3. Viggo #2
For someone who spent his days in the yard or in the field with felled trees that once scraped the sky, the contrasting clatter of heavy machinery in the warehouse was jarring.
Scaffolding and metal ladders lined the perimeter while forklifts and six specialized workstations anchored the main area.
An old Eagles song was piping through the speaker system, which meant Ted had control of the tunes.
I strode by the shelves of lumber arranged from floor to ceiling according to type, size, and stage of treatment, and stopped in my tracks at the sight of Dexter in a hard hat, licking icing from his fingers like one of the crew. Like he belonged here.
What the fuck was he doing?
Lyle held up an apple fritter and motioned for me to join the impromptu party. As established, I didn’t like crowds, but I had no choice. I had to get to the bottom of this.
“Thank you,” I muttered, taking the fritter and a napkin.
I bit into it and nearly let out an orgasmic groan of approval. These things were other-worldly delicious. Crispy outside, light and fluffy inside with chunks of sweet apple, and covered in the perfect amount of icing. Not too much, not too little.
It was so good that I might have closed my eyes for a beat. When I resurfaced, Dexter was staring at me intently.
“You like fritters?” he asked, sidling close.
Ding ding ding ding.
Ja, he definitely wanted something.
I stepped aside, nodding brusquely. “Yes.”
“Me too. They’re one of my favorites, actually.
My family owned an apple orchard in Michigan years ago.
My brother and I used to climb trees and pluck fruit and afterward, we’d get treated to cider and fritters for a job well done.
We didn’t realize till we were older that fancy machines did the real work.
” Dexter chuckled softly, his eyes crinkling at a far-off memory.
“Apple cider always reminds me of simpler times and fritters are right up there with french fries in my book.”
Mine too, I thought, charmed in spite of myself.
I had a similar story…different place. My family owned a farm in Sweden.
We’d spent many summer days picking blueberries, lingonberries, and wild strawberries.
Our hands and mouths had been stained in blues and reds, our knees scraped from kneeling on the ground.
Of course I didn’t share any of that.
I grunted and took another bite. “Good.”
He smiled, undeterred. “I’m glad you like it. I’m Dexter, by the way. I’ve seen you around town, but I don’t think we’ve ever met.”
I frowned, my neck prickling with uneasy awareness. I wasn’t a fool and I didn’t believe in coincidence, but this was awkward. I was trapped with the hot donut man, and I didn’t know the first thing about being…friendly. Or more accurately, fake friendly.
“I’m—”
“This is Big V. Sometimes we call him Thor,” Ted intercepted, looping his arm on my shoulder.
Our height difference gave the gesture comedic flair.
Ted was six inches shorter than me and skinny as a post due to a recent battle with a bad virus.
The older man was good-natured albeit a crusty sort who swore like a sailor and had a habit of mooning over his glory days when he’d been called the Paul Bunyan of Wood Hollow. Or so he claimed.
Dexter’s smile wavered slightly as though he were irritated by Ted’s interruption.
So I was right. He wanted to talk to me. Problem: I had no idea how to assure Dexter that I was the last person he’d have to worry about blabbing his secret while surrounded by my coworkers.
I stared at Dexter instead, willing him to read my mind. He stared right back, and fuck…that was weird, too. Was he trying to tell me something?
Eventually, I grunted, took a huge bite of fritter, and walked away.
I thought about that staring contest most of the afternoon. The poor guy seemed desperate somehow, and that didn’t sit well with me. As much as I hated the idea of discussing something innately personal, it was wrong to let him worry about it. I was going to have to deal with the donut man.
Later that evening, I practiced my speech while I stirred vegetables on the stove. I’d decided it was best to be quick and to the point. I saw the kiss. I won’t say a word. Please stop following me.
That should work.
Buzz buzz
I furrowed my brow, absurdly concerned Dexter had tracked down my cell number. But no.
“Freya?”
She chuckled, and something in my chest lightened and constricted at the same time. “Yes, it’s me. Hej gamla v?n. How are you?”
I put the veggies on a low simmer and leaned against the counter, wondering how much this call might cost me. I loved Freya, but she wasn’t always easy. Her tone was pleasant, though…and happy. That was good.
“Fine,” I replied warily in Swedish. “You?”
“I’m doing well. Very well.”
Good. I relaxed a bit as she talked about family in Sweden.
She wanted to go to Stockholm at Christmastime.
Was I interested in going with her to see my folks?
It was filler conversation that required a hum or an occasional one-word response.
But the topic was odd because unless something drastic had changed, Freya wasn’t particularly close to anyone in her family. It was something we had in common.
Not that I was on bad terms with my parents or my brother, but I didn’t mind being a twelve-hour plane ride away from them. Vermont was home now. I had a good job, a nice house, and Freya.
At this point, she was probably my oldest friend.
The Lindstroms had first moved to Sweden twenty-two years ago and had lived in our village on the outskirts of Stockholm.
Freya had been my sister’s classmate and eventually Annika’s best friend.
My parents had affectionately referred to Freya as a little hellion…
and a bad influence. Perhaps an apt description.
Though truthfully, we’d all known Anni was the wild one.
I was nine years older than my sister, but we were close—even after I’d moved to the States.
She’d brought Freya with her to visit me once, and eventually, Freya and I became friends.
Not close friends, but…I was the first person she called when everything went to hell—even though I’d lived the farthest from the epicenter of unspeakable tragedy.
We stayed in touch through her move from Stockholm to LA, New York City, and eventually Burlington. I was glad to have her nearby. We had a shared history, language…and grief. We knew things about each other that no one else did.
For instance, I knew Freya liked parties, designer clothing, and the company of men who offered free concert tickets and airfares to exotic destinations.
She preferred surface interactions and expendable relationships, feigning shock if her paramours turned out to be married with children, or simply bad people.
It wasn’t uncommon for her to return from an amazing adventure heartbroken, penniless, and emotionally fragile.
And I knew that the chaos she created was her way of dealing with pain.
It was easier for her to live in a delusional whirlwind assuming the world was a forgiving place and that things always worked out if you smiled nicely at the right people than to deal with heartache.
I understood that. Just as I knew that no matter what happened or where Freya ended up, I’d always feel protective of her.
Which perhaps made me a sucker. She knew that about me for sure.
I’d encouraged her art and unlike her family, I never asked if she was planning to do anything useful with her business degree. I was also probably the only one who still lent her money. Although, to be fair, she hadn’t borrowed from me in a year.
The last time I’d seen Freya was at Christmas in Burlington.
She’d made reservations for us at a restaurant that served a traditional Swedish feast, a julbord with cured salmon (gravlax), meatballs (kottbullar), creamy potato-anchovy casserole, a cheese board, malted wines (glogg), and saffron buns for dessert.
We ate like a king and queen. And get this…
she’d insisted on paying the tab. She’d been adamant that she could afford it.
Her ceramics were selling, not to worry.
But old habits died hard, and three and a half months later, I was worried all over again. Something in her tone was too manic, too frenzied.
“And your art?”
“Oh, my gosh, V. I was commissioned to make a series of vases for a gallery in town,” she enthused. “So exciting! I told you about it in December, remember?”
“Uh…”
“They sold like hotcakes! Every single vase. And one of the buyers wants me to make six place settings—salad plates, dinner plates, dessert plates, and mugs, too. It’s going to take a while, but she’s okay with that,” Freya continued excitedly.
“This is good.”
She snickered. “It is good. And you know what’s even better? I can pay you back everything I owe you. And I think that number is approximately fifteen thousand with interest. I’ll have it all to you within three months.”
“Three months,” I repeated.
“Or less.”
“How? From vases?” I frowned at the vegetables as I turned off the burner.
“I wish. The problem with my art is that I constantly have to feed it. I bought a bigger kiln, and I’m toying with the idea of offering ceramics classes to offset the cost of—”
“Then how will you pay me fifteen thousand?” I puffed my cheeks out and let out a stream of air. “Did you rob a bank?”
Or worse? Robbery might have been preferable to hearing she’d met someone who was going to make all her worries disappear.
Freya laughed. “No, I’ve come into a bit of money. That’s all.”
Fuck. “How?”
She went quiet, and that wasn’t good.
“I wanted to wait to tell you this in person.” Oh, no. “It’s a sensitive topic, but it’s a good thing, and I want you to be happy for me.”
“What did you do?”
“Nothing bad, Viggo. But…I’m pregnant.”
My jaw dropped. I swiped my hand over my face as I slumped onto the nearest barstool. “Pregnant? You’re having a baby?”
“Yes and no.”