“Give her a moment to breathe.” Emil tried to intervene, but Beata blocked him with a perfectly timed, strategic sweep of her wide hips.
“We are giving her room.” Beata captured Olive’s newly freed hand in her own. “Aren’t you a pretty thing? That scarf makes your eyes shine. Is it from New York, perhaps?”
“Subtle,” he muttered.
He was once again ignored. And Olive, either oblivious to the loaded question or already developing a notion to join the coalition against him, delivered the fatal line without hesitation.
“Emil made it.”
Beata and Astrid turned to him with slow, synchronized precision, their expressions somewhere between delighted and mildly threatening.
“I thought I recognized that pattern,” Astrid said with narrowed eyes.
“You gave her something you made? Voluntarily?”
“Without us having to trick or beg?”
Beata gave Astrid a sly glance. “Must be love.”
“Calm down.” Emil threw up his hands. “It’s only a scarf.”
He was on the verge of abandoning the entire afternoon plan when he realized Olive was smiling. Not the polite one she gave strangers or the careful one she wore when uncertain. She looked…at ease. As though she belonged. The sight of it made something warm unfurl in his chest, slow and steady and impossible to ignore. He blew out a breath. Seemed he was in for an afternoon of teasing, after all.
“You must be someone very dear.” Mor patted Olive’s hand. “Emil never brings anyone home. Not even the dog he rescued once.”
“That dog bit me.” He sent Olive an exasperated look. “Don’t fall for their charm, Olive. They’re deeply untrustworthy.”
“You poor thing,” she replied, utterly unsympathetic. “Outnumbered in your own home.”
“I like you,” Astrid declared, linking an arm through hers. “I’m even willing to let you torture me at the piano for half an hour.”
“An hour,” Emil said.
“God, no. Someone else will have to take my place.”
“I thought you wanted to learn.” Olive’s brow wrinkled. “Emil assured me that was the case.”
“Uh oh. Seems he lured you here under false pretenses.”
Olive turned to him. “Emil?”
Obviously, it was a ruse. He knew it, she knew it. Hell, they all knew it. But damned if he was going to suffer under their tyranny a moment longer. He turned and squinted at the doorway down the hall.
“Hear that? I believe Far’s calling me.”
“I didn’t hear anything.”
“You don’t have my sharp ears, Mor,” he replied, already backing away. “I should go see what he needs. It’s probably important. Possibly life-threatening.”
Their laughter followed him down the hall, and Emil allowed himself a smile. He’d been right to assume his mother and sister would welcome Olive with open arms. The teasing was a small price to pay for Olive’s comfort.
As he neared his father’s home study, however, his smile faded. He braced himself for an interaction, or, more aptly, an altercation with his father. They hadn’t seen eye to eye in a long time. How could they when Olof persisted in questioning every decision he made? When he diminished Emil’s goals and chastised him like a child?
He paused outside the study door and considered a detour to visit his brother in the woodshop behind the house. He could make out the rhythmic rasp of plane on timber even from there. But that would only delay the inevitable. Much better to have it out in private and not at the table during the afternoon kaffekalas—there was no reason to believe Olof would pull his punches simply because they had a visitor. Olive didn’t need to know how fractured their relationship had become.
He leaned into the doorway and cleared his throat. “God morgon, Far.”
Olof looked up, pencil poised in the air. “Min son.”
