Chapter 32
I spot Christian sitting alone by the fire. Other people might look out of place or antisocial sitting so removed at an event, but with his calm, monk-like demeanor, it seems natural, expected. He looks contemplative as he stares at the fire, and I see in his relaxed jaw a kind of inner peace.
“Mind if I join you?” I say.
“Maggie. Hello. Yes, of course.” He pulls the closest chair even closer. “Please.”
I sit, and we both stare at the fire for a beat. Maybe it should feel awkward, quietly sitting next to each other, but it doesn’t. I let the fire’s warmth hit my cheeks. It feels like lying in the sun on a hot summer day.
I speak first. “I wanted to thank you again for everything you did this morning, today, tonight. You were a godsend. I don’t know what we would have done without you.”
He smiles. “It was truly my pleasure.”
“It feels like a miracle,” I say. “Someone like you, with your background and experience, just showing up out of the blue, ready to help.”
“You put on a great event. Don’t be surprised that people wanted to play a part in it.”
“I know. It just seems . . . serendipitous.”
He doesn’t say anything. We sit again quietly, and this time, it’s uncomfortable.
There is so much I want to say, to ask him.
My mother was gone by the time I got back to the farmhouse.
She left a note, saying she felt ill and was heading back to her hotel.
She would call tomorrow. I wasn’t surprised.
She always needs space, distance, when she feels threatened, and facing my father after all these years likely felt like a tsunami.
“What’s on your mind, Maggie?” Christian asks. “Something is weighing on you.”
I look at him, but remain quiet. This means so much to me; there aren’t enough words.
“You can tell me.” His voice is gentle and authoritative at the same time.
So fatherly, it brings tears to my eyes.
“It’s just that I never knew my father,” I finally say.
And to avoid looking at his reaction, my eyes focus on the orange flames.
“My whole life. I never knew him. And I recently found out . . . I was recently given hope that maybe we had somehow, miraculously, found each other. After all this time. On one hand, it seems hard to believe. And on the other, it feels, at least in my heart . . .”
“True,” he says.
I nod.
“I’m sorry, Maggie,” he adds.
I look into his eyes to see what he means by this. Is he apologizing out of politeness—as in, I’m sorry that happened to you—or is he actually apologizing, for not being in my life all this time?
He turns toward me. “I didn’t know you existed until five days ago.”
And there it is. A sudden, warm gush of heat rises from my throat to my eyes. A wave of relief and joy so powerful, I stop breathing for a second.
Christian Knudsen is my father.
I shake my head, unable to believe it, even though I desperately want to.
“How did you find me?” I manage to ask.
He exhales. “There was an article in the Twin Cities newspaper. I saw a photo of the event team working on preparations at the farm, and there you were in the background, carrying a basket of fresh-picked strawberries. To be honest, I was mesmerized when I saw you. You looked so familiar, like a woman I spent time with many years ago, and I quickly read the caption, saw your name. Maggie Brodbeck. And of course, I kept digging until I figured out your mother was that woman.”
The tears fall, and I wipe them with my wrist. “My mom told me you didn’t know each other’s names,” I explain. “Only first names. You were Chris. And she was Diane.”
He nods. “That was the rather silly arrangement we agreed on at the time. We were young and wanted to focus on our careers. Had I known about you, I would have been there, all this time. I can’t change the past, but I decided I had to come here to at least meet you.”
I let his story sink in. “Were you going to tell me?”
“When the time felt right.”
“And that was now?”
“It was clear to me you already figured it out.” He pauses. “How?”
“Well, this may be hard to believe, but my mother is here tonight.”
His eyes dart to the lingering crowd. “Where?”
“Well, she was,” I correct.
I tell him about the photo Katrine took of us, my mother’s reaction, and what I saw when I really looked at the picture. What I felt when I met him. What I observed when he worked with Hannah, the grace and patience of a grandfather.
“I’d like to see your mother,” he says. “Talk to her. When she’s ready, of course.”
I nod. “I just can’t believe you found me,” I say, trying to keep my tears at bay. “It’s kind of lucky, isn’t it?”
He narrows his eyes. “Is it luck? Or did you bring me to you?”
I shrug. “How could that be?”
“Maggie, you created the scenario for me to find you. You came to the farm with Hannah, you made all of these new friends, you found out about Alice’s financial troubles, you planned this fundraiser, and then this event was publicized in the newspaper I read.”
I shake my head. “But I didn’t intend to find you.”
“You listened to your inner voice, didn’t you? The one that said yes. The one that said I like that, I want that. You followed what called to you, what spoke to you. And in doing that, you created a possibility for me to one day simply read the newspaper, like I do every day, and find you.”
He’s right. I was following my heart, doing what felt true, what made me happy each day. And that string of events ultimately brought my father into my life.
I dab my eyes. “Well, I’m so happy you’re here now.”
He takes my hand. “Not just now, Maggie. Forever.”
He reaches over to hug me, and I rest my cheek on his shoulder, and we sit there a good minute, holding on to each other, and everything we haven’t shared, and everything we hope to share in the future.
The morning after the farm-to-table dinner feels like so many before—the morning after high school prom, the morning after my wedding, the morning after I gave birth to Hannah. Something magnificent happened, and it’s reflected in the afterglow.
Everyone sleeps late, but as they trickle down to the kitchen for coffee and breakfast, the house feels full.
I’m up first to make coffee, and Alice soon follows.
Then Brady. And then Hannah and the girls, who slept in the attic again to make room for Christian.
I insisted he stay the night instead of going back to the Ferry Inn.
The afterparty lasted into the wee hours of the morning.
Alice had the forethought to know none of us would feel up to cooking in the morning, so she’d made cinnamon rolls the day before.
She serves them this morning with simple scrambled eggs.
As we all sit in the kitchen—some at the table, some at island stools—it feels like being wrapped in a blanket.
I’m surrounded by my family and friends.
These are my people.
And then there’s a knock at the door. Alice runs to answer it, then returns a moment later.
“It’s your mother,” she tells me. “She’s waiting for you on the porch.”
I steal a glance at Christian—my father—and then at Brady. I take a deep breath and quickly head outside, where I find her sitting on the swing.
“I know about Christian,” I say, sitting beside her.
She nods. “I’m not surprised. I didn’t exactly hide my shock. I knew you’d figure it out.”
“He’s here. Inside. He spent the night.”
She nods. “I’m not proud of my behavior, Maggie. It’s just . . .”
I take her hand. “I get it. I can’t imagine how overwhelmed you must have felt seeing a photo of him after all these years, and then knowing he was here. I don’t fault you for needing space, needing time.”
“Thank you.” She sighs. “I just never thought I would have to face him. The odds were just so slim. It was statistically possible, but not probable.”
My mother, the math teacher.
“How did he even track you down?” she asks.
I explain how Christian found me, why he came to the event.
“He wants to talk to you,” I say. “Would you be open to that?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t know. What would be the point?”
“Me,” I say. “I’m the point. He’s my father, and I want to have him in my life. I mean, he never knew about me. He never had the chance to be my father.”
“I told you, I didn’t know how to find him,” she argues.
“I know. But he found me. After all these years. You don’t think you owe him something? Not even a hello?”
My mother holds her jaw tight. “Okay,” she says. “Send him out.”
Somehow, in their twenty minutes on the porch, Christian charms my mother into joining us inside.
I have no idea what was said—I hope to get a play-by-play from one of them later—but I’m just so happy their conversation didn’t end with my mom flying home early.
The group conversation feels awkward at first, stilted.
But once Alice brings my mom a cup of coffee, and Hannah serves her a cinnamon roll, the mood shifts.
Comfort food. The fix for all that ails.
The banter continues, and our conversation quickly turns to last night.
We each share highlights and our favorite moments, and all the complimentary feedback from the guests. It was such a success, the mayor and festival committee want to make it an annual event, which will only further help the St. John’s Ferry tourism industry.
“Oh my god, you won’t believe this,” Katrine squeals, looking at her phone.
“What?” everyone seems to reply, our eyes laser-focused on her.
“We made the news,” she says.
It is exciting information, but not all that shocking. The event had already been written up in newspapers in major Midwest cities like Minneapolis and Chicago, and had made the local news segments there as well.
Katrine detects that we don’t quite understand what she means and tries again.
“The national news,” she says. “That big morning show. Today’s American.”
Now, we erupt in cheers.
“That’s amazing,” Brady says.
“Are you serious?” I ask.
Katrine nods and points at her phone. “I’m watching the clip right now.”
“Now I regret not owning a TV,” Alice says like an apology.
“We can watch it on my phone,” Katrine offers, and we all crowd in behind her.
The clip is short, but the farm and the food shine in every shot. The morning-show hosts even comment about the allure of the event, the importance of small farms, and of course, Ruth Rivers and Christian Knudsen.
“They certainly make a dynamic duo,” one of the morning-show hosts comments.
I steal a peek at my father and Ruth, who stand next to each other in the huddle, and see them lock eyes for a beat before turning their heads back to the screen.
A dynamic duo indeed.
We all watch the clip again, each on our own phones, unable to believe this brush with the national media. It buoys us the whole morning, as we return to real life.
“This just keeps getting better,” Katrine announces a few hours later. She’s been dealing with the aftermath of the media frenzy all morning. “We just got a huge donation online.”
“How huge?” I ask.
“Fifteen thousand dollars,” she says.
My eyes bulge. “Who donated that kind of money?”
“Must have been a corporation,” Brady adds.
She shakes her head. “It came from a woman in New York, Lucia Penderglass. And all she asks for in return is a tour of the house and farm.”
“Lucia?” Alice repeats.
I lock eyes with Alice, then we both turn to Katrine.
She grins. “Well, I think we found our Lucy.”