much you lost too.”

  She reached for my hand. “I don’t know what I lost. I don’t know how it would have turned out with Eric. In hindsight I don’t think he was ready. I think that the accident was a way out for him.”

  “Have you kept in contact?” I knew the answer, but I didn’t want to mention how much Nora had shared. Elin hadn’t questioned how I knew about Eric, but she must have guessed.

  She let my hand go and took a taste of her soup. “Not really. He tried to keep communication open, but it was too hard for me. He’s been in London for years. Many years. I’ve been here. The distance kept our lives separate.” Taking another bite she paused for a moment. “He came this summer though. I don’t know if it was good to see him or if it made things worse.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s never married either. Every year on the anniversary of when he proposed to me, he sends me flowers. It’s the only contact we’ve had. I’ve never responded. You can’t go back in time, and I didn’t see a point in opening an old wound. But I did enjoy knowing that red roses would arrive on my doorstep like a gift from the past every year. I often thought I would know that he had moved on or finall
y married when the roses stopped, but they didn’t.”

  “And then you saw each other in person this summer.”

  She nodded. “I hadn’t seen him in twenty-five years. Twenty-five years is a long time, and yet the minute we met it was as if no time had passed. He was the same as I remember him, maybe a tad grayer around the edges, but I would have recognized him anywhere.” She stared off toward the window and into the night sky for a moment. “Seeing him brought a flood of happy memories back, and the same feelings I had had when I said yes to his proposal. I was twenty-eight years old when your parents died. It’s hard to believe that time trudges on, and yet seeing Eric made me feel young again.”

  I ate my soup and waited for her to say more. It was evident in her body language, the way she kept clutching her heart, and staring longingly into space, that she was still in love with him.

  “But that doesn’t change the fact that we’re in very different places now—literally and figuratively. He’s established in London. He won’t leave, and neither will I. Portland is my home and Blomma is my heart. I think that he has some regrets. That tends to happen as we age. Having a longer lens provides a clearer vision into our past. I got the sense in talking with him that he imagined a different life. I think he would have liked to have married, had children, but the years faded away.”

  I’d never seen Elin like this. I understood why Nora was trying to protect her. Regardless of what my aunt was saying I knew that her heart was tender in a way I had yet to experience. Her body shifted as she spoke about Eric and reflected on the past. Years seemed to slip off her skin. Only a true and intense love could create such transformation. Had I ever felt that way about Chad? I didn’t think so. Which was worse, mediocre love or unrequited love? If we could both capture our love lives in bouquets what would they be? Mine would probably be a vase of cheap, dyed carnations, and Elin’s something red and full of fiery passion.

  “And you?” I almost whispered. “Do you have regrets?”

  She clasped her hands in front of her. “Britta, we all have regrets. Of course I’ve wondered over the years what happened to him and occasionally allowed myself to imagine—fantasize really—what our life might have been like together. But that’s not real. That’s not how the world works.”

  “Are you sure that there’s no chance of a reconciliation? Things are different now. Portland has a direct flight to London. It’s only a ten- or twelve-hour plane ride. I’m here now and can cover the shop while you’re away.”

  “Maybe, but there’s more to consider.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like you. Like Blomma. My life here. What’s the reality of making a long-distance relationship a success? London and Portland, regardless of a direct flight, are almost five thousand miles apart. Trust me, I looked it up many years ago. I don’t know that I want to open myself up to just have my heart broken again.”

  I appreciated her honesty and knew that she was sincere, but part of me wanted to shake her. What was the risk? She had spent the last twenty-five years being heartsick. I wanted her to take a leap. I wanted her to shine, to see her cheeks glow with happiness at the mention of Eric’s name. I couldn’t repay her for taking me in and raising me, but I could nudge her toward finding her own happiness.

  She tapped her spoon on the edge of her bowl. “Eat up. Your soup has probably gone cold.”

  I knew that was her way of dismissing the subject. I would for now, but hearing her talk about Eric made me sure that they were meant to be together. Elin had been there for me, now it was my turn to do the same for her. I didn’t know how, but I knew I was going to find a way to facilitate their romance. And I had a feeling that I would find a willing partner in crime in Nora.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  The next morning was the big day. We had a ton of work to do before we officially opened the cottage to the public. I wanted to talk to Jon, so I made a beeline for Torch the minute I saw him flip on the massive wooden candelabras that flanked his front door.

  Like Nora he had updated his storefront to reflect the changing seasons. Pastel flameless votive candles flickered with warm pink and yellow light. He had arranged them in the shape of tulips.

  “Britta, did you feel your ears burning? You are just the person I wanted to see.” Jon held the door open. He wore another turtleneck, this time a dark navy blue, with jeans that looked as if they had been freshly ironed.

  “Really? What do you need?”

  He swept his hand across the window display. “I’m inviting spring to officially return, and was hoping you might be able to supply me with some living tulips to accompany my little light show. And to be honest I’m ready to win this season’s window contest.”

  “Sure. Do you have color preferences?”

  Jon picked up one of the two-inch votives. From a distance it was impossible to tell that their flames were fake. The gentle battery-operated light flickered like a real flame. Once again I was struck by the contrast of Elin’s and my romances. Hers was a low-burning flame whereas my relationship with Chad had never even sparked. Why had I stuck with a dud? I was tempted to make a dismissive gesture, but realized that Jon was staring at me.

  “Anything with this color scheme will be delightful.” He returned the votive to its spot in the tulip and motioned me to the back. “Come, come. Do tell me what’s new in the world of flowers?”

  “Not much.” I couldn’t make my eyes focus. Torch was a sensory delight. Shimmering crystal chandeliers hung from the exposed wood-beamed ceiling, along with lights carved from deer antlers, rustic iron showstoppers that looked as if they belonged at a feast from the middle ages. Candle holders of all shapes and sizes were displayed by height in collections on deep walnut dressers. The entire far wall was made of rustic barn doors where Jon had mounted shelves to illuminate another assortment of candleholders. It smelled equally as enchanting. There were candles spun from beeswax, hand-dipped in paraffin, and molded into elaborate works of art. From forest pine to Bing cherry there were scents for any mood.

  I stopped and lifted the lid on a candle labeled Spring Rain. Inhaling the scent I was immediately transported to a few days earlier when the storm had rolled through.

  Jon gave me a nod of approval. “Isn’t that wonderful? The candlemaker is local. She believes in using only natural products in her candles. No GMOs or synthetic scents. She’s my best seller. You have exquisite taste, my dear.” His dark bony fingers massaged the top of a lush candle. “Try this.”

  I took the tin he handed me and sniffed it. “Oh, what is that? It’s so familiar.” I stuck my nose closer. “Cloves?”

  “Close. Cardamom and orange essence.”

  “It’s amazing.” I let my nostrils linger on the welcoming scent for a minute before returning the candle. “Your shop is beyond beautiful. I can’t figure out where to look.”

  “You’re not alone.” He moved with lionlike grace. His lanky body skirted past stacked displays with ease. “I love watching first-time customers. Most of the time they don’t even purchase. They spend hours perusing and touching.”

  “But they don’t buy anything?”

  “No, but I never give that a thought. I encourage them to immerse themselves in my world of light that I’ve created. I see it as my responsibility as a light worker to allow them the space to drink it all in. In fact I encourage touching, smelling, and browsing. None of my products are off limits, unless it’s a snotty nosed kid with sticky hands. They might not buy right away, but once they’ve experienced Torch they’ll come back.” He sounded completely sure of himself without being pompous, a tricky thing to pull off.

  “Very wise.” I followed him as he clicked on an antique stained-glass Tiffany lamp and plugged in a string of Edison-style bulbs that lit up the cash register—also vintage.

  “However, I digress. You wanted to see me?”

  “Yeah, I was wondering about Lawren.”

  “Little Miss Mouse.” He lit a candle in a four-inch round
tin. Immediately the smell of fresh-cut grass hit my nose.

  “Is that what you call her?”

  He made a sweeping gesture in the air. “Only in fun. You’ve met the girl, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well am I right, or am I right?” He winked and turned on eighties music. The stylized pop sounds of Michael Jackson’s “Beat It” sounded out of place in the elegant almost museumlike light shop.

  “Don’t like my tunes?” He pretended to be injured. “Listen, dear, I’m a gay black man who lives in Portland—the land of indie alternative music.” He shuddered. “You have to give me something.” He grinned.

  “You won’t get any complaints from me. I love retro music.”

  “Did you just say retro? Out!” He pointed to the door. “Out of my store. Michael Jackson is a classic. Classic. You need to choose your words much more carefully the next time.”

  I laughed. “Sorry. My bad.”

  He strummed his fingers on his chin for a moment. “Fine, I’ll give you a pass this time, but consider this your warning. Understood? Torch is a sacred space when it comes to eighties dance music and show tunes. How do you feel about The Music Man?”

  “Never heard of it.”

  Gasping, he placed the back of his hand on his forehead. “We’re going to have to remedy that aren’t we? Between your aunt and her boring classic music and Nora’s Pearl Jam what is a music-loving man to do?”

  “Like I said at dinner the other night, I’m always up for trying something new. Name the day and I’ll come listen to The Music Man or whatever else strikes your fancy.”

  A funny smile spread across his angular face. “Be careful, my dear, I’ll hold you to that. I have a collection of musicals that would make most Broadway producers green with envy.”