She threw her arms around them again, and the three women clung to each other, laughing, dancing in place, and squealing with joy. And then, without caring who heard her, Olive began to sing, “Everyone in favor, say aye, aye, aye! Raise your voice and lift it high, high, high!”
Clem and Winnie’s voices joined hers in harmony: “For the fight’s not over yet, no, don’t you forget. We’re marching for our future with the suffragette!”
Their laughter spilled into the room as they burst from the kitchenette, arms linked, still singing. Their joy echoed against the worn walls and swept across the uneven floors. It was a song of triumph. Of sisterhood. Of beginnings.
Olive took in the apartment, the place of so much sorrow and anxiety, and watched it transform. Felt it loosen its grip on her. It was no longer a place of unending stress. It was the place where she’d rediscovered hope.
And then she never had to see it again.
Her eyes found Emil at once. He was seated on the stool beside her mother, cradling her hand in his as he spoke to her in a low, comforting voice. Robbie leaned casually against his side, one arm draped across Emil’s shoulders like they’d been family for years.
Emil looked up, as if he’d felt her gaze, and smiled. It was the kind of smile that made her breath catch. Crooked, genuine, and full of love. A promise written across his face without a single word spoken. And just like that, the future didn’t seem so frightening. With the right people at her side, it could be something else entirely.
It could be wonderful.
Epilogue
July 1913
* * *
Heaven was spending a warm summer morning on the water.
Emil’s oars sluiced through the water with calm efficiency, sending his scull gliding across Lake Washington like a heron. His body folded and unfolded like clockwork—catch, drive, release. Catch, drive, release. He inhaled, catching a whiff of cedar and smoke drifting faintly from chimneys on the distant shore. He exhaled, smiling at the familiar way his muscles bunched and adapted to each movement. He would be sore tomorrow, but he didn’t mind. It was the good kind of soreness.
A sharp whistle brought his head up. The four-person scull shooting past was crewed by young women, each grinning at him as their coxswain, his sister Astrid, gave him a cocky salute. He dipped his head in greeting, then laughed as they shot past him. He’d never catch up, but he didn’t mind that, either. Didn’t mind the teasing Astrid would give him later. He could take it.
New fathers could adapt to anything.
His heart thudded at the thought of his son. Only three months old and already the light of his life. He sped up his stroke, eager to get home to Olive and the baby. To inhale their scent, now a fascinating blend of violets and baby powder. To ensure they had both had their breakfast. That they were safe and snug and content.
He glided to the side of the floating house. Keeping one hand on his oars, he used the other to catch the side of the deck and pull himself close. In a fluid, well-practiced motion, he brought his knees up, rose, and stepped onto the deck. Once the oars were safe, he leaned down and lifted the slender boat from the water. The wet hull sent rivulets shooting down his arms, cooling his flushed skin. He secured the scull to the deck, then rounded the corner. He was greeted with the most beautiful sight.
Olive lay dozing in the porch swing, a score of sheet music face down on her stomach. He padded close, his heart thudding erratically as it did every time he saw her. Her breath came in gentle puffs, and he was loath to wake her. Not only was the baby exhausting, but she’d also thrown herself into earning her musical teaching degree. She was only a few months away from completion, and already so eager to add her new ideas into her lessons. It seemed to be working; she was in high demand, her rates had gone up, and she only had to perform when she felt so inclined. As long as she played for him occasionally, she could do whatever she wanted. He tiptoed forward, but the boards creaked under his feet. Her eyes blinked open, then settled on him. She smiled, and it was like being hit with a sunbeam.
“Good morning, darling,” she said sleepily.
“Morning, min käraste.” He leaned down and pressed a light kiss to her lips. “Where’s Jonathan?”
“My mother has him. Or maybe yours does,” she replied, stretching her bare arms overhead.
Emil observed her with unreserved joy. Her body had changed since he first met her—it had softened, filled out in places that made him ache with affection, desire, and relief. The changes were proof she was finally living without want, just as he’d promised. Pregnancy had turned her into something round and magnificent, and though she’d once joked that her ankles had disappeared for good, he hadn’t minded a bit. If anything, he’d fallen harder. As her body had shifted to grow and care for their child, he’d felt not only desire, but a kind of awe. Her eyes, though, hadn’t changed. They were still large, luminescent, and capable of sending him to his knees.
No, that wasn’t quite true. Ever since becoming pregnant, her eyes had taken on a new glow. One that shone from a deep well of happiness previously untapped. Nothing could dim it—not the endless complications of modernizing the floating house, nor her mother’s uneasy adjustment to their new life there. Then Jonathan had been born, and some days the boundless, blinding love in her gaze made him want to weep.
“Don’t forget your father is coming for lunch.”
Emil gave a good-natured grimace. “He was here yesterday. And the day before that. No doubt he wants to offer his opinions on our new icebox.”
“He wants to see his grandbaby,” she returned. “And I think he wants to ensure you’re happy. That you’re still satisfied with the work you’re doing together.”
“He wants to be nosy. And you, my beautiful wife, are only defending him because he always chooses your side.” Olive giggled, and the sound was so lovely he had to lean down and press another kiss to her cheek. “I’ll be right back.”
He stroked her shoulder as he moved past the swing. He peered through the front bay window he’d picked out himself. Robbie—who now preferred to be called Robert—was sprawled on the floor before the gramophone Emil had gifted Olive for their anniversary. He tapped his knuckle against the glass, and Robert looked up from the records piled before him. Emil pantomimed, and the fourteen-year-old nodded and sprang to his feet. Spindly, long legs propelled him to the kitchen to prepare the coffee.
Their morning ritual had started as Emil’s way of helping the boy feel at home, ensuring he understood that Olive’s marriage didn’t mean he'd be pushed aside. More than that, it was time that belonged to the two of them, separate from the bustle of the women in the house.
Though the slow, companionable starts had been meant for Robert’s benefit, Emil had come to rely on them, too. He enjoyed the clink of mugs, the steam rising in the cold air, the boy sitting beside him like a quiet shadow. Some mornings they didn’t say much, just watched the waves shifting on the lake. Other times, they played a record low and talked about whatever drifted into their heads—birds, bicycles, math, the absurdity of neckties. Then they’d wash up and head out, Emil to work and Robert to school. But today was Sunday, and they all moved a bit more slowly.
