Stockholm Hero

by RJ Griffith

  “Miss?”

  Amy turned back toward the towering man in a suit, feeling embarrassment warm her face. “Hi, I’m Amy Bath. I have an appointment with Mr. Lundahl,” she croaked.

  “Yes. Please come in.” He opened the door wide and waited for her to climb up the stairs. “May I take your…er…things?”

  “No, thanks.” Amy shouldered the bag a little higher.

  “Mr. Lundahl wishes for you to wait in the library. Please follow me.”

  Amy shed her shoes at the door and placed a pair of house slippers from the rack onto her feet. They were much too large, and she had to shuffle across the smooth flooring to keep up with the butler. This house could engulf my high-school.

  Paintings adorned the walls, mostly oil.

  The feel of the knife slicing through the heavy paint as she worked the colors into an even blend and spread against the blank canvas made her muscles clench. The deep, thick, smell of drying paint drifted against the earliest memories of her mother. Painting always felt like coming home, to watch the colors blend and become a scene captured for all time. If only she’d stuck with her art instead of abandoning the canvases unfinished, like all her other projects.

  “You can wait here. Mr. Lundahl will be in shortly.”

  “Thank you.” Amy sank onto a low, white couch. It seemed a bit modern for the rest of the house. Several of the paintings that clung to the closest wall jostled her memory. Amy rose from the couch and moved closer. She recognized the long, fluid brush strokes blooming from the center of the canvas. The artist’s scrawl, in the lower right-hand corner confirmed her suspicions. Mom hasn’t worked in oil for over twenty years. I’ve never even seen a print of this painting. Another thought weaseled its way into her mind. What if he knew about me all along…what if he doesn’t want me?

  “That is one of my favorite paintings. Do you like it? A woman I once knew painted it for me a very long time ago.” The man in the doorway stood tall. Time had not yet bent his frame, and he possessed handsomeness within his stern features.

  “Hello.” Amy scuffed across the floor and stretched out her hand. “My name is Amy Bath. My mother is Abigail Bath.” Her mouth went dry. “I’m your daughter.”

  His grip slackened and their hands parted.

  “I have no daughter.” He placed his hands behind his back and walked across the room. “I have been a bachelor my entire life. I chose not to weigh myself down with empty relationships in order to build my company. Be honest.” He turned and pointed a finger toward her. His face didn’t betray any shock or anger. “You are simply trying to exploit me for my money.”

  “No, I came here because I wanted to meet my father. A piece of my life has been missing since…since forever. Do you know what it’s like to grow up not knowing who your father is? I’ve watched countless friends get married and dance with their dad, understanding I would never get to do that.” A tear trickled down her face. Amy pushed it away, determined to finish. “I flew all the way to Sweden to meet you. I spent my life savings. I’m not here for your money. I want to…I don’t know…have a little closure. But I see…Mom was right.” She moved toward the hall.

  “Stop.”

  Amy halted. Her cheeks were moist with tears.

  “What was your mother right about?”

  She steeled her nerves and turned around. “Whenever I asked her about my father she would say, “It’s not meant to be, kiddo. Leave it alone.” Amy continued toward the front door. She placed the house slippers back on the rack and pushed her feet into her shoes.

  “Miss Bath, come back. I need time to think this over. I invited you here under the impression you wished to speak about your mother’s art with me. Because of the photograph I found at the gala, I thought you were a reporter of some kind, researching Abigail’s background.”

  Amy dabbed her eyes. The Biblical Ruth left her country to be with her mother-in-law after her husband died. Ruth finished what she started. Amy turned back. She would see this meeting through.

  Amy slept the night in a room larger than the apartment she grew up in. The house was quiet and immaculate. Even the staff seemed to tiptoe from room to room, not wanting to break the silence surrounding them. She almost wished to be back at her mom’s place sleeping under a dozen cats, clean laundry piled on the chair and the television left on for background noise. The mansion sat so far away from the main road that Amy couldn’t even hear the hum of traffic outside. Eventually, she dozed off into a fitful sleep.

  She awoke at the bottom of the queen-sized bed with the pillows and blankets piled on top of her. She missed home. She’d fantasized about meeting her father so many times. Reality stinks. She tossed the pillows onto the floor, punched in Miranda’s number, and studied the new, pink skin knitting itself in place underneath her bandage. Archer had done a good job wrapping it. She brushed her finger lightly against the burn. It still stung.

  “Hello? Hello?”

  Amy jolted. “Oh, sorry, Mere. It’s me.”

  “Hey, Amy. How’s it going?”

  “I did it.”

  A loud squeal made Amy momentarily pull the phone from her ear.

  “Amy, you did it! You met your dad. How does it feel?”

  “Different.”

  “Like a good different?”

  “Don’t get me wrong. I’m really glad I followed through.”

  “Spill it.”

  “He…he thought I wanted to exploit him for his money. Truth is, I don’t think he believes it’s possible he’s a father.” Amy felt her emotions rise. “I don’t think he ever wanted any kind of family. He said his company is his life.”

  “Amy, let him sit on it for a while. You’ve been building this moment up your whole life, and he found out about it yesterday. Put yourself in his shoes.”

  Amy sniffed. “You always know what to say, Mere. How are things going for you?”

  “Ah, work is work. I like it, though. School dance season is in full swing. We got our newest shipment of gowns last week, and I’ve been steaming them for the last two days. It’s all gemstone colors this year.”

  “When are you going to buy that dress shop and start designing your own line?” Amy smiled thinking of Miranda living out her own dream.

  “I know you hate it when I say this, but it’s all in God’s timing.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that, Mere.”

  “Really?”

  “Don’t get too excited. This trip has me thinking about a lot of things, and maybe God is one of them. If He exists,” she added hastily. “Oh, something else happened that I forgot to tell you about. I went on a date with a crazy man.”

  “Amy, what on earth possessed you to go out with a random guy you met in a foreign country?”

  “I thought he was cute, even with the weird tooth etching.”

  “What?” Amy pictured Miranda pressing her fist against her forehead, a gesture she reserved especially for Amy.

  “And I think he had some sort of toupee or wig on,” Amy threw in, trying not to chuckle at her friend.

  “Amy Bath!”

  “Don’t worry, Mere. He’s long gone. Mere? Mere? Hello?” Amy frowned as her phone flashed its logo and blinked off. The battery must be dead, I’ll plug it in and call Miranda back later. I’m starving.

  She tossed the phone into her bag and wandered down the empty hallway, determined to find the kitchen.

  10

  The steady beat of his feet against the pavement. The cold wind sliding past his face. The deep breaths of frigid air biting at his lungs. Archer loved the clarity running long distances brought him. This is where he did all his best thinking, and today he needed to find a solution to the way he felt about this blonde streak of lightning that flashed into his life.

  He picked up his pace as he rounded the corner. After a few miles, stress began to ebb from his limbs, replaced by pure energy. His thoughts wandered back to Amy, and an ache pressed in his chest. He had been waiting for God to bring him th
e right woman. But he barely knew her. He had never felt this strongly about anyone, but the way she bristled when he mentioned God told him he’d better put his feelings aside.

  He checked his watch. Faster than usual. He turned onto his street and slowed to a walk, systematically stretching out the muscles in his arms and legs. He took the door to the stairs as the elevator clicked down to the lobby. Finishing by climbing the stairs gave him an extra push before the end of his workout.

  Archer opened the door to his level and walked toward his apartment. The scrap of paper hugged the door frame, exactly where he put it before he left with Amy. He would feel better when Mrs. Eberline arrived home from vacation. No one came or went without her knowing about it.

  Tolstoy perched on the back of the couch and scrutinized Archer.

  “She’s not with me.” Archer pulled the door shut and walked over to the tan lump of fur. “She got to you too, eh?” He scratched Tolstoy under the chin. “The past two days feel like a week and a half at least, boy.” Archer switched on the coffee pot and headed for the shower. Work wouldn’t expect him until evening. Fresh coffee in hand, he lifted the open Bible and scanned the page. The book of Ruth. Perhaps Amy had ventured a peek.

  The familiar story took on a new meaning today. Ruth had put Boaz in quite a position. She, a previously married foreigner, destitute and living with her mother, came to him for help. Had Amy understood the meaning of a kinsman redeemer?

  Dear God, be with Amy today as she gets to know her father. Call her heart to You. Please let this situation with the Butcher of Sweden come to a close and give me strength to do my job the best I can. Thank You for allowing Amy to come into my life to teach me to trust You through any temptation. Amen.

  Archer showered, dressed, and headed to work. Pulling two late shifts back to back didn’t bother him much. He liked the quiet of the late shift. It also gave him a chance to check on the night security guards and make sure they were up to his standards. By the time Archer headed home, the sun rose into a cloudless sky. Today would be beautiful. Archer pushed his keys into his apartment lock and yawned.

  “Hello, Archer.” A familiar face peeked from the neighboring doorway.

  “Mrs. Eberline, you’re back. How did your vacation go? Are all your grandchildren getting bigger?”

  “Oh, yes.” The woman’s creased features reminded him of his grandmother. She pulled the door wide open. “All hugs and smiles and ‘we want you to live with us, Mormor.” She chuckled. “I love seeing them, and I love to come home to a quiet house.”

  Archer nodded and turned his key.

  “Speaking of family, you missed your cousin. I let him in earlier this morning. He said you were supposed to meet him at your apartment. He reminded me of my son with those Swedish good looks, although he had something wrong with one of his teeth—the front one.” She tapped her fingernail against her tooth. “Anyway, I heard the door open, not two minutes ago. He probably got tired of waiting for you and left.”

  Archer shoved the door open. “Have a good day, Mrs. Eberline. I’m glad to have you back.” The lights glowed overhead. Archer un-holstered his gun and did a sweep of the apartment. Empty.

  A photograph lay in the middle of his coffee table. He picked it up by the corner edge. It showed Amy stepping past him into the cab yesterday morning. A dark scrawl etched the bottom of the photo.

  I’ve finally found your weakness.

  11

  Amy walked down the sweeping stairs to the main hallway.

  A woman brushed a duster across a spotless shelf.

  “Excuse me. Where is the kitchen?”

  “Oh, miss. You startled me. If you follow me, I will take you there.” The woman tucked the duster away and walked Amy away from the main door and down another hallway.

  “What kind of employer is Mr. Lundahl?” Amy couldn’t bring herself to say Dad. It didn’t fit.

  “He is a firm man, but fair. Here we are. I’m sure the cook can prepare whatever you wish.” The woman bobbed her head and walked back toward the front of the house.

  Setting two dark-brown loaves onto the counter, the cook turned to her. “Are you the new assistant that Mr. Lundahl hired for me? You’re rather scrawny,” he said in a thick French accent.

  “No, actually I’m…here as a guest.”

  “American? Yes, that’s it.” He regarded her attire. “I’ll never understand why Americans choose to wear athletic wear when they aren’t exercising. The dining room is through those doors there.” He waved a spatula to the left. “I will have someone bring out breakfast shortly. If I can find anyone.”

  Amy sat down at the enormous table. A fire crackled in the hearth behind her. The windows allowed one to look at the gardens to the rear of the house. A patch of trees in the back retained a few colorful leaves. The blue, cloudless sky promised a lovely day.

  “Good morning, Amelia. I trust you slept well.”

  “Hello, Dad…um…I mean, sir, Mr. Lundahl? I guess I should ask what you prefer. I didn’t exactly plan much of this.”

  He held up his hand to stop her rambling. “Mr. Lundahl will do for now. After extensive research last night, I find your claims to be less far-fetched than I’d previously thought.”

  “You don’t trust me?” Amy bristled. “Why else would anyone fly all the way to Sweden on their life savings?”

  “I am a rich man. Yes, time has been good to me over the years. I am careful not to love anyone too deeply. This company is my passion, my life. I cannot allow anything to come in and jeopardize it.”

  She stared at her plate containing a hardboiled egg and a blue tube with a red cap. It reminded her of super glue. She squeezed some near the egg. A salty fish smell tickled her nose. Caviar. “Did you love my mother?” She sampled the paste and grimaced.

  “Abigail…” He sighed. “For a time I felt as though I could live without all my wealth in that little shack her parents owned on the bay and be happy to watch her paint, live a simple life. After my own parents brought me back to my senses, I saw the truth of the matter…a harmless fling.”

  Amy winced.

  “I still collect her art from time to time. I’m sure you saw the one hanging in the library. She painted it for me that summer. I like to think I inspired her.” He unfolded his paper and chuckled.

  Amy wanted to toss her sliced brown bread, egg, and caviar at the front page of his newspaper. Perhaps even shout at the top of her lungs. How could someone be so arrogant? How could she have thought this man could ever give her closure and a sense of direction in life? No wonder her mother never spoke of him. He is so selfish! Am I that selfish? She loosened her death grip on the fork and knife, set them down, and drained her water glass in one gulp. What do I do now?

  “I have a busy day ahead of me. Feel free to explore the house as you wish. I will have the doctor come by and draw your blood a little later in the day.”

  “Draw my blood? What for?”

  He turned the page. “The DNA test. I can’t take your word for it. I need proof. I’m a very rich…”

  “You said that already.” The color drained from Amy’s face as she clenched her fists under the table. “I need to go for a walk. I don’t think I’m hungry anymore.”

  “Very well, but please make sure you are back at eleven for the doctor. I don’t want to have to pay for a house call twice.” He turned the page again.

  Amy stood, tucked the chair against the table, and strode to her room. She plunked her bag onto the bed and stuffed her pajamas back into it. Tears pooled. Packing could wait. She needed some distance to think. That grove of trees with leaves turning…she would sketch it in colored pencil. She dug deep into her bag and snatched up the freshly bought pencil case and paper tablet that she’d purchased at the airport. Her intention had been to make an attempt at her art after a happy reunion with her father. Now she needed a distraction.

  The grounds were immaculately groomed until the little grove. Everything seemed to go wild beyond th
e border of the lawn

  I wonder if this is even part of his estate.

  Amy settled against a broad birch tree and tugged her coat around her neck. The sting felt good nipping at her fingers and nose, a pleasant distraction from her current pain. She sketched an outline of a tree bough dipping low, covered in crimson and gold leaves. The light splayed its fingers though the branches, dotting the ground in splashes of light. The ache in her heart flowed to her pencil as she sketched and shaded the scene. What would her mother have said about today? The last conversation she’d had with her mother was before she’d left on this trip.

  “Amelia, I’ve been thinking about the past.” Her mother gave the canvas a blue-green wash with a wide brush.

  While you’ve been thinking, I’ve been buying tickets. “What are you painting today?”

  “Oh, it’s a commission I’m doing for the city. Cityscape isn’t my favorite scene, but they were very generous. The picture you found…Amy, it brought back memories—rather regrets—I have about the past.”

  This conversation—a week too late—did nothing to sway her resolve. “The last cityscape you painted… Bozeman? I liked it.”

  Abagail dipped her brush into the diluted color again. “Yes, I painted it while teaching at the college there.” She turned to face Amy. “Amy, are you listening to me? What is going on with you? Last week you wouldn’t leave me alone about that photo, and now you’re pretending as if you don’t care.” Abigail whipped her hand across her mouth, leaving a blue-green streak on her chin.

  Amy smiled despite her frustration. She picked up a rag and dabbed at the mark. “This isn’t about you, Mom. I need to know. I’ve always needed to know.”

  “I’m not like you, Amelia. I have to think things through. You’re so much like your…”