Chapter 30
The morning of the dinner is full of sunshine and blue skies. My fears of inclement weather dissipate, and I start to believe everything will work out as planned.
Maybe even better than planned.
Brady and I start prepping in the commercial kitchen.
I tell him about my idea of adding Lucy’s Victory Cake to the dessert table—an homage to my great-great-grandmother and the history of the farmhouse.
He loves the idea of highlighting a recipe from the farmhouse’s past. Plus, the ingredients are so simple, no last-minute trips to the store required.
There’s a knock at the door and Brady’s hands are full. I answer, thinking it’s one of the girls with an armful of supplies.
I’m surprised to see a man I don’t know. He’s quite tall and slender, and his long, silver hair is pulled back in a low ponytail. His eyes are soft, contrasting with stark black-rimmed glasses.
He stares at me a beat before saying anything.
“Is this the site of the Midsommar dinner?” he finally asks.
“Yes.”
I watch his shoulders relax. “Good. Because I just unloaded fifty chairs and five tables without checking if this was the right place.”
I laugh. His delivery is deadpan, but sweet. I step outside, shutting the door behind me, so as not to bother Brady. “Are you from the rental company?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “I’m a guest at the hotel in town.”
“The Ferry Inn?”
He nods.
I cock my head in confusion. “And you delivered the tables and chairs?”
He smiles. “I volunteered. Sam, the owner, was supposed to bring them. But he twisted his ankle loading them onto the truck, so I offered to help.”
Poor Sam. “That was nice of you.”
He places a hand to his heart. “My pleasure. I’m in town for the event. Sounds like it’s going to be quite the party.”
“Thank you. It’s been a lot of hard work, but hopefully, it will all pay off.” I look into his eyes. They’re a beautiful, brilliant blue. “I’m Maggie,” I say, holding out my hand.
He meets my handshake but almost seems stunned, as if he’s forgotten his own name. “Christian,” he finally says.
I detect an accent but am unsure of its origin. “You said you’re here for the event?” I ask. “Did you travel far?”
“A few hours,” he says. “Minneapolis.”
“That’s great. We were hoping to pull people from all over the Midwest. I guess I should be thanking our publicity team for a job well done.”
“You really should. I wasn’t planning to attend. But when I saw the newspaper article, I felt compelled to come. Drawn to it, actually.”
“Really? What was so compelling? Let me guess, was it Ruth Rivers?”
He smiles. “I think it was more than her. This whole event. Everything about it.” He shrugs, as if to say the feeling was too complex for words. “Spoke to me.”
I feel a warmth radiate from my chest to my cheeks. “Oh, I love that. Thank you.”
He nods, as if to say you’re welcome, then looks around. “Is there anything else I can do?” he asks. “To assist?”
My mind reels with tasks. “Well, most of the work is food prep, cooking and baking. I don’t know how comfortable you are working with food. But yes, we can put you to work,” I say. “First, let me introduce you to my partner in crime.”
I open the door to the kitchen, and he follows me inside.
“Hey, Brady, we have an extra volunteer this morning,” I call. “This is Christian. He’s—”
“Knudsen,” Brady says, cutting me off. His eyes are open and bright. “Oh my god, I can’t believe this. You’re Christian Knudsen!”
The man looks at me sheepishly, his cover blown.
“Maggie, this is the owner of The Cookie Tin in Minneapolis.” He enunciates every syllable to illustrate the magnitude of this man’s presence. “It’s the most revered Scandinavian bakery in the country.”
I watch Christian bow his head in humility.
“I’m sorry, I had no idea,” I say, cringing at my words: I don’t know how comfortable you are working with food.
“Please, Maggie,” he says. “Do not be sorry. I’m not a celebrity.”
Brady laughs. “Don’t listen to him. This guy is a god. I feel like I’m dreaming,” he jests. “Sir, what brings us the pleasure of your company today?”
“The farm-to-table dinner,” he says.
“He felt compelled to come,” I try to explain. “Drawn to it for some reason.”
Christian and I make eye contact. He gives me a small nod, as if to say I got it right.
Brady crosses his arms and smiles. “Now I’m sure this is a dream.”
“I want to help,” Christian says, seemingly embarrassed by the sudden attention. “Please. Put me to work.”
Brady gives an affirmative nod. “Yes, sir.” His eyes dart around the kitchen. “Well, if Christian Knudsen is here, I’m not going to have you pickle vegetables. We’re making a boatload of cookies and cakes today, a number of them Scandinavian in origin. I’d be honored if you helped with those.”
“Of course,” Christian says.
I watch the tall, lean man walk to the other side of the room and grab an apron from the hooks. He’s so unassuming, so down-to-earth as he ties the apron strings and smooths out the front. A man of great skill and even greater modesty.
There is something serendipitous about his unexpected arrival. It’s a sign, I think. We are on a path budding with potential.
Everything is going to be more than okay.
The news of Christian Knudsen’s appearance travels quickly, and the Scandinavian Trio buzz around the barn like honeybees.
“I guess I’m the only one who doesn’t know who he is,” I say once I realize they revere him as much as Brady does.
“Well, he was born and raised in Denmark,” Katrine says.
“Sweden,” Johanna corrects.
“Yes, fine, technically southern Sweden,” Katrine admits. “But basically, right across the water from Copenhagen, so we like to claim him as our own. He’s well known back home and here in the States. But he’s not TV-cooking-show famous.”
“He’s kind of private and mysterious,” Johanna adds.
“Confident but not arrogant,” Nora chimes in.
“And unbelievably talented,” Katrine notes. “Maggie, this is really good for publicity. With Ruth Rivers here, the event was already going to be widely covered by the media. And if Christian Knudsen is also in our pictures, this could really blow up on social media.”
“Which means more donations to save Alice’s farmhouse,” I say. I can’t help but smile. You can plan for the best, and sometimes, things turn out even better.
I leave the girls, Brady, and Christian to work and go back to the farmhouse to check on Hannah and Alice.
As I head that way, I spot Ruth Rivers driving up in a beige four-door sedan.
It’s a new car, shiny and recently buffed, but an average, middle-class automobile.
She may be food royalty, but she certainly doesn’t wear a crown. I rush to greet her.
“Ruth!” I call out.
“Hello,” she says, then immediately hugs me. Her embrace is heartfelt; she even pats the space between my shoulder blades, the way a grandmother hugs. She reminds me a little of Alice.
“How was the drive?” I ask.
“Contemplative,” she says.
“Well, I am just so grateful you’re here. It seems like a dream.”
She smiles; the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes reflect years of laughter. “And I am so grateful to stay in this beautiful, historic farmhouse for the night. I saw the turret. It’s a Queen Anne, isn’t it?”
I nod. “Like I told you on the phone, it’s been in my family a long time, and we’re trying to keep it that way.”
Ruth takes my hands and squeezes them. “And that’s why I’m here. When you said it used to be a boardinghouse for the Women’s Land Army, I knew I had to come. There is nothing more important to me than preserving history.”
“And food?” I say.
“Oh, yes, and food.”
We share a laugh, then she seems to study me. “You look different,” she says.
“I do?” I glance down at myself. “How so?”
She squints. “Lighter. Brighter. Did you do something different with your hair?”
I nervously run my fingers through it. “No, in fact, I need a haircut and some color, but I’ve been so busy, I haven’t made time.”
“You’ve been here awhile?” she asks.
“About four weeks.”
“That explains it.”
“It does?”
“Nothing like spending time in the countryside to clear your mind and open your heart.”
I relish this conversation with Ruth. While I could be starstruck, chitchatting with the Ruth Rivers, it feels more like my conversations with Alice. Easy. Familiar.
We head inside and I show her the downstairs—dining room, parlor, kitchen. We find Alice and Hannah hard at work at the kitchen table. They’re in charge of the centerpieces—colorful but simple bouquets of local wildflowers in Mason jars with raffia bows.
“Wow, these are beautiful,” I say, after making introductions.
“Only thirty more to go,” Hannah announces, her eyes set in concentration as she plucks the lower leaves from a daisy. I love watching my daughter’s face when she’s deep in concentration. She crinkles her nose a bit, and her lips curl.
“Looks like the table decorations are very much under control,” Ruth says. “How about dinner preparations?”
“So far, so good,” I say. “And we’ve had some unexpected good fortune. A famous baker showed up out of the blue this morning with some chairs from the Ferry Inn. He’s over in the kitchen baking goodies for tonight. I’d never heard of him, but everyone else here is starstruck.”
Alice looks up curiously from her flower work. “Really? Who is it?”
“Christian Knudsen?”
Ruth’s mouth visibly gapes. “He’s here?”
“You know him?”
She shakes her head. “We’re acquaintances. I’ve met him at events over the years. He’s a bit reserved. Mysterious.”
“Isn’t he? I got that same idea when I met him.”
“Well, now I’m intrigued,” Alice chimes in. “I haven’t heard of him either.”