SØLLERØD
SUNDAY, AUGUST1, 1943
As the pastor gave the closing prayer, Else struggled to keep her mind on the Lord and not on the man near the back of the sanctuary.
Else’s grandparents on the pew beside her would not approve of the direction of her thoughts. While visiting her family, a romance with Hemming seemed impossible, unlikely, even a bit ridiculous.
So why was she so aware of his presence, as if she could feel his breath and hear his heartbeat?
Pastor Sparsø dismissed the congregation.
Farmor tucked her pocketbook under her arm. “Excellent sermon.”
“It was.” With his bowler hat in hand, Farfar led the ladies up the aisle.
Farmor gave Else a strained smile. “I suppose you’ll want to greet your friend.”
“I will. I’ll meet you outside.” Else had convinced her grandparents that ignoring Hemming on Sundays would be rude when she shared a table with him the rest of the week.
Reminded her of how the popular girls in high school had been friendly with her in math class when they wanted her help—but ignored her in the halls.
In his pew, Hemming put his Bible in his satchel and nodded to her. “Good morning, Else.”
“Good morning.” How good to see him clear-eyed and hearty. “Your family must be happy to see you again.”
“I’m happy too.” He stood and fiddled with the cap in his hand.
“Excuse me, miss,” a man said behind her.
She was in the way. “Pardon me.” She stepped into Hemming’s row, and she gazed up at him. When they’d first met, his limited understanding had tempted her to treat him like a child. But he was very much a man.
Her hair felt funny. It often felt funny in his presence, and she reached up to fix it.
“You have ink on your hand,” he said.
“I do?” She lowered it.
Hemming caught her hand and examined it, his touch enveloping and invigorating.
“I—I—” Why couldn’t she speak? “I couldn’t find rubber gloves on Friday when I was mimeographing.”
“You still...?” His gaze speared her. “Mortensen still mistreats you?”
Else’s thoughts tumbled at the warmth of his touch and the ferocity of his protective concern. His thumb stroked her palm, and at that moment romance seemed possible, likely, and utterly welcome.
Hemming’s mouth drew tight. “He takes advantage of you.”
“The mimeo—it isn’t all for him.” She gave him a reassuring smile. “Most of it is for a very good cause.”
He tilted his head, and his brows drew together.
Else suppressed a gasp. What had she done? Intoxicated by his touch, she’d forgotten herself. Why didn’t she just announce to the world that she printed illegal papers?
She had to distract him, so she gave her hand a slight tug.
He startled, glanced down, and dropped her hand.
Somehow she raised a cheery smile. “Laila’s here with me. Not at church, of course. She’s Jewish. At my grandparents’ house. She likes Farmor’s æbleskiver.” Babbling—she was babbling, and heat rose in her cheeks.
