Chapter 15 #3
“You didn’t see him when I found him. He was nothing but skin, bones, and matted fur. No one would have been able to guess how dapper he would become in time. Hard to believe he lived under my bed until you came along.”
I can’t control my countenance. Copenhagen Sabrina would know Pjuske’s story, and Nikolai will think I’m a nutcase.
But it doesn’t make sense. I am hardly a cat whisperer; I’ve never even considered owning a pet before.
Shuffling a cat or a dog from one job to the next, one country to the next, is a larger headache than I’d want to take on.
“I know you don’t believe me, but until the day you moved in, he wanted nothing to do with mankind. You showed him people are worth trusting.”
Pjuske, as if to illustrate his point, climbs into my lap, takes one turn before settling in, and purrs like an outboard motor.
Despite the coziness I feel here, I still feel waves of tension dispelling as I absorb the cat’s vibrations.
He is the very embodiment of trust and affection.
For reasons I can’t define, the threat of tears pricks the corners of my eyes.
I snuggle the cat closer. “I’m glad you were able to keep him.”
Nikolai reaches over to scratch between Pjuske’s ears, and he, too, is rewarded with the slow blinks that denote trust and affection in a cat.
“Yes. It took a little convincing for my parents to allow him here, but in the end, he does less damage to the property than holiday renters. Speaking of which, Dad says he’ll be by shortly to see about the tile in your bathroom.
Having this place on Vrbo for so many years took a bit of a toll. ”
The place looks pristine to me, but I haven’t seen the whole flat yet. “Oh, that’s great. Thank you.”
More key information unlocked: The flat is owned by his family, which I hope means a steep discount on rent. I feel marginally less guilty about the arrangement now. Though I do wonder if I should offer to help with the cost of any repairs since it seems I’m not paying rent.
Also key: Nikolai referenced my bathroom, which implies we don’t share one.
And if we don’t share a bathroom, I think it’s safe to infer our sleeping quarters are separate as well.
So I have to assume we’re not an item. If we are, it’s still early days and we’re taking things slowly by sharing only the common spaces of the flat, like the kitchen and the living room.
An unusual arrangement, but it will be easier for me to fit in than if I were trying to be an impostor in a committed relationship that’s had months to develop.
And I do feel like a bit of an impostor in my own life.
Nikolai crosses to the fridge and produces a miniature Jordbaertaerte—strawberry tart—that is simply the strawberriest thing I’ve ever tasted.
The dark chocolate and marzipan can’t compete with the berries, and it’s like they decided to accept their role as support flavors.
Dad used to wax poetic about summer strawberries in Denmark, but it wasn’t just the rose-colored glasses of youth and nostalgia that fueled his description.
They really are juicier and more flavorful than any specimen I’ve tasted before.
Pjuske sniffs at the confection out of curiosity, but astonishingly, he doesn’t attempt to sample Nikolai’s handiwork. It’s like he understands the rules he must follow to be allowed table privileges.
“You have to charge me rent,” I declare at length. “I can’t think of what else I can teach you.” I don’t break eye contact with the dessert, as though I’m afraid it will wander off my plate.
He laughs and places a hand on my knee. “Never. And my parents wouldn’t hear of it. They could never charge the daughter of their favorite old school chum.”
I exhale. They knew Dad? I want to pelt Nikolai with questions.
How had they known him? For how long? Longer than I had, obviously, since they had to have met him before I was born.
I shove down a small pang of jealousy that they’d been able to know him in his prime while I had not.
I don’t remember him speaking of his life here beyond the typical childhood reminiscences and lavish descriptions of the restaurant scene.
He hadn’t mentioned any friends so dear they would offer his daughter free lodging.
And I just happen to work at the same restaurant as their son? The coincidence seems remarkable that I would stumble over these people on my first-ever trip to my father’s homeland. Deep down, I know that the connection to my father is exactly why I’ve stayed away.
For years I’ve wondered if every tall, blond man would remind me of Dad.
Would I feel his stoic presence in the storied, historic buildings of the old town or his vibrant energy in the brightly colored facades of the trendy neighborhoods?
Would I look for him around every corner and feel that familiar ache when I realized it was just another stranger?
But clearly there are people here who aren’t strangers. They are friends I never knew I had.