“Thank you,” Beata said. “Though I must admit I bought them from the bakery down the street. They make the perfect Danish weinerbrød!”
“Is this your first kaffekalas?” Astrid asked. “It sort of means coffee party. Though you could drink tea, I suppose.”
“It is,” said Olive, taking a large, but dainty bite. “And I’m already a fan.”
“You must come to our next kafferep. That’s when we have seven different kinds of cookies. You’ll adore it.”
“Have another,” Olof insisted, nudging the plate toward her. She smiled, then added another to her plate. Once everyone had their portion, Mor sat in her chair with a contented sigh.
“Olive,” she said, “tell us how you two met.”
“No one wants to know—” he began.
“I do,” Astrid cut in.
“He accused me of being a jewelry thief,” Olive announced cheerfully.
Mor gasped. “He did not.”
“He was wrong, wasn’t he?” Astrid asked.
“Of course. Then he accused me of stealing silver spoons.”
“Älskling, no!”
Heat crept up Emil’s neck. “The circumstances were…complicated.”
“Was he wrong?” Olof asked.
“He was.” Olive’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “The third time?—”
“Not a third time,” Beata groaned, dropping her head into her hands. “My son cannot be this foolish.”
“The third time was a pocket watch, but he was?—”
“Wrong!” everyone chorused, laughter breaking across the table.
“She was in a pawn shop,” Emil said defensively. Astrid snickered, and even Pete gave a grunt that sounded vaguely like a laugh.
“Good for you,” Olof said—a bit too profusely, in Emil’s opinion. “Sounds like you gave him a merry chase.”
Olive glanced at him, her eyes alight with mischief, and something struck Emil—sharp and sudden, right in the solar plexus. Not love. He was sure of that. But something potent nonetheless. It coursed through him, growing stronger as he watched her laugh and weave herself effortlessly into his family’s stories. He leaned back, sipping his coffee slowly, letting her command the table with her quiet charm. Letting her glow under the warmth of his family’s attention. Letting himself, for the first time, imagine what it would be like if she were part of the family.
Just then, a plaintive yowl came from under the table. A second later, the tabby leapt into Olive’s lap and made a show of presenting itself. Emil reached over to grab the cat by its scruff, but Olive cooed and buried her face in its fur.
“Oh hello, min käraste.”
The table went silent. Emil immediately busied himself with pouring more coffee, as if sheer denial could erase what had just been said.
“Pass the sugar?” he muttered.
No one moved.
“You’re learning Swedish?” Beata asked.
“A peculiar phrase to start with,” Olof added.
“Not really. I only know a few words.” Olive scrunched her forehead in thought. “Hello, please, thank you. And cat, of course.”
