“Go, go,” she said, flapping her hands toward the door, tears shimmering in her eyes. “I’ve got Robbie.”
“Careful,” he warned, dropping back into English. “Word is he’s slipperier than an eel when it comes to bathtime.”
“As if I didn’t raise two eels of my own!”
Robbie’s mouth—full of crumbs—fell open. “You have pet eels?”
“You’ll have to see for yourself, kära barn.”
Laughing under his breath, Emil left them behind, their soft voices following him down the hall. He paused before his father’s office. The door was ajar, his father visible from his seat at his desk.
The uncharacteristic slump in his posture was evidence of his fatigue. His hands were folded over his belly, a deep vee between his eyebrows as he stared at a sloppy stack of papers. His coat was unbuttoned, and a yellow stain—mustard, maybe—marred his wrinkled shirt. For a man who claimed a good suit could make a man, this was tantamount to giving up.
He thought back on the comments his father had made about Nordstar Yachts in recent months. Each one he’d dismissed as theatrics, a strategic performance to reel him back into the fold. Hell, he’d believed himself too clever to fall for it. But now, watching his father slumped at his desk, visibly worn thin by months of strain, he questioned everything. Had he mistaken desperation for control? Anguish for anger?
Only one way to find out.
He rapped on the open door with his knuckle. Olof startled, then straightened.
“Min son.” He cleared his throat, and Emil watched as a mask stole over his father’s face, hiding his distress. “What a surprise. Come in. Sit.”
Emil sat in the familiar, worn leather chair across from the desk. He’d dreaded that chair since boyhood. It had always meant a lecture was coming, an admonition cloaked in duty and family pride. But now he settled into it. He crossed one ankle over his knee and flipped open his small notepad. Removed a pencil from his pocket and set it to the page.
“I’m ready, Far. Tell me about the troubles we’re facing.”
Olof blinked. “Are you—are you certain?”
“I am. Tell me everything.”
Olof’s sigh of relief was deep and shuddering.
Emil listened attentively, jotting down notes and asking questions. With each passing minute, his concern deepened. It had all been real. Rising costs. Underhanded competitors. The looming threat of decline. His father hadn’t been lashing out at him—he’d been fighting the world to keep their family afloat. Their rise from working class to upper-middle had not made them immune to danger. The Becket family was proof of how easily a single misstep, or a streak of bad fortune, could send a family tumbling down the social ladder.
Emil could all too easily imagine the dismal future: His father would wear down to nothing. His mother would lose the vacation home she’d always dreamed about. Astrid would have to fund her own university tuition. And he would have to live with himself, knowing he hadn’t lifted so much as a finger to help those he loved.
His willful ignorance now sickened him.
An ache stirred behind his eyes. He blinked rapidly, surprised by how close he was to tears. He hadn’t cried in years—not since Olive Becket had walked into his life and shattered his notions of weakness and strength. She had taught him that emotion wasn’t a flaw. That tears could be a release, not manipulation. So he let the tears come. Let them fall.
“Jag är ledsen, Pappa,” he said. “I’m so sorry. I’ve been a terrible son. You gave me everything, and I took it for granted. But I’ve woken up. I’m here now. I’ll always be here for you and for our family.”
His father cleared his throat once. Then again. A third time. And then he stood. Emil stilled, his heart thudding. Was he too late? Had his apology come after the damage was done? But instead of rebuke, his father stepped forward and pulled him into an embrace.
For a moment, Emil remained rigid against the barrel chest. He expected the embrace to end as quickly as it began, like every rare show of affection in their past. But his father didn’t let go. The arms tightened. Held on. It was all the permission he needed to sag in Olof’s embrace. He brought his arms around his father’s back and leaned in. They stood that way for a long time, and the cracked, tender part of his heart began to heal.
When Olof finally stepped back, sniffling, he let out a hearty, booming laugh. “Don’t tell your mother, or she’ll never let us live it down.”
Emil chuckled through his tears. “I don’t want to tell anyone?—”
But that wasn’t true. There was someone he wanted to tell.
Olive.
She wouldn’t judge him for how long it had taken to come around. She would smile, and nod, and listen with that quiet strength of hers. She would understand. She would celebrate. And he would fall even more in love with her.
“Not even that lovely pianist, Miss Becket?”
“Am I so obvious?”
