Else shrugged one shoulder, reminding herself what she was allowed to tell people—and what she wasn’t. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you why, but I could leave any day.”
Laila’s dark eyes dimmed. “I should be happy for you.”
“Why?” Else raised half a smile. “I’m not happy for me. I’ll miss you so much.”
“You’ll write—often?”
“Yes. Often.”
“I—I should go do laundry.” Laila’s gaze darted about. “Are you coming?”
“Not yet. I need some time alone.” So did Laila. Else recognized it in her restless behavior.
After Laila left, Else stood with her briefcase over her shoulder.
Should she go for a walk? It didn’t appeal.
Little did.
Leafless trees bent over the canal, drooping branches into the water. Ferryboats and rowboats plied the waterway. Between two trees stood a smooth rock.
Else sat on the rock with her legs tucked beside her. She pulled the Havmand figurine from her briefcase, gave it a kiss, and cradled it in her lap. Then she opened Hemming’s journal and lost herself in the pages.
Svend insisted she keep Hemming’s things for now. After the war, she would return the journal and Bible, but she’d keep the Havmand.
Time passed, and she kept turning pages, filling her mind with Hemming’s personality and wisdom.
Her mourning deepened as she turned to his final entry. Onlythree blank pages remained, as if his journal and his life had run out simultaneously.
He’d known his life would be short. He’d often said so in the pages.
Else savored the last line. “The night was pure gold—the moon, the reflection on the water, the love inside me, and the goodness, the rightness of living for others, not myself.”
His voice—she could practically hear it.
“What a beautiful sight.” A man’s voice rose from the middle of the canal. “The Little Mermaid herself come to Swedish shores.”
He sounded like Hemming, and Else flicked up her gaze. No, just her imagination playing tricks on her. A dark-haired man in a rowboat tipped his homburg to her.
A flirt. Just what she needed when she was grieving a true hero.
Else dropped her gaze to the journal.
But ... the man had spoken in Danish.
He cranked the boat into a turn, rowed in her direction, and glanced over his shoulder at her. “I am much changed ... min elskede.”
Hemming? The word lodged hard in her throat. It couldn’t be. Yet the torso, the shoulders, the arms—like Hemming, except encased in a tailored black overcoat.
The boat ground to shore about six feet from her, and the man pushed himself out using a walking stick and stretched to an impressive height. A white cast covered one foot.
It couldn’t be. It couldn’t. Else gripped the wooden figurine in one hand, the journal in the other, the only remaining pieces of Hemming. Or were they?
The man doffed his hat and met her gaze with Hemming’s deep-set blue eyes. Dark hair. No beard.
Hemming was in prison about to be executed. Hemming stood in front of her—alive.
Two truths that were mutually exclusive. But in this case, only one could be true.
