She met his gaze. “You did go too hard. I don’t know what the production company wants, but it was a terrible experience, and even though the last thing I want to do is to close my business, I have to admit that the bank’s decision felt like a way out. No more filming.”
“I promise things will be better from now on. You have my word on that.” He sipped his wine, leaned a little closer.
She picked up his smell and shivered. He was good-looking, that was why he had this effect on her, she told herself. And because she hadn’t had sex with anyone since the Veg Guy, hadn’t even been anywhere near a man in ages. Her primitive self had no defense against the handsome, divine-smelling man before her. But her rational self knew all too well that he was unbearable.
“I’ll ask the production team to help you with your current financial difficulties, but in return you have to promise to listen to what I say. Your offering is too broad, and your purchase list is too long. Seriously.”
Nora remained silent. She didn’t like the fact that he was right.
“Can I ask a question?” he went on. “I get that this is what you want to do—apart from being a famous political pundit on TV.” He gave her a teasing smile, then grew serious once more. “But if you had opened Nymans yourself, without any traditions to consider, would ithave looked the same? Would you have offered so many different kinds of cakes and cookies?”
She thought for a moment. “Probably not,” she said, to her own surprise.
“So why not do it your way? The fact that your parents and your grandmother did it one way shouldn’t stop you, should it?”
Nora took another sip of wine, tried to marshal her thoughts. “You know how people find it difficult to throw things away after someone has died, or can’t bring themselves to sell a house?” She kept her eyes fixed on the flickering candle flame as she spoke. “That’s kind of how I feel. There’s a memory attached to every single cake or cookie. I remember icing the Catalans with my grandma. I remember my dad eating the ends of the Brussels cookie dough when he thought no one was looking. Mom’s favorite was the Mazarin tart. It makes me think of them, keeps their memory alive.”
“Just because you change something doesn’t mean you’ll forget them.”
“I know. But they’re my family, and I’ve lost every single one of them. This is all I have left.” She felt the familiar lump in her throat, and her eyes filled with tears. She turned her head away, pretended to look out the window, then drank some more wine in an attempt to pull herself together before she went on. “I know you think I’m incompetent, but I’m not stupid. It has struck me that I ought to simplify things.”
“So why haven’t you done it?”
She shook her head. “I tried once, but ... everything went wrong.” She didn’t really want to revisit those memories, but she felt she had to make him understand. “Mom always insisted on keeping things exactly as they were. When I took on a bigger role in running the business and saw the numbers, I suggested a total rethink. That was just before she got sick.”
“She didn’t like the idea?”
“No. I was seduced by the idea of a sort of rustic industrial direction, with a few decent loaves and cakes and stone ovens, but that’s notNymans. And Mom took it really badly. I think she felt that Nymans—the place that had been her dream, our life, the place I had grown up with—was no longer good enough for me. Then she got sick, like I said. When she got her cancer diagnosis, we hadn’t spoken to each other for several weeks. The diagnosis brought us back together, of course, but we never brought up my suggestion again. Then she died, and somehow it seemed important to keep it exactly the way it was when she passed.” Nora shook her head slowly. “I can’t believe it might be too late.”
Henrik gazed at her, then placed his hand on hers. Her whole body reacted to his touch, but she managed to maintain a cool facade.
“It will be fine.” He squeezed her hand and looked at her with those dark-brown eyes. His hand was big, warm, and rough, yet somehow soft too.
After a while, he let go—slowly, hesitantly.
Nora cleared her throat. The unexpected touch had made her head spin.
“The bookstore would like you to serve something filling,” he said quickly. Had he been affected, too, or was she imagining a hint of nerves? “Maybe your crispbread? And your sourdough? They want mulled wine, and they’re expecting my gingerbread cookies.”
She suddenly realized that hewasnervous. She’d madeHenrik Eklundnervous! There was something quite sweet about it.
He sipped his wine, straightened his shoulders. “I make them with brown butter.” His usual self-confidence was back.
“The most important thing with gingerbread cookies is to use classic spices and to toast them.” Her voice was steady. She had no intention of letting him see how his touch had affected her.
He stared at her for a few seconds. “You make your crispbread and your sourdough. But they’re expectingmygingerbread cookies.” He picked up his phone. “I’ll send you the recipe.”
Nora rolled her eyes. The dynamic between them was restored.
20
When Henrik arrived in Stockholm the following day, he stepped out into a city covered in a blanket of snow, with big, thick flakes swirling down from a dark-gray sky. Filming of the family Christmas show was due to begin that afternoon, starting with the arrival of the siblings at Hasse and Anita’s home. The snow would provide the perfect backdrop.
Darkness had already fallen as a cab took him out to Saltsjöbaden, but the snow brightened the late afternoon. His father’s yellow three-story mansion was situated by the bay, which was completely still. A gigantic Advent star hung in the bay window on the ground floor, its glow making the snow on the ground outside sparkle.
Henrik’s brother and sister and their families were already settled in; their arrival scenes had been filmed earlier, which left only Henrik. The stylist quickly powdered his face in the hallway, but he kept his coat on and his duffel bag over his shoulder. Everything must appear genuine. He went back outside, down the steps, then turned around and came back up again, wearing a smile that was anything but genuine. The viewers would never notice. The snow crunched beneath his feet. He knocked on the door, one camera behind him and one to the side. The door opened, and as the children came hurtling out his artificial smile was momentarily replaced by a real one. It was impossible not to feel joyful with Theodor, Alma, and William running toward him. Hasse and Anita appeared behind them. Anita exclaimed “Hi!” in a happy, surprised tone, while Hasse beamed and enveloped him in a bear hug.
“Henrik—how wonderful to see you.”
