Jørgen’s striding past carrying a massive beam on one shoulder like it’s a baguette. His shirt sticks to his back, muscles flex, jaw set in silent determination. I glance sideways, and oh yes — there’s Henry pretending he's not watching him. The painter’s brush in his hand hovers in midair, forgotten. His lips part just slightly, and his cheeks flush. We both watch Harold hurrying after Jørgen, wheezing in protest and muttering about how beams should be carried in a less show-offy manner.
Almost as soon as Harold disappears, James Lexington III strolls in, looking every bit the picture of self-assurance. Brett Morales tags along, flexing his biceps for no reason and tossing his ponytail as if he was actually aiming for neck injury. James looks at him sternly, as if he's trying his hardest to keep this wild animal in check.
“Do you have to act like this everywhere?” I hear him murmur to Brett, casually, but with an undertone of something more.
“What’s the fun in behaving?” Brett mutters, his grin widening.
“I can’t take you to my yacht if you don’t behave,” James says, his voice smooth and passionate.It must be true that opposites attract.
I’m watching Xaden carry a bucket of paint when I hear Earl’s high-pitched voice. He is running toward me, waving a folded copy ofThe Baywood Gazettelike it’s a victory flag. His cheeks are flushed, hairline shining with sweat.
“Hot off the press!” he crows.“The Gazettefinally printed something worth framing!” He thrusts it at me so hard I almost spill coffee down my front. In the community tidbits section, bold letters announce: “Local Heroism: Double Feature?”
“Let me read it out loud so everybody hears,” Earl’s almost yelling. “Baywood’s own singer-songwriter Cole Hudson was spotted boldly declaring his affection for Special Agent Xaden Bailey in broad daylight. Look, it’s you and Xaden, kissing!”
“Yes, I can see that,” I say faintly. Across the yard, Xaden’s watching with an infuriating smirk, mouthing the words boldly declaring. My ears go hotter than the coffee.
“Here’s the best part,” Earl continues, almost beside himself. “Local baker Earl Davenport informs the reporter that his special friend Maija saw this coming from day one. Now, do you want me to autograph it for you, or should we save that for Maija?” Earl is still beaming, and I don’t have the heart to point out that Maija didn’t see this coming at all; quite the contrary.
Earl’s phone buzzes, and he squeaks.“She’s here! Oh my heavens, quickly, where can I hide?” Panic’s evident in his voice. “Dear Lord, I’m about to paint this house in front of Maija, and I just know she’s going to take one look at my technique and turn around!”
Earl gestures wildly with the newspaper as if it was a paintbrush, “I’m already in the headlines, and with the tourists lining up for my buns, the pressure’s too much!”
“Earl, you’re going to be fine,” I say, prying the newspaper from his hands. “Maija is going to love… your painting technique. Relax.”
“I can’t relax!” he shouts. “It’s not in my nature!”
I try not to laugh. “Just breathe, Earl.”
Then a taxi pulls up at the curb, and out steps Maija. She’s dressed in a plain gray coat or maybe a wool blanket, it’s hard to tell. Her suitcase’s dented and scuffed like it’s survived five wars. Her expression is not joy or excitement but the blank determination of someone expecting the worst.
“Earl,” she says. “You look like a boiled beet. That means stress. Stop it.”
“I — newspaper,” Earl stammers, wringing his hands.
Maija’s gaze slides to the porch railing, one eyebrow twitching upward. “It is crooked. Like life. Accept it or die bitter.”
Earl squeaks like a teakettle. “Yes, ma’am!” Maija ignores him, turning instead to Xaden. She gives him a long, appraising look.
“Town eye candy. Good bone structure. Scar gives balance. Otherwise too handsome. In Finland, we prefer faces that know despair.”
Xaden looks amused while Earl’s clearly trying to force his usually radiant face into misery.
Then Maija’s gaze shifts to me. “I heard your song. It was competent. Made me feel slightly less like drowning in the Baltic. That is a good compliment.”
Xaden bites his lip to keep from laughing. I’m not sure if I should thank Maija or call for help.
She adjusts her suitcase in her hand. “Finland is the happiest country in the world. Because we expect nothing. Long winters, sleet in shoes, all summer mosquitoes and ticks. Neighbors far away. That is a blessing. That is why we are happy. Expectations and population are very low.”
Maija surveys the yard like a general inspecting troops. Without smiling, she steps toward Henry, who instinctively lifts his camera.
“In Finland, we do not smile in photos. Smiling gives the wrong idea. Misery is correct. Capture misery. That is art.”
Then Maija fixes on Jørgen, who’s mid-gulp of coffee. “Arms like a man who splits wood six hours in silence. You come from the North.”Jørgen chokes, sputtering coffee. “My grandparents are Norwegian.”
Maija nods. “Yes. If you cannot chop, you drop. Keep the beard. I like it.”
Jørgen goes scarlet. Henry snaps a photo.
