Chapter 3 #2
Ella’s hair was just like her mother’s and Hilda was going to take it away.
She tried to shield herself but Hilda wouldn’t allow it.
Ella was able to grab one wisp of hair before it fell to the floor.
She hid it under her salon bib, then cupped it in her pocket and brought it home, where she placed it in her empty Minnie Mouse PEZ dispenser for safekeeping.
Although she knew it was her own hair, Hilda’s offhand comparison had brought her about as close to her mother as she’d ever gotten. She pretended the hair was Sara’s.
She turned over the photograph taken at G?sholmen again.
She looked more closely at the shoes. They lay side by side on the blanket, which was spread out near a big, slanted boulder.
Maybe the men’s loafers belonged to Sara’s boyfriend.
It was possible, considering the word sweetheart written there.
Or maybe the loafers belonged to her father.
Her father’s identity remained a mystery to Ella, although Hilda had identified him as a Brit who was just passing through, crewing on a yacht.
“A good-for-nothing, a wandering traveler!” was how she put it once.
Was G?sholmen within walking distance? She put this question on her list of things to ask when she got to the store.
She needed plenty of food and supplies too.
There’d better be a water taxi service to help her haul everything to Ringpynten, she vowed, because the boats in her yard would never see her backside unless she was walking away.
She put her ever-growing lists into her satchel. As she shut the door behind her and stepped outside, a glittering light drew her gaze to an empty whiskey bottle and a metal lighter on the stone wall. Were those there when she’d arrived yesterday?
The hair rose on her arms as her thoughts returned to someone lurking around the cottage. She didn’t want to think about that, so she focused on the heather carpeting the ground. She’d like to find a fabric in that exact hue—a soft, soothing pinkish purple—and make a dress to match the flowers.
As Ella headed toward Mia’s store, she marveled at Ring Point’s garden.
Spearmint and dill flowered in glazed ceramic pots near a plum tree.
Next to them were several roses with tangerine-colored pods—probably for making jelly, as Hilda loved to do each summer.
Leafy rhubarb, carrots, and staked peas thrived in the well-tended vegetable garden, which was the size of a large sandbox.
A porcupine waddled around the lingonberry bushes, which were draped in ripe red fruit.
Those berries reminded Ella of Christmas Eve dinner with Hilda: lingonberry gl?gg—no one could make spiced mulled wine like Mormor—and nissegr?t, the hot rice pudding Ella would always think of as Santa’s porridge.
Ella loved how her grandma always hid one almond in the risgr?t, and whichever one of them found it in their serving won the sjokolade julegris, a small chocolate pig.
A fresh wave of emotions washed over Ella. Anger at the secrets her grandmother kept from her. Grief that she’d never celebrate the holidays with her again.
Trying to shake it off, Ella eyed the ugly chicken wire around the garden. She’d rip it out and add it to the junk pile. She didn’t know who the gardener was, but the plot was now hers to manage until she handed the keys over to whoever bought the cottage.
As Ella walked past the plum tree, she wondered if her mother was buried somewhere on the isles of Lyng?r, or maybe even here at Ringpynten.
If she could find out, perhaps she could put Hilda next to her.
But Ella didn’t have any living family members to ask.
All Ella knew was that her ancestors came from Oslo, that she was born there, and that her family summered in Lyng?r.
Ascending the steep hill that edged her cottage lifted her mood.
She’d been a hiker all her life, exploring Kohler Mesa Trail near Boulder as a small child with Hilda each Saturday morning rain or shine, or even snow.
She’d cherished those mornings with her mormor because being out in nature like that was one of the few ways they really connected with each other.
Mormor had taught Ella the importance of friluftsliv, “an outdoor life,” a way of living that was deeply rooted in Scandinavian culture.
Once again, Ella’s heart squeezed at the memory of her grandma.
She missed Hilda’s cheeky grin when she won Monopoly or Go Fish.
She missed Hilda’s occasional yet squishy, comforting hugs.
· · ·
As Ella walked along the uneven footpath toward the shop, she passed shuttered waterside cottages with glazed tile roofs, white crocheted curtains, and carved trim around the windows and doors.
Tidy, quiet, and uniform. Maybe not her style but appealing—and nothing like her apartment building in Boulder, where decades of old chewing gum were ground into a colorful mosaic on the sidewalk out front and the hallway smelled of frying oil and chicken wings.
Her windows looked out on Pearl Street Mall, the Boulder Bookstore, breweries, and college students kicking around hacky sacks near the record store.
Ella loved the lively pulse of her adopted hometown, taking in shows at the Boulder Theater, buying homemade honey and peanut butter at the busy weekend market.
But as she took in her surroundings here, she wondered what it would’ve been like to grow up in Lyng?r.
As Ella rounded the corner of the two-story clapboard grocery store, she spotted a cuckoo perched on the store’s picket fence, making coo-coo sounds.
Maybe it was the same bird who’d awakened her at six this morning, squawking just outside her window.
Perhaps her mother was woken by cuckoo birds when she spent her summers here back in the early sixties.
Ella’s pulse spiked as she heard water slosh against the grocery store dock.
She shoved her hand into her satchel to touch her life vest, comforted in knowing that she could put it on anytime she got too close to the water’s edge.
A sugary cake scent drifted from the store and distracted her.
Bells tinkled as Ella entered the shop. She took in the fish charts and a poster of Edvard Munch’s Inger on the Beach that hung on the cream walls.
Potted violets and nautical instruments decorated the windowsills.
The shop looked nothing like the sterile grocery stores back home, with their fluorescent lights and acres of linoleum.
A big cat with a bottlebrush tail made a beeline for Ella, rubbing his cheeks against the worn leather of her knee-high boots.
She ran her coral nails over its thick fur, drawing a rumbly purr.
Ella had never owned a pet because Hilda hadn’t wanted her to get attached to something that could run away or die.
Someday when Ella settled down and had more time, she’d adopt a shelter dog, or cat, or both.
“That cat usually doesn’t take to strangers,” the cashier said.
“Well, he has good taste. I’m an animal lover.” She squatted and scratched the cat’s ears. “What’s your name, beautiful?” Her Norwegian was a bit rusty, but the cashier got the gist of it.
“His name is Bactus,” the cashier replied.
The cashier was around Ella’s age, late twenties. She had short, spiked platinum hair, an elegant neck, and a pronounced collarbone—Holly Golightly gone punk.
“Cool,” the woman nodded at Ella’s boots.
Ella had embroidered sparrows on the leather. The boots were unique, and she was proud of them. Hilda had hated them. She hadn’t approved of much of anything about Ella, not her hand-sewn clothes, or her photography or music, not even her love of birds. Who didn’t like birds?
“You’re American, yes? I’ve met very few Americans. You’ve come pretty far,” the cashier said and extended her hand. “Mia.” Mia switched to English with ease, as if she’d had a lot of practice.
“Ella, from Colorado.” She shook Mia’s hand and smiled. “Yes, it felt like it took forever to get here, but I made it. You speak excellent English. Have you ever lived in the States?”
“Thanks. And no, I’ve never been to America,” she laughed, “but all Norwegians are required to study English in school, starting in first grade. Norway is small, so we need to learn other languages, especially if we want to travel or work in business. I’ve always wanted to visit California and see Hollywood Boulevard where they shot American Gigolo, except that I’d have to board a plane.
” Mia studied Ella’s satchel, which had several woven patches stitched onto the suede.
“What’s that?” she asked, gesturing to a patch with a red mountain.
“Yeah, that’s Red Rocks. It’s a natural amphitheater.
And this patch is from Bonnie Raitt’s concert from her 1989 Nick of Time tour.
An amazing night—the music, camping at Indian Paintbrush, the s’mores.
” The thought made her stomach gurgle. Since she arrived the day before, she’d only eaten the chocolate and peanuts she’d found in the cottage.
“I’m absolutely starving. Do you sell cereal? ”
“I don’t sell cereal. It’s hard to keep stocked—too popular.” She slid a hard candy from her pocket. “You remind me of Julia Roberts.”
Ella touched her mouth and hair and smiled her sincere megawatt smile. “Thank you. I’ll take that as a compliment,” Ella laughed. She was disappointed about the cereal. She had eaten cornflakes every day since she was a child.
“You’re a bit early for summer folk,” Mia said, then scribbled something on her clipboard. “Fellesferie isn’t for three weeks.”
“What’s fell-es-fair-ria?” She pronounced it carefully.
“Fellesferie is when practically everybody in the country takes a three-week vacation, and the tourists arrive—mostly Norwegians, but a good number of Swedes—and it gets a little chaotic.”
“Oh. But I’m not a tourist.” Ella shrugged.