Chapter 15
It’s been a week since Lane and I had “the talk,” and about that long since we’ve spoken to each other beyond a few necessary words here and there.
It’s been pure agony.
While the rest of the house sleeps, I shuffle into the kitchen for my wake-up cup of coffee before heading to the bakery. My finger automatically finds the on button even in the dark.
A moment later, I realize it’s not gurgling or making any noise to indicate it’s brewing. I flip on the light to find a handwritten note that says Undergoing maintenance. Consider meeting your spouse for coffee later. -The Management
This looks distinctly like the work of a pair of ten-year-olds trying to disguise their penmanship.
Kai and Mya. Those little troublemakers … and matchmakers.
Yesterday, I found my bedroom door elaborately rigged with strings and bells that chimed every time I tried to exit—apparently, their version of an alarm system to prevent me from leaving before Lane.
The day before that, allegedly, there was a spill on one of the couch cushions, so he and I were smooshed together while we watched a movie.
They’re not exactly subtle about their agenda.
“Very funny,” I call out to the house in general. “But I still have to get to work!”
Kai appears in the doorway, looking far too innocent for someone who’s been orchestrating pranks. “Need help finding anything, Nina?”
“Just my patience,” I mutter, plugging in the coffee maker.
And maybe some normal ten-year-olds who don’t treat their guardians like characters in a romantic comedy.
There’s nothing funny about the distance between us or the way I miss him even though we’re under the same roof.
But the kids are suspicious. I have a feeling they’re onto us.
“It’s four in the morning. You should be in bed.”
“We’re just helping.” Mya materializes beside her brother with that same too innocent expression. “You and Uncle Lane have been weird and sad since the festival.”
“We haven’t been weird and sad,” I protest.
“You made twelve dozen cookies yesterday. Your friend, Miss Bree, said you’re using flour and sugar to process your feelings.”
“I live life one recipe at a time.”
“And Lane spent extra time at practice,” Mya adds.
They’re not wrong. Ever since our conversation about having some space, Lane and I have been tiptoeing around each other like polite strangers sharing a house.
We’re cordial during meals, all-business when discussing the twins’ needs, and absolutely miserable at pretending we don’t care about each other.
I even stood by when he finally was able to get in touch with his sister, admonishing her for deserting her children.
She responded that since he’s married, he’s better equipped to handle them.
His shoulders sagged like she’s a lost cause.
Then, when she suggested we all come visit Fiji for vacation, his hand found its way into mine, likely so he didn’t punch the wall. But still.
It’s like we can’t help but drift together and collide all at once.
Not only that, but Lane is everywhere.
My carefully curated, minimalist, Skandi-style living space features hockey sticks propped in random corners.
As anticipated, his protein powder containers and supplements line the counter in the kitchen next to the blender.
Even our laundry goes in the same basket.
But the strangest part isn’t any of those things—it’s how warm and welcome it feels to have Lane’s presence filling up spaces I didn’t even realize felt empty, like my home was just waiting for someone to make it feel lived-in instead of merely occupied.
Are we playing house, are we simply roommates, or are we doing a lousy job at trying to deny there is something more?
Using the kitchen a coping strategy isn’t helping. My cookies are overdone, my scones dry, and the cherry cordial muffins I attempted ended up in the trash.
As for the grat chat with Bree, her pep talk about deserving good things is slowly rising like a good sourdough starter. The problem is, knowing I deserve something and allowing it, then receiving it, are two completely different things.
After insisting the kids go back to sleep and opening the Busy Bee for the morning rush, I find myself staring at the four dozen “confusion cookies” I made before dawn.
They’re perfectly shaped, beautifully decorated, and absolutely pointless because I’m too distracted to remember what I put in them—chocolate and pistachio, but was the spice cardamom? Nutmeg? Both?
Mrs. Rice comes in for her usual order and looks at me with concern in her eyes. “Oh, honey,” she says, patting my hand across the counter. “You look like you need more than caffeine. Everything okay with that handsome husband of yours?”
“It’s—” I let out a breath, not even able to tell her that it’s complicated, my standard response to everything lately. Because is it really?
“You know what I’ve learned in almost forty years of marriage? Sometimes you have to stop thinking and start trusting your heart. Let it be fun. Light. Easy.”
Just for that, she gets a Nina dozen of Linzer cookies to take home to that husband of hers. I truly have the sweetest customers and they deserve a little something extra now and then. But giving away baked goods isn’t going to pay my lease.
While I struggle with a stubborn batch of dough that won’t proof, my thoughts drift to Mrs. Rice’s three simple words.
Fun. Light. Easy.
The last time I felt that way was on New Year’s Eve, when I danced with Lane in an entirely unexpected and carefree moment I’d cast all my inhibitions and worries away. Too bad I didn’t leave them in “last year.”
Later that afternoon, alone in my empty bakery and I start to close for the day, I look up at the framed photo of Bibi. I wonder what she’d say to me about this situation. The fact that I don’t know makes salty liquid brim in my eyes.
Staring at the relative mess I made of the kitchen earlier, actually, I do know exactly what she’d tell me. She’d say, Clean up, dust off, and get out there.
But out where?
Now, happy tears bring a smile to my face.
Even after the injury that took me off the ice, she was always encouraging me to get back out there, to push past my fears.
She told me that it’s as difficult and straightforward as putting one foot in front of the other.
To take a step boldly toward the next right thing.
Difficult for sure. But straightforward too, and certainly not impossible.
I may have struck out with playing hockey for the women’s league and never made it to space as an astronaut, but that doesn’t mean I can’t have new goals and dreams. Exactly what those are, play peekaboo at the edge of my awareness.
However, right now I need perspective, fresh air, and maybe a minor miracle. The bell above the door chimes again. I assume it’s a last-minute customer, but when I look up from wiping down the counter, my heart stops.
It’s my father.
Viggo Bruun stands in the doorway of the Busy Bee, looking exactly like he does in our video calls—silver hair, broad shoulders, a familiar intensity in his eyes that once made opposing teams nervous. Except now he’s here, in person, in Cobbiton.
“Papa?” My voice comes out as barely a whisper.
“Nina.” He steps inside, and suddenly the bakery feels too small—I still haven’t told him about Lane. It’s mostly because I’m afraid of what he’ll think of me for breaking the promise.
I blink a few times, half-expecting him to disappear like a mirage. “What are you—?”
But before the question is out of my mouth, I rush into his arms for a long-overdue hug. We missed Christmas this year, since I was so busy with the bakery, and feeling his enormous arms around me is better than any gift I could’ve received.
When we part, his mouth twitches with what might be amusement. “I saw a video. A viral one, I believe they call it. My daughter, married to a hockey player. On a stage. Under hypnosis.” His accent is as thick as ever.
My stomach drops. “Papa, I can explain—”
He holds up a hand. “You promised me you would never date a hockey player.”
Here it comes. The disappointment. The lecture about broken promises. I’m one big knot inside.
“And you didn’t,” he continues, and now there’s definitely a smile playing at his lips. “You married one instead. Skipped dating entirely. Very efficient.”
I stare at him. “Are you ... are you joking right now?” The man is very stoic and it’s hard to gauge his sense of humor, especially with the big, bushy beard.
“I’m a father who made his daughter promise something out of fear and bitterness.” His expression grows serious. “That was wrong of me. What happened with your mother and me was our failure, not yours to carry.”
“But the promise—?” I start.
He shakes his head. “Was me being a fool.” He looks up at Bibi’s photo on the wall, and his voice softens. “Your grandmother told me as much before she died. Said I was letting my past influence your future.” He looks back at me. “She was right, as always.”
Salty liquid brims in my eyes. “Bibi said that?”
“She said many things. Mostly about how I needed to trust that I raised you to make good choices. That you have her strength and my stubbornness, and that would serve you well.” He pauses with a chuckle.
I don’t even realize I’m crying until Papa pulls me into another hug.
“I saw you in that video, looking at him,” he murmurs. “You looked happy. Truly happy. That’s all I ever wanted for you.”
“Thank you, Papa,” I whisper.
I hear a sniffle from him and then he says, “On my way into town, I saw a rink set up in the square. Will you skate with your old man?”