6. Freya
My father is already at the table when I enter the private alcove. This is where we always meet, because it’s the only place in the city that guarantees we won’t be interrupted by his fans. We embrace long and hard.
“Sakna bin,” I whisper.
Nothing beats being engulfed in one of my father’s bear-like hugs. And after another extended absence, it’s important for me to let him know I missed him. It’s become our tradition. I understand why we have to be apart, but it’s never easy. It’s the reason the Loss painting had such an impact on me earlier. Loss can be felt in different ways, and for me, it’s saying goodbye to my father.
“Sakna bin lika,” he replies, telling me he misses me too.
We don’t have a typical father-daughter relationship, not that I’m even sure there is such a thing. But our relationship was certainly nothing like that of my friends and their fathers. Throughout my life, we’ve only seen each other once or sometimes twice a year. Yet I’ve never doubted that when we need him, he’ll come, like this brief visit to see my mother. He told me once that we are his anchors in his otherwise crazy world, and I think I’m okay with that. It was harder to understand when I was a child, but I get it now that I’m an adult following my own dreams. Well, maybe not following my dreams, but trying to find a path to them.
We place our orders and get straight down to catching up on each other’s life. With these fleeting visits, I’ve learned not to waste a minute of our time together on small talk.
“You haven’t sent me any photos of your paintings lately. Have you been busy?” he asks. We might not spend a lot of time together face-to-face, but our three-way WhatsApp chat group is very active. And he’s right. I haven’t sent any pictures lately, mostly because I’ve not completed any.
I drop my gaze to the tablecloth, drawing circles with my finger over it, feeling like a little girl again who doesn’t want to admit she didn’t do her homework. Not that homework was ever one of the discussions we had when I was growing up, because I loved school. “It’s hard finding the time with my gallery job and things.”
“Freya, I don’t know what the things are, but you need to make time. Painting is your passion, your dream. Don’t give up on that.”
Damn, it’s like he just read my earlier thoughts. “I know. I like living in Dublin, but I don’t want to be stuck selling other people’s artwork for the rest of my life. One day I want my own little gallery selling my paintings.” I don’t add that I’ve been looking into a community of artists in Wales that support each other in establishing careers in the art world. It would give me the opportunity to spend more time painting and the chance to exhibit again. That’s something I haven’t done since I left Reykjavik three years ago.
“If you’d let me, I can help you.” My father has offered to help me financially at different times in the past, but I want to do this on my own. I need to know that my success is my own, not just because of my father’s fame.
“Pabbi, I need to do this my way. Just like you found your success your way.”
He nods but doesn’t have a chance to say any more as a waiter arrives with our lunch. And as I pick up my fork, we move on to another topic.
“Tell me, who’s this guy you’ve been meeting?”
With a smile on my lips, I roll my eyes. “Not you too.”
He laughs a deep, rumbling belly laugh, and hearing it feels as good as one of his hugs.
“Please tell me you’re not going to start poking into my love life like Mum and Embla.”
“Not unless you want me to.” He gives me one of his smiles that had women swooning at concerts and chasing him around the world.
“Good, because then I might have to start asking you about yours,” I joke before digging my fork into my smoked salmon salad. “I guess Mum told you the story about the bag mix-up.”
He nods.
My fork clanks against the plate as I set it back down and lean forward on my elbows. “His name is Rory, and he seems like a nice guy, really interesting to talk to. I like him, but it’s only for the weekend because he returns home to Edinburgh on Monday. Showing him around is fun. But please don’t tell Mum any of that. She’ll make more of it than it is.”
“It always amuses me how much your mother wants other people to be in relationships when she has chosen to live her life as free as a bird.”
I nod. “I know. I used to think she didn’t want to meet anyone because of me. But when I asked her, she told me she was happy being single and that another man would just complicate her life.”
My father shakes his head, his eyes lowered. “I asked her to marry me.”
“Really?” I don’t know why I never knew this.
He nods slowly, his smile gone. “When we found out she was pregnant, then again after you were born, and every couple of years after that until you were about ten.” He looks down at his still-untouched fish and chips. I’m not sure what’s bothering him. It’s not like him not to dig into his favorite food.
“I didn’t know.” I reach my hand out to rest it on his. “She was always so upset when you left. It would take her weeks to bounce back to normal.”
He looks up at me. “Really? She never told me that.”
I shrug in confusion. I don’t understand my parents’ relationship, and it seems like my father doesn’t either.
“Pabbi, why did you keep asking her after she said no the first time?”
His shoulders draw up, then drop down again. “I love her. Always have. She’s the one person in the world who truly knows me, and that’s special. I used to dream of us being a real family, even though I knew it was never going to be possible. At least not the way I would have wanted. Your mother and I have often talked about it. If we’d married young, we probably wouldn’t have lasted. I’ll be the first to admit I’m a selfish bastard. Our friendship would have been lost, and we needed to be in each other’s life more than we needed to be married.”
My heart breaks for him. I know traveling the world was often lonely because he’d call my mother and talk to her for hours.
My father turns his hand over, and I take a proper hold of it. The callused fingers from years of playing guitar are rough but also warm and comforting.
“I think you’re the least selfish person I know when it comes to Mum and me. I love you, Pabbi.”
“Love you too.” He draws in a deep breath, and it shudders out.
“This moment isn’t going to be a new bestselling song, is it?” I ask, making an effort to lighten the atmosphere.
He chokes out a laugh. “Not a bad idea.” He has written a couple of songs about us over the years, and each time, it fills my heart when I hear them played. Which—in the case of my favorite song and one of the band’s best-selling—is frequent.
Lunch with my father is an enjoyable treat, but sadly, over too soon. His visits will never feel long enough.
He filled me in on the recent album he worked on in Los Angeles, a debut he is producing for an American band, and one he just finished for a globally recognized female singer. Apparently, she was a real diva.
To the world, my father is a famous producer and an aging, sometimes-touring rock star. But to me, he is just Pabbi, and I love him. I only wish we could spend more time together like this.
“I guess I should be getting back to your mother. I promised we’d spend the afternoon together, and you know how she hates being stuck indoors when the weather is so nice out.”
“Oh yes. She’s already bored, and it’s only been a couple of days. Those poor nurses trying to keep her in one place.”
He laughs. “She tried to convince me to help her get out of the bed this morning. I’ve done some crazy, wild things in my time, but I refused to do that. I had to tell the nurses to keep a close eye on her in case she tries to do it on her own.”
“That woman,” I declare with an exaggerated eye roll.
His deep, rumbling chuckle echoes around the alcove. “She’s one of a kind. Just like our beautiful, talented daughter.”
“Thanks, Pabbi.”
One day I hope to find that same kind of love my parents share, someone who truly knows me. The only difference is that I want my life partner to be beside me when I go to sleep at night and our bodies entwined when we wake in the morning.
He stands, pulling a cap from his coat pocket and tugging it low over his face. His disguise of sorts. I rise to give him a hug.
“Elska big lika,” he says, he says, squeezing me tighter, and I feel the embrace all the way to my heart.
“I love you too,” I reply, releasing him. The ache in my chest after another goodbye is sadly familiar as I watch him leave.
Embla slides onto the bench seat beside me, her arm winding around my shoulders. My head, too heavy to hold upright, falls to rest on hers, and I shed a few tears. We don’t speak; there’s no need. She knows I hate saying goodbye to my father, not knowing when I’ll see him again.
***
The bar”s loud chatter quiets behind me as I pull myself together and step outside. I stop, staring but not really seeing the harbor in the distance. I don’t want to return to my mother’s empty house to sit alone. I could call one of my friends, but there are only a couple who still live in Iceland and only one who is here in Reykjavik. He runs a bar and is working this weekend, so we plan on catching up later in the week.
I wonder what Rory is doing. It’s funny how my thoughts turn readily to the Scotsman I only met yesterday. Besides, he did suggest earlier that we meet again tonight, so I’m sure asking if he’s free now won’t be a problem. I pull my phone from the pocket of my favorite blue-denim jeans.
Me:Hi, I’ve had an idea of a place to visit that combines your love of buildings with my art.
Three little dots appear almost immediately, and I hold my breath, hoping my teasing text will tempt him to spend the afternoon with me.
Rory:Tell me where and when.
A megawatt smile stretches my cheeks wide at his response, but unfortunately, I look up at the wrong time. Some random guy passing by seems to think the smile belongs to him and slows, so I whip around and walk in the opposite direction. When I’m far enough away, I text Rory the address of Asmundarsafn. I don’t tell him that we are meeting at the Reykjavik Art Museum, leaving that as a surprise. The building that houses the museum is sure to already be on his places-to-visit list, and I’m hoping he doesn’t recognize the address.
It”s about a twenty-minute walk, and with the early afternoon sun at its strongest, I set off. Summer in Iceland is short and never really gets too warm, even in July, the hottest month. With it being early August and the sky a crystal-clear blue, the sun barely has enough heat to not need a sweater. Living in Dublin has warmer temperatures, but my heart will always feel at home in this quirky city.
My phone buzzes with an incoming text when I’m about halfway.
Rory:I’m at Asmundarsafn. Did you know this was one of the buildings I wanted to see?
Me:I guessed. smiling emoji>
I quicken my pace, eager to see him again, even though it’s only been a few hours. Things seemed to be heating up between us at Kjarvalsstadir, and I can’t wait to see where it goes.
What would it be like to be pressed close to his magnificently muscled body without the hindrance of clothing? He’s an alpha male in his prime, not like the guys my own age. I know how good he felt when he walked up behind me and our bodies came together with a magnetic force of attraction that was impossible to resist. I could pretend that he caught me in a weak, emotional moment, but the truth is, I wanted him to hold me. I wanted my body molded to his. And now, I want a whole lot more. Not only because it’s fun being able to share my city with someone who appreciates its unique beauty as much as me. But this connection I feel for Rory goes much deeper. It’s Rory, the man with his multilayered personality, that I want to know. I want to peel back each layer and inspect them one by one, learning what makes his mind and body tick.
The remaining distance flies by with thoughts of all the things I could do with him, most of them dirty, sexy thoughts. And by the time I see him standing near the entrance, I’m a seriously hot mess.
Even by Icelandic standards, Rory stands noticeably tall against the busload of visitors milling around him. His shoulders stretch the plain navy T-shirt wide, hugging the muscular, toned body underneath. I would love to run my hands down his chest. Not right now, but certainly later.
Our gazes find each other, and this time, the smile that stretches across my face finds the man it’s meant for. I don’t hesitate to greet him with a kiss on his cheek, and I like the way his arm winds around me, his palm resting possessively in the center of my back.
“Ceud mile failte,” he says in what I’m assuming is Scottish Gaelic, and with his accent, I melt a little closer against the curve of his arm.
“And what might that mean?”
He winks before whispering close to my ear. “A hundred thousand welcomes.”
I blink a couple of times, and when I lift my gaze back to his, our eyes meet and hold. In this moment, it feels like an invisible twine is wrapping around us, a bond to last a lifetime. We’re no longer two strangers thrown together by circumstance or new friends just hanging out. There’s something more going on between us, and if I’m being honest with myself, it was there from the very first time our gazes met.
“Takk fyrir sidast,” I reply, my voice dropping lower. “That means ‘thanks for the last time.’ We say that when we are meeting a friend again who we enjoyed spending time with.”
“You enjoyed spending time with me this morning?”
My only response is a soft laugh as I take a step back. His arm loosens before dropping to his side, and I reach to hold his hand. Instinctively, I know he doesn’t want to let go either. And when he squeezes my fingers gently, a self-satisfied grin stretches across my face. He feels this too.
I look up at the unusual form before us, two large sculptures seeming to stand guard on either side of the entrance. “Let’s walk around the outside to feed your passion. Then it’s inside to view the latest art exhibition for me.” We leave the people behind and stroll across the grass. “This building was designed by the sculptor ásmundur Sveinsson as his studio.”
“Aye, he worked with an Icelandic architect, Einar Sveinsson. He was part of a movement in Iceland called functionalism. It started in the nineteen-thirties, and it was all about simplicity.”
We swap information back and forth like it’s the most natural thing in the world. A few more days together and we’d probably be finishing each other’s sentences.
About halfway around, we stop. It’s silent here except for the lonely squawks of a couple of gulls flying overhead, and there’s not another soul in sight. I squint up at the building. “The dome doesn’t seem very functional.”
“Aye, right,” Rory agrees, standing as still as one of the nearby abstract statues, his face a carved mask of concentration as he takes in every detail of the structure.
“Are you getting inspired to incorporate domes into your own Nordic designs?”
“Hmm. I can’t say it’s something I’ve considered.” He touches his finger to his chin like he is seriously contemplating the suggestion.
I bump my shoulder into his. “Maybe a dome on those ordinary houses would make them less boring.”
A laugh rumbles up from his chest and is released into the light breeze. It fills my own with a similar bubble of happiness. This is exactly what I needed after having to say goodbye to my father.
Slowly, we continue our circuit, stopping occasionally to look at the large sculptures dotted around the grounds. Back at the front, we go inside. I’ve spent countless hours viewing the Kjarval paintings housed in this museum, and I recognize each stroke of the artist’s brush. It’s like looking through an album of family portraits and remembering the first time I viewed them. I afford each canvas a thorough inspection, and Rory stands beside me, doing the same, only moving on to the next when I do.
At the end, we enter a Norse mythology and Icelandic folklore exhibition. He stops in front of a painting of a strange, humped sea creature.
“It looks a bit like the Loch Ness Monster,” Rory pronounces. And as we continue through the exhibition, we search for more similarities between the folklore of Iceland and the stories he remembers from his childhood. Scottish and Icelandic cultures are both filled with mythical creatures. Where I grew up with elves and trolls, Rory’s stories were more about shape-shifting spirits living in the lochs and seas. The traditions are surprisingly similar.
Sometimes our hands link, sometimes our bodies brush against each other, but with each touch and the more time I spend in his presence, the attraction grows.
Initially, it seemed like we had nothing in common other than the same taste in luggage. He is Scottish, and I’m Icelandic. He grew up with four siblings, and I was an only child. He has a stable professional career, even if he doesn’t like what he’s doing, while I’m still trying to find my place in the world.
However, in just one day, I’ve learned that there is so much more that we share. I’m falling for Rory, which is probably a bad idea, given he’s only here for the weekend.
But I’ve never had a bad idea I didn’t end up liking.