Chapter 39
“Everyone got their order? Okay, then, let’s get started,” Dot announces.
I glance around the laminated table at the small group of us gathered for an early-morning breakfast meeting at the Green Light Diner.
Hilda, Sebastian, Dot, Mom, and I are all crowded around a table drinking diner coffee and discussing Walt’s offer and our options for the building.
This is the first chance we’ve had to meet since Sebastian’s lawyer got back to him about the contract.
It’s been two weeks since my disappointing kayak conversation with Jakob.
I haven’t talked to him since that day, although he’s been at the shop every afternoon, finishing up the remodel.
It should be done in the next week or even earlier.
It’s been agony to not approach him, not try to win him back, but I’ve stayed true to my word and given him space. I’m focusing on my own path right now.
“Okay, let’s get down to brass tacks,” Dot says, spooning up some biscuit smothered in gravy and taking a huge bite from her Hungry Viking platter.
The woman can eat like a twenty-year-old linebacker and still stay lean as a string bean.
It’s a mystery. She sits back and wipes her mouth with her napkin.
“What do we think? Are we going to sell to Walt?”
We all look around the table at each other. “I could go either way,” Sebastian says. “As long as I can keep my store open.”
Hilda nods. “Me too.”
“Emmie?” They both look at me.
“I don’t want to sell. If at all possible, I want to keep the store in our family,” I say firmly. Mom smiles and sits back in her chair. She looks relieved.
Dot nods. “That makes two of us. I like owning my place. I don’t particularly want to have my brother as my landlord either. Sebastian, Hilda, how do you feel about not selling the building?”
“How will we afford the repairs if we don’t sell?” Hilda asks, looking worried.
Sebastian nods. “I’d be happy to not sell if we could find a way…”
For the hundredth time I wish I could think of a way to raise the money we need to keep the shop.
I couldn’t sleep last night, so I stayed up late making pralines and brainstorming.
Unfortunately, in the cold light of morning, none of my ideas look promising or realistic.
I don’t know what we’re going to do. The pralines are delicious though.
“Let’s brainstorm. Who has any ideas?” Dot asks.
“Maybe a yard sale?” Hilda suggests tentatively. My heart sinks. That is, surprisingly, an even worse idea than the ones I’ve already come up with. This is not a promising start.
Beside me in a red vinyl chair, Mom is pecking at her buttered toast. I can tell she’s not listening. Her eyes keep drifting to a red vinyl booth at the back. I know that booth. It’s where she first saw my dad. This place holds a lot of memories for her. The whole town does.
“Do you have any good ideas?” I ask Dot, pouring syrup on my buttermilk pancake.
I know I should probably be eating an omelet or oatmeal or something healthier, but my dad brought me to the diner every Sunday morning to eat buttermilk pancakes before church, and I’m missing him fiercely right now.
A pancake doesn’t take away the feeling of loss, but it salves the ache a bit.
Dot grins. “No, but I know someone who does,” she says.
“Ask him.” She points with her fork toward the front of the restaurant just as the bell over the door jingles.
I see who it is and immediately feel a little lightheaded.
Jakob strides into the diner with a stern expression and a sheaf of papers in his hand and stalks toward our table.
He looks good. Sort of grim, but good. He’s in his usual blue jeans and a tight gray Henley with the sleeves rolled up.
He meets my eyes and instantly it feels like someone lit a sparkler and it’s crackling down my spine.
I can’t look away. He breaks the connection first.
“Jakob asked to meet with us today and share something he’s found,” Dot tells us. “Right, Jakob?”
Jakob pulls up a chair and straddles it backward.
He’s directly across the table from me. “I got the idea after talking to Emmie.” He clears his throat and doesn’t look in my direction.
“I started poking around online. I figured maybe there was money available to help save historic buildings, some foundation or grant or something that could help. Turns out I was right.”
“You found something?” Hilda asks eagerly, scooting to the edge of her seat in anticipation.
Jakob nods. “The American Norwegian Heritage Foundation has a fund for historic building preservation,” he explains. “So I did a little research on the history of your building and I wrote to them. I just got a reply yesterday.”
“What did they say?” Mom asks eagerly. All eyes are trained on Jakob. He distributes the papers he’s holding, and I glance at my copy. It looks like a letter of some sort.
Dot holds up the sheet of paper and reads aloud:
Dear Mr. Kristensen,
We received your application and accompanying documentation regarding the urgent repairs needed to the historic Front Street building in Poulsbo, Washington.
After conducting our own research, our foundation historian determined that this building does indeed have a strong and proud Norwegian heritage.
It was, in its over one-hundred-year history, the site of many Norwegian-owned stores and businesses, as well as the location where Norwegian American potter Lars Aland produced some of his finest pottery pieces celebrating his family’s Norwegian heritage.
We at the American Norwegian Heritage Foundation are dedicated to preserving our Norwegian cultural heritage in America.
Based on the historical value of this building and its location in Poulsbo’s historic downtown, the preservation committee has unanimously voted to award you and your fellow building owners a grant of twenty thousand US dollars to assist in covering the cost of the repairs.
We hope this grant will ensure the building can continue to proudly represent Norwegian culture and heritage for many years to come.
Dot stops and lowers the paper, glancing around the table at us.
Sebastian looks astonished. “They’re giving us half the money we need for the repairs?” he asks.
Dot nods and keeps reading.
Please call our office during business hours so we can arrange further details regarding the payment of the grant. We at the American Norwegian Heritage Foundation are proud to support the town of “Little Norway,” Poulsbo, Washington, and to help preserve this historically significant building.
Med vennlig hilsen,
Per Pettersen
Preservation Committee Chair, The American Norwegian Heritage Foundation
Dot finishes the letter and Hilda whoops in glee, accidentally spilling her fruit cup all over the table. I glance at Jakob only to find him already looking at me. His gaze snags on mine and we stare at one another for an electric second until he looks down at his work boots.
I sit frozen, a forkful of pancake poised over my plate, stunned by the good news. I think Jakob just saved us. The general mood has shifted from despondent to jubilant in the space of two minutes. The relief is palpable.
“Jakob, thank you,” Mom whispers, a little misty-eyed, reaching across the table and squeezing Jakob’s hand.
Dot claps him on the back firmly. “You’re a hero,” she says.
Jakob shrugs off the accolades. “Glad I could help all of you,” he says, but he glances at me as he says the words. He scrapes his chair back and excuses himself. “I’ve got to get back to the bakery,” he tells us before he heads out the door.
We sit for a moment in blissful silence, absorbing the momentous news. Dot leans over to me.
“You know he did it for you, right, hon?” she murmurs, watching Jakob disappear down the sidewalk.
“He did it for all of us,” I counter, but her words sit like a warm little sun in the center of my chest. Maybe he did it for all of us.
Maybe it’s true and he did it for me. Regardless, Jakob’s gift to us via the American Norwegian Heritage Foundation has suddenly made the impossible feel possible.
“So this means we are not selling, right?” Sebastian asks the table. We all exchange glances.
“Not now,” Dot says. “That grant just saved our bacon. It won’t cover all the upgrades, but it’s enough that I can scrape together whatever I owe for the rest of the costs.”
“Me too,” Hilda agrees.
“God bless the American Norwegian Heritage Foundation, whoever they are,” Sebastian says fervently. “I can cover my part of the costs.”
Dot looks at me and Mom. “What about you two?”
“We want to keep the shop in the family,” I tell her firmly. “We don’t want to sell. We’ll find the money somehow.”
I haven’t done the math, but between the cost of the plumbing repair, the cost of the remodel (which I haven’t seen a final total for yet), and the cost of our portion of the building upgrades, I’m fairly certain we are going to come up thousands of dollars short.
But I’m determined to figure something out.
We’ve got a little time before we have to complete the upgrades.
Surely we can figure something out before then, right?
Dot sits back, satisfied. “Great. Looks like we’re agreed. Who’s going to break the news to my brother that we’re not selling?” she asks, a wicked little gleam in her eye.
As I eat the last of my pancakes, I glance around the table, thinking about Dot’s admonition.
Maybe I don’t have to carry everything. Maybe it’s okay to let my community carry me now and then.
After all, that’s the beauty of it, right?
When we share a load, it gets lighter. I think it’s high time for me to start sharing my load.
But first…I down the rest of my coffee and push my chair back.
“You all take your time,” I tell them. “I’ll go break the news to Walt.
” I leave a twenty-dollar bill with Mom to pay for my breakfast and leave the table first. Before facing Walt with the news, I stop in at Kristensen’s Bakery.
Half a block before I reach the familiar red storefront, I smooth my hair, pop a breath mint, and slick on some tinted lip balm.
My heart is pounding as I open the door.
The bell jingles. The store smells heavenly—sugared fruit and cinnamon, butter and yeast.
“Just a minute,” calls a familiar deep voice from the back.
“What can I…Emmie.” Jakob comes into the storefront, wiping his hands on a towel.
He looks surprised to see me. Not displeased though, which is heartening.
He’s wearing a flour-streaked apron over his Henley, his hair tied back in the stubby man bun.
He’s so beautiful he makes my heart ache.
He offered himself to me and I rejected him.
Twice. I’m an idiot. A regretful idiot who realized too late how much he really means to me, how much he always has.
“Sorry, I just need to pick up some sugar to soften a blow. I’ve got to break the bad news to Walt.”
Jakob stills. “What bad news?” His eyes on me are instantly wary.
I hasten to reassure him. “More like disappointing news…for Walt. We’re not selling the building. Because of the grant, we can all keep our stores.” I meet his eyes. “Because of you,” I add. “Thanks to you.” The moment stretches long as we stare at one another.
“Good,” Jakob says, clearing his throat and breaking the eye contact.
“Glad I could help. I know that’s what you wanted.
” His look is guarded, cautious. I hate that look, and hate even more that I put it there.
And there is nothing I can do to remove it except show him I’m trustworthy and serious about all of it—the chocolate shop, our community, and him.
I order a bear claw for Walt, and Jakob hands me the paper bag with the pastry in it, our fingers brushing.
“Wish me luck,” I say with a sigh. “I hope Walt’s not too grouchy about this.”
“He’ll be fine,” Jakob predicts, swiping my credit card for the pastry. “He’s a soft-boiled egg beneath that crusty shell.”
I giggle at the description, thinking of Walt going to puzzle club with my mom.
I hope he’s a very soft-boiled egg indeed.
My dad adored Mom until the day he died, and I know that even though she has me and Gus, she’s lonely.
She needs someone to coddle her. Maybe that someone will be, in a twist none of us saw coming, gruff, grumbly, heart-of-gold Walt Perkins.
I suppose stranger things have happened.
Five minutes later when I reach the shop and give Walt his bear claw, I realize Jakob slipped an extra pastry into the bag.
It’s a raspberry Danish. I slide it from the bag and look at it, imagining his hands shaping the round of dough, spooning in the raspberry filling.
It’s a message, I’m sure, but I don’t know what it means.
Is this absolution, affection, pity? I don’t know how to decipher his intention.
Still, as I take a bite, my heart comes alive with a tiny little flicker of anticipation.
I may not quite know what it means, but I know it’s a good thing somehow.
It’s the best raspberry Danish I’ve ever eaten.
The buttery, flaky dough and sweet, tart raspberry filling taste like hope, like possibility.