A Solstice Kiss
Olivia Dade
On a snowy winter solstice afternoon in Stockholm, Ellie was staring at an odd painting.
It wasn’t overly large or especially complicated.
Against a dark gray sky and above what might have been a quiet teal sea, one ladder stretched toward a pink cloud, while another climbed to a bright crescent moon.
The mysterious landscape defied both reality and easy explanation, which made it a fitting inclusion for the modern art museum’s surrealism exhibit.
And her reaction to the image was even odder than the painting itself.
Based on the previous forty-three years of her existence, she’d have sworn that she only appreciated simple representational artwork.
Flowers that looked like actual flowers.
Portraits of people with recognizably human features.
But here she was, standing in a crowd of Swedish strangers, gaping at a ladder to the moon and—inexplicably—tearing up a little.
When her phone vibrated from inside her jeans pocket, she almost welcomed the interruption… until she saw her older sister’s text.
Permission to murder your ex?
Heather had followed the question with several knife and skull emojis.
Ellie sighed.
Denied.
Just this once? As a treat?
Nope. I’m worried you’ll get a taste for homicide.
Her older sister wasn’t exactly the forgiving sort, especially when it came to anyone who’d wronged her loved ones.
Dean’s at the holiday luncheon, huh?
Ellie’s ex worked in the IT department at the Maryland high school where her sister taught. Heather had made the introduction after last year’s luncheon and still felt guilty about it.
Unfortunately, yes.
Ellie took her best guess.
You overheard him talking about me to his IT buddies?
No response. Which was as good as a yes.
What did he say this time?
She waited a minute, then added,
Heather, it’s fine. I’ve been over him for months.
Her sister finally, begrudgingly, gave the shortest possible answer.
The usual.
Ellie could practically hear Dean’s booming baritone, could probably quote exactly what he’d said.
Goodness knew she’d listened to his favorite diatribe countless times over their final, terrible days together.
No doubt he’d informed his cronies that she was boring and staid and unadventurous, the sort of woman who preferred a cozy evening indoors to a raucous bar crawl, hesitated to try unfamiliar restaurants, and refused to go parasailing with her boyfriend.
The sort of woman any self-respecting man would leave without regret—which was exactly what he’d done during their summer vacation in Florida, after his solo parasailing expedition.
And while she genuinely didn’t care about him anymore, something about that particular criticism continued to sting, even now.
Even after she’d traveled solo to another darn continent on a lengthy business trip and rousted herself from her comfortable hotel room to explore more of Stockholm.
Sure, the museum was within easy walking distance of said hotel room, but darkness fell early on the shortest day of the year, so this felt like a late-night jaunt.
And she didn’t usually understand or enjoy modern art, so wasn’t her outing an adventure of sorts?
It counted, dammit!
He’s looking at your travel photos on social media.
Why he’d bother, Ellie had no clue. But he definitely wouldn’t consider a museum visit interesting, even though it was.
Why did his criticism bother her so much?
Winter solstice was supposed to represent the rebirth of the sun on the darkest day of the year. But Ellie didn’t feel reborn. She felt… mired.
You know what would show that bastard?
Heather had apparently interpreted her sister’s silence as hurt feelings, which wasn’t quite right. But not entirely wrong either.
You should post a pic of you kissing some sexy Swedish dude. Let him see it in front of all his braying bros.
Ellie snorted out loud.
Yeah, no.
Even if she were the sort of person who’d smooch a total stranger for the sake of social media pettiness—and she wasn’t—there were no reasonable kissing candidates nearby.
The earlier crowds of tall people in seemingly identical dark coats conducting hushed conversations in Swedish had left a while back.
And the two men near the Dalí painting were holding hands and sweetly preoccupied with each other.
There was still a guided tour occurring behind her.
The jeans-clad docent had led his small group to a raised pit of bubbling mud that was apparently supposed to represent sin or nature or maybe the subconscious itself?
Ellie genuinely couldn’t say, and eavesdropping didn’t help, because his presentation was in Swedish too.
Actually, the docent was kind of hot. Tall and solidly built, with dark blond hair flopping over his broad, pale forehead and a strong, scruff-covered jaw. At first glance, he even appeared to be roughly her age.
She squinted, straining to see his hand as he gestured at the mud pit.
No ring. But she still couldn’t walk up to a total stranger and ask him to kiss her.
Could she?
No. No, she really couldn’t. If she could, though, he’d definitely be her first choice.
Someone spiked the sherbert-ginger ale punch.
I need to drink my fill before Assistant Principal Killjoy finds out and dumps it down the sink. Love you. I’m sorry I even mentioned that asshole ex of yours.
Love you too.
Don’t worry about it.
And you’re definitely against some minor, recreational ax-murdering?
Ellie had to smile.
Go drink your punch, Lizzie Borden.
As she slipped her phone back into her jeans pocket, she glanced again at the docent leading the tour group.
He’d shifted to face her direction and was pointing toward the painting with the two ladders.
She moved several steps to the side, giving him and everyone else a clearer view of the artwork, and he smiled at her in thanks before returning his attention to the group.
His eyes were blue. Blue and warm.
Ellie’s heart wobbled.
Instead of moving to another room, she lingered and listened.
She might have no clue what the man was saying, but she liked how he was saying it.
His voice was low and calm and infused with enthusiasm.
Whenever someone in his group asked him a question, he listened intently and thought for a moment before answering.
Graceful swoops of his long-fingered hands punctuated his remarks, and every flash of that same sincere smile hitched Ellie’s breathing.
After a minute, though, he led the group across the expansive gallery, away from Ellie. With an odd ache in her chest, she turned her attention back to Gertrude Abercrombie’s Two Ladders.
One route to the fluffy pink cloud. One route to the bright, sharp-tipped moon.
Most of the time, life proceeded along a single, orderly path. Sometimes, though… Sometimes that path forked before you, and you had a choice to make.
She’d been invited to visit the Stockholm branch of the bank where she worked in hopes she might relocate to Sweden—at least for a year or two—and improve international cooperation within the company.
She’d gently told her supervisor that wasn’t going to happen, but both he and Heather had encouraged Ellie to take the trip anyway.
It was free travel to Europe, after all, during the height of the festive holiday season.
“No matter what, you can strengthen your ties with your Swedish colleagues,” Ellie’s boss had said. “Who knows? You might even love it there. So don’t give me an answer now. I don’t want your final decision until the twenty-second.”
Which was… tomorrow.
In the end, she’d agreed to the trip and even decided to stay through New Year’s.
And she’d genuinely adored what she’d seen of the city thus far and liked her Swedish colleagues.
But she was still going to say no to an international move, because all that uncertainty and disruption to her daily routine would only make her miserable.
Wouldn’t it?
Two ladders stood before her.
Her ex would probably bet his life savings that she’d climb toward the familiar, cozy cloud. But did she truly love it there? Or did she simply find it comfortable and predictable?
Behind Ellie, the guided museum tour ended with an enthusiastic round of applause as her phone vibrated against her thigh once more.
Maybe with a social media notification. Maybe with another text from Heather, urging Ellie to kiss a stranger because Dean was still perusing her posts with his obnoxious buddies.
The butter-yellow moon shone against the gray sky, curved like a beckoning finger.
If only for tonight, she intended to answer its call.
Ellie turned around. Saw that the last members of the tour group had exited the exhibit, leaving only the guide, and he seemed poised to follow them.
“Excuse me,” she called to the docent. “Do you have a moment?”
As she’d discovered, most Swedes in Stockholm spoke at least some English. Apparently, this man did, too, since he strode in her direction without hesitation.
“Hello.” When he halted in front of her, she almost swayed under the knee-melting impact of those soft blue eyes. “How may I help you?”
From his accent, she could have sworn—“You’re American?”
“Guilty.” When he smiled at her, his cheeks creased beguilingly under his golden-brown scruff. “I was born and raised in Colorado, although I’ve lived in Sweden for the past decade. Lovely to meet you…”
He paused expectantly, but she was still focused on those dimples. After a moment, he cleared his throat, and she jumped a little.
“Uh, sorry.” She forced her eyes back up to his, her cheeks warm. “I’m Ellie. From Maryland. And you’re”—she peered at his badge, which indicated that he was a curator at the museum—“Felix?”
“Felix Kent.” His handshake was firm but gentle. “How can I assist you, Ellie from Maryland?”