Chapter 1 #2
To the right of the foyer was a small kitchen with worn wood cabinetry. An empty beer bottle and a recent Lyng?r Grocery flyer, dated June 1992, sat on the oak countertop. Weird. The lawyer hadn’t said anything about a caretaker, but clearly someone had been there.
“Hello? Anybody here?” she called out.
One thing the lawyer had told her was that the place didn’t have a phone.
There’d be no calling for help. The cottage was so remote, any squatter could have moved in and who would even notice?
Her muscles tensed. She didn’t like the idea of being all alone in an isolated cottage in an unfamiliar place.
Thinking that maybe she hadn’t thought this through, she wondered about the crime rate in Lyng?r.
She cocked an ear to listen for approaching footsteps or the click of a door latch—although who was she trying to kid?
Even if the squeak of a floorboard did give her a teensy heads-up, it wouldn’t be enough to save her in this isolated cottage, if someone meant to harm her.
There definitely was creaking coming from somewhere in the cottage.
Worry ripped through her as she considered that perhaps the person who drank that beer was creeping around somewhere.
No, Ella told herself, old houses creaked and groaned, especially in the evening when the temperature dropped.
Was that cigarette ash in the kitchen sink?
She heard a scratching sound and checked the cabinet beneath the sink, peering inside for reassurance or cleaning supplies, but found only mouse droppings.
One more thing to take care of, unless someone on the island wanted to send over their cat.
She eyed the beer bottle again, still reasoning with herself.
She turned on the tap, but it startled her by belching a blast of rust-colored water.
That over, the most it could do was spit out a trickle of the same dirty water, which smelled of rotten eggs.
The can of soda in her backpack would have to do until tomorrow, when she could head back to the dockside store that she’d seen when getting off the ferry.
Tonight would be used to make lists: items to buy, repairs to make, questions to ask.
Near the very top of the list would be finding the best real estate agent in the area.
She also wondered if anyone might remember her mother; maybe someone here had spent time with Sara before she died.
Perhaps she could find someone who could tell her more about the Nilsens of Ringpynten. There was so much she wanted to know.
In the sitting room, Ella drew back the faded curtains.
Choppy waters bordered the cottage on two sides, making her anxious.
She wanted to be back in the safety of her city apartment, watching MTV’s House of Style, and sketching her fashion designs .
. . if only she could be home doing any of that instead of staying here in the Land of Too Much Water.
She moved to the far wall to examine the grandfather clock.
Its pendulum was still, but like much of the rest of the house, it had a nautical flair.
Just above the dial was a painting of a rocky seascape with a lighthouse.
It was signed Sailor Nilsen in navy cursive.
Perhaps she’d inherited her artistic talents from her ancestors; she sure didn’t share their love of the water.
Near the brick fireplace, her eye was caught by the rooster-red floor-to-ceiling china cabinet, which was painted with strikingly colorful, fantastical-looking flowers, birds, and scrolls.
She ran her fingers over them. Hilda had owned a breadboard with a similar decorative pattern, which she’d called rosemaling—a traditional Norwegian folk art.
It was one of the few things Hilda had brought to Colorado, though she’d refused to tell Ella why it was special to her.
Ella thought she’d add the cabinet design to her sketchbook.
Perhaps this trip would inspire designs for her future clothing line.
But she couldn’t even think about that until she got her financial situation settled.
If the cottage didn’t sell quickly, she wouldn’t be able to pay the mortgage on her shop, or the rent on her apartment.
Also, her 1970 VW Kombi Bus needed a new engine.
It was permanently parked in front of her store until she could afford that.
She darkly thought that at least the bus was big enough for her to move into, if it came to that, and ruefully recalled how Hilda had truly hated that sunflower-yellow “hippie-dippie” van.
Ella eased open the cabinet door and found three shelves crammed with delicate pink-peony china, a canister of peanuts, and a bag full of bear-shaped chocolates.
The expiration dates on the snacks hadn’t passed, so she pried open the lid on the peanuts, scooped a handful, and shoveled them into her mouth.
She’d been so racked with travel jitters that she’d eaten only crackers since leaving Boulder twenty hours earlier.
Temporarily setting aside her fear about whoever had been in the house, she decided that she could just about hug the person who’d left the food.
Someone had also left an unopened half gallon of twenty-five-year-old scotch in a round bottle with a silver hammer logo. She thought she’d replace the snacks and booze later, but then reminded herself that the cottage and everything in it belonged to her.
She cracked open the scotch and took a sip. It was smoky and tasted like dried cherries—close to perfection, a nine out of ten. She preferred her drinks neat, as opposed to the sugary cocktails that she was always mixing at the chophouse back home.
She took another sip, then ventured farther with the bottle and chocolate, looking for the bedrooms. At the upper-story landing she found three, each of them small with plain furniture and paintings of boats at sea.
She suddenly thought of her grandfather, whom she hadn’t known.
He had died early, from cancer. Surely he must have spent the summers here too.
She wondered where Hilda and Sara had slept.
What felt like a flutter of wings brushed Ella’s throat.
If her mom hadn’t died in childbirth, would she have sung Ella to sleep as a baby?
Perhaps a sweet cradlesong, like the one Hilda played on the piano when Ella was little—“Den Fyrste Songen.” “The First Song.” The melody was soothing and lilting, and the lyrics made Ella think of a mother standing over a cradle, her heartfelt lullaby calming her crying daughter.
Ella walked back down to retrieve her luggage, dragged it upstairs, and settled into the room closest to the staircase.
She raised the blind and, in the last of the day’s light, saw waves breaking against the granite dock below.
She squeezed the aquamarine pendant dangling from a long strand of beads around her neck.
She’d recently read in a book that seafarers wore aquamarine as a protective talisman.
She gladly bought into this belief, especially since she’d decided to say goodbye to Mormor by scattering her ashes on her property perched above the sea.
How did people get around this craggy island? Ella wondered how she’d transport all the supplies she needed from the store. She certainly couldn’t haul them back to Ringpynten in one trip, not without a mule. The hilly path to Lyng?r Grocery took fifteen minutes on foot.
Her eyes fell on the two boats overturned on the lawn, still bathed in light. Now they made even more sense, but there was no way she could get around in one on her own.
Turning away from the sea view, she nearly choked when she noticed the painting mounted above the dresser: It was of a woman, seemingly in her early twenties, cradling an infant in her arms. Both the woman and the baby had almond eyes, red hair, and wide mouths—features that mirrored Ella’s own.
She pushed up on her tiptoes, leaned in, and lifted the painting from the wall.
Her heart slammed in her chest as she took in the brushstrokes and the brilliant use of light.
The style and technique were quite similar to the painting of Ringpynten that her grandma’s lawyer had sent her.
But this one was signed Hilda Nilsen and inscribed:
Lunch with Sara and Ella at Frogner Park
Oslo, Norway
May 1963
Ella reread the date in confusion. How could that be?
It was two months after Sara had passed away giving birth.
Maybe it was painted posthumously, as a tribute.
Had Mormor tried to make herself forget, to comfort herself with this illusion?
That didn’t seem likely to Ella, based on what her grandma had told Ella about not holding on to the past. Ella hated to question her grandma like this, but she’d been truly shocked to learn about the secrets that had come to light since Mormor’s death.
If she’d hidden the cottage, was it unreasonable to think there could be more secrets still hidden away?
Was Hilda hiding something about Sara? If Sara was still alive in May, as the painting suggested, then what really happened to her?
And why would Hilda have kept it a secret all these years?
Also, Mormor never said she was an artist.