After Hemming finished coughing, Else gave him a gentle smile. “Kierkegaard?”
He took a swallow from the teacup and wiped his mouth. “You said you like his books. Thought it might—help me read better.” His voice rasped, and he drank more tea.
Her heart softened. If only she’d chosen an author with a simpler style at the bookstore that day. “The words are pretty big.” She weeded condescension from her tone. “Can you—”
He shook his head, and the red on his cheeks consumed the rest of his face.
“His thoughts are big too,” Else said. “Sometimes I have a hard time understanding him.”
One corner of Hemming’s mouth flicked up.
“What if...” Else stroked the leather cover. “Would it help if I read it out loud to you?”
His fair eyebrows rose. “Would you?”
“Gladly.” Without the barrier of trying to decode the words, perhaps the ideas would sink in.
Else opened the cover. A bookplate read, “From the library of Frederik Ahlefeldt.” The owner of the shipyard where Hemming worked? Hemming must have found it at a used bookstore. What a strange coincidence.
She began reading. Hemming alternated between soup and tea, and he watched her intently, as if wanting to extract the learning from her head. If only she could give it to him.
After two pages, she gave him a questioning look. “Does that help? Hearing it?”
Hemming twisted the soup bowl in his hand. “I like ... hearing you talk. Hearing you read.”
He did? With a quick smile, she returned to the book. “Wherewere we? Yes, here. ‘We can be deceived by believing what is untrue, but we certainly are also deceived by not believing what is true. We can be deceived by appearances, but we certainly are also deceived by the sagacious appearance, by the flattering conceit that considers itself absolutely secure against being deceived. Which deception is more dangerous? ... What is more difficult—to awaken someone who is sleeping or to awaken someone who, awake, is dreaming that he is awake?’”
Hemming’s eyes crimped in thought, and his mouth curved in enjoyment. He liked hearing her read. And she liked reading.
Maybe he understood some of the lofty thoughts. Maybe he didn’t. But he enjoyed the reading.
A warm sense of companionship nestled inside, coupled with the unmistakable heat of attraction. Even when ill and stinking, this man appealed to her, especially looking at her the way he did.
Attraction couldn’t sustain a relationship, but neither could intellectual stimulation. She’d always longed for both. Perhaps, though ... could companionship suffice? Could it make a fair substitute for intellect? Even a better substitute?
Perhaps she was foolish to entertain such thoughts. But she’d be a snob to reject them without consideration.
She’d lost her place. “I’m sorry. Where was I?”
“Dreaming that he is awake.”
Else gave him a big smile. He truly listened. And she dove back in to the warmth of stimulating ideas and excellent company.
21
WEDNESDAY, JULY14, 1943
Rain pounded Henrik’s windows. Since the sun wouldn’t set until almost ten at night and clouds blocked the sunlight, he had no way of discerning time. Along with his photographs of family and friends, his wristwatch stayed at Lyd-af-Lys. He used it only for Havmand runs.
Else’s visit would come soon though, he felt it.
Henrik shoved his legs over the side of the bed and gripped the mattress until the dizziness passed. For the past week, a storm had raged in his body. Today the storm had passed. The fever had waned, and pain flared in his chest only when he coughed.
Now his body had to clear the storm-downed branches inside of him.
Time to prepare for Else’s visit.
The Kierkegaard volume could remain out—that error couldn’t be undone. Else seemed to accept his ridiculous excuse for possessing the book, and she’d never mentioned the bookplate in his father’s name.
