Chapter 29
Twenty-Nine
Tobin watched the moss-covered terrain of Iceland emerge beneath the clouds as her plane descended into Reykjavík. She’d spent the last six hours—like the last four months of her life—failing miserably to distract herself from thoughts of Grier.
She sighed loudly, disturbing the kind elderly woman seated beside her.
The woman glanced over, torn between offering comfort or scolding her in the way only a sage grandmother could.
The look made Tobin miss LoLo. She could really use some of LoLo’s comfort cooking right now—and probably a bit of her tough-love, swift-kick- in-the-pants kind of pep talk.
Tobin understood she’d been weak. She understood that when Grier needed her most, she’d balked and tried to run.
So, she’d spent the entirety of her flight oscillating between berating herself for her cowardice and devising a plan to never let it happen again.
The plan was simple. Be present. Be vulnerable. Be hers—in whatever capacity she required.
Tobin had almost walked away from the best thing in her life. She wasn’t going to do that again.
They’d slept fitfully in each other’s arms last night.
The need to be close—to envelope each other in skin and heat and presence—had been overwhelming.
When sleep finally captured them, they dozed restlessly, a tangle of arms and legs.
The woke only when Tobin’s alarm sounded, signaling it was time for her to leave.
Tobin hated leaving Grier—now more than ever. And she hated it even more knowing what the next week would hold. She accepted that her presence wouldn’t necessarily make anything easier. But her absence would carry its own weight.
They’d talked about canceling her trip—she’d genuinely wanted to stay. But Grier wouldn’t hear of it.
So, she left. Temporarily. Because now, more than ever, she knew she would never leave Grier. She would always find her way back to her.
She pulled her carry-on from the overhead bin and joined the train of passengers exiting the plane.
Moving in a daze, half asleep, she fought to stay upright.
She needed sleep. She just hoped that Njáll and his family would understand if she bowed out early tonight.
But she had hours to get through before then.
Njáll was waiting for her just past Customs. He enveloped her in a giant hug, and she sagged into it. He didn’t ask—didn’t press. But his smile said he knew something was wrong.
They’d shared much of their private lives with each other during their trainings—each knew the other would talk when they were ready.
She used the silence to send a quick text to Grier, letting her know she had landed safely and had been collected by Njáll. It was close to three in the morning back home, and Tobin had made Grier promise to silence her phone and get some real sleep while Tobin was in the air.
But Grier had made her counter-promise: Text me as soon as you find Njáll. And we’re FaceTiming the minute it’s a decent hour.
It wasn’t a difficult promise to make—or keep. Tobin would be eager to see Grier’s face, even if it only made her more homesick.
Their first stop was tradition: coffee and a pastry from the Laugavegur district. They grabbed their coffee and traditional Icelandic kleina from the counter and stepped out into the cool late summer air. The breeze off the ocean, and the scent
of salt, sugar, and espresso began to stir Tobin awake.
They strolled slowly, chatting amiably, their voices low in the quiet lull of the morning. The tension of the last couple days started to slip away, carried off on the wind.
“Let’s head home,” Njáll said, nudging her with his elbow. “Mamma’s excited to see you—and feed you!”
He knew her love for food was half the reason she made this trip each year.
“You should’ve told me she wanted to feed me! I wouldn’t have eaten that second pastry,” Tobin scolded him, grinning.
Njáll nudged her shoulder, gently. “I’m certain you knew she would be feeding you. And it was the third pastry that is gonna be the problem!”
“I know!” she groaned. “I have a serious issue! But I’m only here once a year, and those kleina call to me from across the ocean. Nothing back home compares!”
She shook her head in affable contrition while Njáll rolled his eyes.
They arrived at Njáll’s family home and stepped into a kitchen that was warm, cozy, and scented with simmering meat and rising yeast. Salka, Njáll’s mamma, sat at the kitchen table, sipping coffee.
Less agile in her seventies, she didn’t rise to greet Tobin—but nevertheless enveloped her in a hug from her seat, squeezing the air from Tobin’s lungs in an embrace that rivaled LoLo’s.
“Tobin, you’ve been away too long. I was beginning to think you’d forgotten my cooking.” Her sharp eyes flicked to the crumbs on Tobin’s sweatshirt. “But I see you’ve already indulged in some kleina.”
“Just a palette cleanser, Salka!” Tobin said with a wry smile.
“No one holds a candle to your kleina. I just wanted to patronize some local bakers before your cooking imprisons me for the week!” She pulled out a chair and sat beside the family’s matriarch.
“What recipes do you have in store for us? Harrow’s reminded me at least ten times to bring back some recipes for her to enjoy. ”
“Psh, Harrow. When are you going to bring her with you?” Salka castigated Tobin. “I do not like having so many foreign daughters I cannot hug in person.”
She’d adopted both Tobin and Harrow as her own long ago, despite never having met Harrow in person. Over the years, they FaceTimed regularly during Tobin’s visits, and Harrow had simply become part of the package.
“She knows the invitation is open,” Tobin said with a small smile. “She works so much—it’s hard to get her away.”
“You girls. Always working.” Salka shook her head. “You need to remember to live.”
“Okay, Mamma,” Njáll interrupted, catching the flicker of pain on Tobin’s face. “Tobin just got here. Let’s let her settle in before the lecturing starts, hmm?”
Salka relented with a harumph, but Tobin barely heard her. The admonishment had already triggered a memory of LoLo’s same directive all those months ago.
Tobin felt a pair of thin arms wrap around her from behind. She smiled, knowing it was Dagny, and her heart swelled with the love and easy familiarity this family radiated around her. She patted Dagny’s arms, then squeezed them to her chest.
“Well, hello, Dag. I missed you, too!”
“I’m so excited you’re here.” Dagny released her and slid her lithe, lanky frame into the adjacent chair. “I’ve been working on your design and made a few changes I want to show you. I’m so excited— it’s brilliant… A traditional lopapeysa sleeve! You’re an Icelander at heart, Tobin.”
Dagny was nearly a decade younger than Njáll, born after years of fertility struggles. But she was wise, and a skilled tattooist. She had inked Tobin several times before, her skill and vision evolving with every encounter.
“I’m really excited about this one, too—it’s surreal, finishing the sleeve with this design.
” She began rubbing her left bicep and forearm, the motion triggering memories of the first time Grier’s hands had touched her.
Her heart squeezed in her chest, the intensity of her longing for Grier already settling into her bones.
She caught the intrigued look on Dagny’s face and offered a guilty smile, the understanding between women already giving her away.
She hadn’t told Njáll or Dagny about Grier yet, but there would be time for that in the days ahead.
What she feared more was not being able to stop talking about Grier once she started.
The reality around her returned in the quiet hum of conversation between Salka and her children.
Njáll pulled a fresh loaf of rúgbraue from the oven, still steaming, and set it in front of her beside a container of whipped butter.
Although rúgbraue was traditionally baked in the ground using geothermal heat, the convenience of a modern oven was difficult to overcome—especially for the elderly.
“Salka, if you’re looking to adopt a third child, you know I’m willing!” Tobin winked at the matron, beaming as she heaped copious amounts of butter onto the warm bread.
She couldn’t stop the indecent groan that escaped her throat when the first bite hit her tastebuds, the melted butter dripping down the back of her throat. She didn’t miss the pleased look of delight that lit Salka’s eyes when she finally opened her own.
“Psh. You are family, Tobin. Outlandish flattery or not, you belong to us—and to this land—as much as we do,” Salka stated firmly, her eyes fierce and intentional. She was earnest, and wanted Tobin to know it.
Tobin grinned around a mouthful of bread. It was a miracle she didn’t gain weight after her visits, despite practically tripling her carbohydrate intake while she was here.
Both Njáll and Dagny had chosen to remain in their childhood home to care for their mother.
Salka’s health had declined in recent years, accelerating after their father’s passing seven years earlier.
Each time Tobin visited, the matriarch seemed a little more feeble and a little less active—but her mind remained as sharp as ever.
Tobin thrived under her guidance, acting as an extension of the woman’s hands while she learned to cook their traditional meals and breads.
Salka cooked and baked with an artistry that nourished Tobin’s soul as much as her stomach.
They used meats and techniques either rare or nonexistent in the U.S.
, and Tobin’s palate expanded with each savory serving.
She always brought the recipes home and hosted a night of culinary re-creation for Harrow, Eddie, LoLo, and anyone else with an adventurous palate.