Pete rose to his feet in answer, his knees popping. Emil opened the workshop door, and they crossed the yard to the back entrance of the house. The moment they stepped inside, they were met with raised voices—Olof’s and Olive’s, overlapping in what sounded like a heated argument.
“Goddammit.”
Why had Astrid’s lesson ended early? How had Olive come to be with his father at all? It was one thing for Olof to come after him—he was used to that—but Olive didn’t deserve the ire of a grumpy old bastard. If this turned into one of his father’s infamous interrogations or worse, some dismissive sneer dressed up as conversation, Emil didn’t care that they were under his family’s roof. He’d drag Olive out and never look back. Jaw clenched, he strode down the hallway toward the dining room.
He stopped dead in the doorway.
Olive was seated at the table, her face lit not with strain but with enthusiasm. She leaned forward in her chair, her finger poking the table as she made her point. Across from her, Olof wore a rare grin, gesturing animatedly as he responded.
“The Cubs most certainly deserved to win the World Series.”
“I’m not disputing the results of the World Series, Mr. Anderson. I contend that they never should have made it there in the first place. They stole the honor from the Giants!”
Emil’s gaze flew back to his father. Surely, he’d be apoplectic at the mere notion of being challenged. Yet his father leaned forward in his chair, his knee bouncing with excitement. Emil spared a glance at Pete, who was just as bewildered.
“Poppycock,” Olof declared. “They tied for first place, and then Three Finger Brown put the Giants through their paces.”
Olive was already shaking her head. “They were only tied because of the Merkle debacle. If the game hadn’t been decided on a technicality, the Giants would have had first place.”
“Rules are rules?—”
“Emil!” Olive spotted him first. “Your father and I are having the most delightful argument about the World Series.”
“So I hear,” he said carefully.
“Miss Becket knows America’s greatest game,” Olof said with a nod of approval. “More than my sons, I’d wager.”
Olive chuckled, a touch of pink rising in her cheeks. “It has been years since I’ve had a proper baseball debate. Not since my father passed, really.”
Olof’s stern features softened at that. He reached out and gave her hand a gentle, if awkward, pat. “You’re always welcome at our table.” He sent Emil a quick glance. “It’s good to have someone around here who knows what they’re talking about.”
It wasn’t an apology, but it was the closest thing to it. Emil nodded stiffly.
“Astrid gave up halfway through her lesson,” Olive told him with a sheepish wince. “Your father found me shortly after that.”
“I didn’t want our guest to feel unwelcome.”
Well. That was unexpected. Maybe something Emil said had actually gotten through that ironclad pride. Or maybe he was just feeling guilty and disguising it as diplomacy. Either way, Emil couldn’t deny the effort.
“Thank you.” He met his father’s gaze, letting him know he meant it, before raising his voice to continue. “Thank you for filling in when Astrid reneged on our deal.”
The door separating the kitchen and dining room opened a crack, confirming Emil’s suspicions that his sister was eavesdropping on the other side.
“I hate the piano!”
Olive giggled, and Emil and Olof shook their heads at each other in exasperation. Good luck trying to get Astrid to do anything she didn’t want to do.
“I’m sorry about that,” he started. “I’ll still pay for?—”
“I’ll take a lesson,” his father said abruptly. “After our kaffekalas. If you’re willing to teach an old man a new trick, that is.”
“Of course,” Olive said at once. “I’d be happy to.”
Emil was again speechless—Olof had moved beyond simple hospitality. He was spared from commenting when the door swung open and his mother entered, a stovetop percolator in one hand and a cream jug in the other. Behind her came Astrid, balancing a tray piled high with squares of golden, flaky pastries. Emil’s mouth watered at the fragrant aromas of strong coffee, toasted almonds, butter, and sugar. He made a beeline for the empty chair beside Olive and sat, already reaching for the sugar pot.
“Milk or sugar?” he asked her.
“Both, please.” She licked her lips when Astrid circled behind them to lower a pastry to her plate. “Mrs. Anderson, these look delicious.”
