She couldn’t have stopped her smile even had she wanted to. Which she assuredly didn’t. Slipping in, she sent him the grin that Ari had always said could warm the heart of a snowman and waited for him to close the door behind himself. “Good morning, Anders.”
He nodded, throat bobbing with a swallow. “Morning, Tatiana.”
She wiped the snow from her shoes on the rug inside the door kept there for that purpose. “Are you excited for next week?”
He looked at her blankly. “Next week?”
A breath of laughter slipped out. “The official release of your new book.”
“Ah.” Why did his smile look so sad? They’d already had enough orders come in for it to guarantee it was as big a success as his last one—which was sayingsomething. “Yes, of course. I always forget the actual day—given that I get my copies early.”
As she had hers. Yet another perk of the position. She waited for him to join her before turning toward the stairs. “My niece is going to be ecstatic. They’re her favorite books.” She’d already told him as much each time she asked him to autograph them for her, but it bore repeating. In fact... “Oh! She’s arriving in Reykjavik on Monday and will be coming into the office with me, assuming Uncle Valdi says it’s all right. She’ll be so excited to meet you.”
At that, Anders’s face relaxed a bit, his smile more genuine. “And I her. She’s visiting before the holiday?”
“For it, actually.” As they climbed up to the third floor where all the staff offices were, she gave him the short version of Gunnar’s injury, Ari’s bed rest, and their decision to ask for help. “I’m so excited to have her,” she said as they reached the landing for their floor.
Anders grinned, pausing rather than turning immediately to his office on the right. “I imagine. And will the Yule Lads find her here?”
Tatiana’s eyes went wide. She hadn’t paused to consider that yet—but the Yule Lads would begin making their deposits of gifts in children’s shoes the morningafter Elea arrived. It was perfect timing... except that she had no gifts to sneak into her niece’s footwear. “Well, I know what I’ll be doing this weekend.”
Anders watched Tatiana dash toward her small office attached to her uncle’s large corner one, his lips refusing to give up their smile. He could admit that he’d been dubious at first, when he heard Valdi was hiring his niece to act as his assistant. In Anders’s experience, working with family was as much a headache as it was a boon. But within a week, he’d had to recant his silent objections.
Tatiana was a spot of sunshine in the winter darkness. A trill of laughter in heavy silence. A scent of sugar and spice in a world of rations and lack.
He never dared say anything like that aloud, of course. If ever he tried, his tongue would tangle and his face would heat and his brothers’ taunting would fill his mind.Anders the Red-Faced Bookworm, they’d called him as a lad.Too backward for friends. You could bore a volcano to sleep.
His fingers tightened around the handle of his briefcase, and he turned toward his own office door, since Tatiana had gone straight to her desk. It was different here at the Story Society, yes. These were his people. Other lovers of books, of the written word, of the storytelling that had undergirded Icelandic society for centuries. Here, he was understood. Appreciated. Lauded, even.
But it was hard to remember that after a visit from one of his family members, and it seemed one or another was dropping by his flat every other day. To ensure he was eating—his mother. To ask a favor—his little sister. To remind him of who he was and where he came from—all three of his elder brothers.
“Morning, Anders.”
He looked up at the familiar voice of his assistant, Helga—who had quickly adopted Tatiana as her best friend upon the younger woman’s hiring. Which of course meant Tatiana lingered outside his office, chatting with Helga, every spare moment, thereby distracting him constantly with her laughter and lyrical voice.
He smiled at the assistant who could still outwork anyone, even with gossip breaks factored in. “Morning, Helga.”
“I put the post on your desk. There were severalyou’ve been waiting for.” She named several of the authors he’d been working with, all of which made him nod.
“Perfect. Thank you.” There was nothing like attending to his correspondence to get his mind back into publishing and away from home.
Last night both Mother and his eldest brother, Dalmar, had dropped in after the fishing boats had returned to Reykjavik harbor for the day. Their mother had fussed over his largely-bare cupboards, as always, and put a pot of fish stew she’d brought for him on the stove to heat. “From yesterday’s catch,” she’d said, sending him that look of disapproval as pointed as an icicle. “You should thank your brothers for providing for you.”
Twelve years since he’d left the life of a fisherman and pursued higher education. Seven since he’d landed the job at the Story Society. One would think that would have been time enough to grow a few calluses when it came to his family. But each jab hurt anew.
He knew his lines in the script of their lives, though. He’d nodded to Dalmar, head of their family’s trawler since Father had passed away six years ago. “Thank you, Dalmar. Though you didn’t have to bring me food. I was going to the grocer’s after I put away my work.”Though he knew it was useless, he pulled his wallet from his pocket. “Please, allow me to pay—”
“Don’t insult your brother.” Mother had frowned and pointed the wooden spoon at him, spattering a few drops of stew on the floor. “You are still part of this family. We take care of our own.”
Yet they refused to allow him to use his salary to help with repairs to the boat. Fishing could support itself, they always said. Especially now that they were exporting their catches to America—one of many benefits to find them since the Americans had occupied their country.
Part of him couldn’t help but think they refused, though, so that they had something to hold over him—all the fish they brought him, despite the fact that he never asked for any of it, was a debt he then owed. Never mind that he didn’t need it, never mind that he brought in more money through his editing work and his books than they did put together from fishing. In his family’s eyes, he was nothing but a pretender. Stories, they’d always said, might be what made an evening bright as they gathered around the fire, but they weren’t something to make a living from.
He set his briefcase on his desk and shucked off hiscoat, scarf, and hat, praying for the millionth time that the Lord would give him armor to protect him from those opinions. He knew he was following the call of God by dedicating his life to words instead of fishing. He’d never for a moment doubted it. But somehow, knowing it didn’t make his family’s disapproval hurt any less.
Coffee. He needed coffee to help dislodge the fog of stress from his brain, and he hadn’t had any at home. He’d meant to pick some up from the grocer’s last night but had ended up not going, since his mother had provided dinner and then lingered, telling tales of his nieces and nephews, until after the store would have been closed.
The coffeepot was a relatively new addition to the office, but a popular one. He could have asked Helga to fetch him a cup, but she was already on the telephone, so he opted to go himself rather than wait. A crowd of his colleagues were already queued up, waiting for their turn, chatting amongst themselves. Anders took his place at the back of the gaggle, wondering not for the first time how they could be so fortunate.
