Chapter 31
Later, when Hannah and I walk back to the farmhouse to finally get ready for the night—freshen up and change our clothes—I hear Alice talking to someone in the parlor, a woman.
I freeze and listen more closely to the timbre of their voices.
It can’t be.
“Grandma,” Hannah exclaims after we round the corner, running to my mother’s side. They haven’t seen each other since the holidays, and I feel a twinge of guilt at Hannah’s emphatic response.
“Surprise,” Alice blurts, making eye contact to gauge my response.
I narrow my eyes, wondering how this all came about. “Surprise is right,” I say, reaching for my mother once Hannah lets go.
“You’re so thin,” my mother notes as she embraces me.
I don’t respond. I’ve actually gained weight but have never felt healthier.
“What are you doing here?” I ask instead.
“The dinner.”
I turn to Alice. “And you knew?”
“She’s the one who called and convinced me to fly out,” my mother explains.
Alice lays a hand on my arm. “I’m just so proud of you, Maggie. You’ve worked so hard. And I really thought your mother should be here to see you shine.”
I would have expected a touch of anger or resentment to bubble up at my mother’s sudden appearance, but it doesn’t. She has somehow lost her power. Or maybe I’m the one who’s changed? Maybe it’s like Ruth said: Nothing like spending time in the countryside to clear your mind and open your heart.
“I was very happy when Alice called.” My mother pauses. “Because I owed her a long overdue apology. I shouldn’t have kept you two apart all these years.”
I check in with Alice, and she nods, indicating her forgiveness. It’s water under the bridge. I’m not sure I could absolve my mother so easily. I still have much to learn from Alice’s grace.
“Grandma, want to stay in my room?” Hannah chimes in.
I look for my mother’s luggage. “Yes, Mom, are you staying here?”
She shakes her head. “Alice offered. But it sounded like you had a very full house—with the culinary students and Ruth Rivers staying here as well—so I booked something in town. You know I’m a very light sleeper. But thank you for asking, Hannah. I’ll tuck you in before bed. How about that?”
Hannah smiles.
This news lightens something in my chest. I think I can handle her unannounced visit, but having my mother here overnight feels like too much amid everything else I have going on. Baby steps.
“I’m really happy you’re here, Mom,” I say.
And I realize that I do actually mean it.
The evening begins with a cocktail.
I pause for a moment on the farmhouse porch to watch the spectacle unfold.
Attendees stop first at the outdoor bar, where a few of Brady’s students serve our signature drink: Nordic June, a blend of aquavit, citrus-herb syrup, cucumber juice, lime, and local honey on ice with a sprig of rosemary.
It’s herbal, thanks to the aquavit—a Scandinavian liquor that evokes dill, fennel, and caraway—but it’s also mellow and a little sweet from the cucumber and honey.
Served in an old-fashioned glass, on loan from a downtown bar, it’s a stunner of a drink.
I see several guests photograph the cocktail in just the right light to post on social media.
This is happening.
The appetizer course—served off silver platters handled by more of Brady’s students—includes three open-faced mini sandwiches, some topped with the freshest locally made goat cheese and pepper jelly, others with smoked salmon and cucumber, and others with ham and Jarlsberg.
I’m offered one as I pass by, and the spicy-sweet jam, combined with the smooth, tangy cheese, is heaven in my mouth.
I scan the sea of people—in flowered sundresses, wide-brimmed straw hats, suit jackets paired with jeans, sandals—and let out a sigh.
People mingle and chat, simultaneously indulging their senses.
The feeling is light and playful, but also elegant.
Everyone seems to be having a really great time, and dinner is still to come.
I find Brady near the oversize grill, where we’ll cook the salmon. He spots me and flashes me his biggest smile.
“Well, good evening, gorgeous.” He reaches around my waist and looks like he wants to kiss me. Because of Hannah, we’ve been careful not to openly display affection. But this time, I fall into his embrace and kiss a spot on his neck, just under his ear.
“Where’s Hannah?” he asks, surprised by the kiss, eyes darting around the crowd.
“She’s still at the house, visiting with my mother,” I say. “But they’ll be over soon.”
“Your mother?”
I fill him in on her surprise visit, including the conversation I overheard an hour ago, which is why I’ve let my guard down.
To my surprise, Hannah asked my mother to style her hair. They sat on her bed, where my mom wove her curly brown hair into a French braid, like she once did for me.
I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I was walking right by the room. The door was ajar.
“Tell me what you’ve been up to this summer,” I heard my mother ask.
Hannah mentioned reading and fishing in the pond, catching fireflies and camping, baking and whittling. The Scandinavian Trio. “And Brady taught me how to tie my shoes,” she added.
“Who’s Brady?” my mother inquired.
“He’s Mommy’s best friend.”
I smiled at her answer. I couldn’t see my mother’s face but could imagine raised eyebrows.
“Best friend?” my mother repeated.
Hannah giggled. “They’re in love.”
“Really? Why do you say that?”
More giggles. “Because they smile at each other funny.”
My relationship with Brady—which I’d struggled over how to broach with Hannah these past weeks—was obviously a nonissue to my daughter. She already knew.
“Well, she was right,” Brady says now, flashing me a grin. “We do smile at each other funny.”
I take him in. His broad shoulders look strong enough to bear the weight of anything. I think back to last night, how safe and secure I felt lying in his arms. And I remember what he said just before that, and what I didn’t say.
I reach for his face now and cradle his beard in my hands.
“For the record,” I say. “I love you too.”
I expect to feel vulnerable, to crumble inside, because the last man I said that to was Sean. But I don’t. Instead, a peace washes over me.
Brady’s smile says it all.
“Now, that’s enough of that.” I quickly let go of his face. “We have a dinner to put on.”
The next thirty minutes pass quickly. It’s filled with glass clinking and small bites, quick hellos and elbow squeezes.
Katrine rings a bell to signify the beginning of the dinner, and people find their seats at the long, beautifully set tables inside the barn—white tablecloths and linens, local wildflowers, white lights strewn through the rafters.
Relish trays dot the tablescape—each filled with pickled herring, cottage cheese, cheddar cheese spread, crackers, rye breads, pickles, and olives.
It’s both elegant and rustic, an homage to Wisconsin supper clubs.
At one end, closest to the kitchen, I sit with Brady, Alice, Lenny, Hannah, Ruth Rivers, and the other members of the committee.
My mother sits with us too, fawning over Brady.
With his culinary students and local restaurant servers hard at work plating and serving, we receive the gift of simply enjoying the meal.
“Where’s Christian?” I ask, realizing he isn’t seated by us, as I had requested.
“In the kitchen,” Brady answers. “He said he’d rather oversee things there.”
“So that’s why you’re so relaxed.”
“I do believe in my students,” Brady says. “But yeah, having Christian Knudsen in the kitchen tonight totally helps.”
Once everyone is seated, the mayor of St. John’s Ferry, Bob Nielsen, stands and gives a formal welcome on behalf of the committee, then hands the mic over to Pamela McFarland, Midsommar Festival Committee president, who gives a few words of gratitude.
Then it’s our turn. Brady and I offer an overview of the menu thus far—the cocktail, the hors d’oeuvres—and where the items were sourced, from O’Brien’s Dairy to Bluff Orchards and beyond.
Brady goes on to describe the upcoming courses: The salad made with local spring greens, strawberries, goat cheese, and roasted and dehydrated beets, followed by milk-soaked fried chicken, biscuits with lavender honey, and braised ruby-red Swiss chard, followed by honey mustard–glazed grilled salmon, nutty wild rice, and grilled asparagus.
And for dessert, overflowing platters of every sweet treat imaginable—from brownies to raspberry caves, from slices of almond kringle to mini strawberry-rhubarb pies, not to mention Lucy’s Victory Cake.
And of course, after-dinner coffee and spirits.
I see everyone’s eyes grow wide with anticipation.
And then, the moment we’ve all been waiting for arrives.
Brady hands the mic over to Ruth Rivers.
She stands at the foot of the table, wearing a breezy lavender linen sundress, herbal cocktail in hand, and looks out at all of us.
She is so poised; there is so much thought behind her soft hazel eyes.
“My grandparents owned a farm much like Rosehill, about an hour outside Minneapolis,” she says, making eye contact with a few members of the audience.
“And good thing. Because it was the constant of my childhood. Life changed; my father lost his job, my parents moved, I switched schools, friends came and went, but the farm remained the same. Like time, their farm seemed as if it had always been and would always be. Of course, I didn’t realize this then.
It’s with the gift of hindsight that I understand the role the farm played in my life.
It was the floor beneath my feet whenever the rug was pulled out from under me.