“Thank you, Onkel.” Hemming motioned to the door to the terrace. “Shall we go to the boathouse?”
Since that was where the hot chocolate would be, Else followed him across the terrace overlooking the crescent of Vedbæk Beach and across a manicured lawn toward a narrow stone building facing a pier.
“Will the boathouse explain why you pretend to be Hemming?” Her voice sounded sharper than intended, but oh well.
He tipped his head in a thoughtful way. “The day the Germans came, my good friend Svend wanted to escape. He’d been outspoken against the Nazis and feared arrest. So he asked me to row him to Sweden.”
“Row?” Like the legend of the Havmand?
“I’ve rowed ever since I could grasp oars. I rowed on the crew team at Harvard and on the Danish Olympic Team in ’36.”
Else’s jaw dangled. Who was this man indeed?
“So I did,” he said. “I rowed Svend across, planning to stay in Sweden myself.”
“As everyone thinks you did...” The dizziness returned. Hemming—Henrik—was he the Havmand?
“As I wanted everyone to think.” He opened the back door of the boathouse.
Inside, he pulled a chain overhead, and a lightbulb illuminated several boats. “Svend convinced me to serve as a courier for what has become the resistance.”
The scents of varnish and truth intensified the dizziness. “You—you’re the Havmand?”
He stroked the edge of a long boat. “It isn’t as glamorous as you think. But that’s why I come to Lyd-af-Lys each weekend—this villa. That’s why I needed an alias. If rumors circulated, as they have, they’d come looking for rowers. So Henrik needed to disappear.”
Else sank onto a crate. “And Hemming—”
“I created him to be my opposite. I live in a neighborhood and work at a job where no one knows me.”
“It’s your own father’s shipyard.”
He straightened up and rested his hands low on his hips, accentuating his build. His rower’s build. “He rarely comes to the ways where I work. And honestly, I took the job to spite him, to have his heir work a menial job right under his nose. But now—now it’s become a strange form of connection to my father.”
Else stared up at him. Who was he? Playboy Henrik who repulsed her? The courageous Havmand who had inspired her? Or gentle Hemming who had encouraged her?
He glanced out the open door. “Ah, here comes Tante Janne.”
“Is she—is he—are they really your aunt and uncle?”
“Sadly, no. We pretend in case anyone asks. You may have noticed they call me Hemming. And they’ve become like family.”
Else stood to greet Janne Thorup.
A slender, light-haired woman swept in wearing a pink floral Sunday dress and a creamy sweater, and she presented Else a maternal smile. “Well, aren’t you a pretty thing? Oh, Hemming, I don’t care what Thorvald says, I’m happy you brought her. I’m glad you’ve found love.”
“Tante...” His face contorted.
Love? Else held her breath. She should have felt something, but how could she when she didn’t know which man was speaking?
“Oh no.” Fru Thorup’s face stretched long. “I spoke out of turn. I’m sorry.”
Hemming took the tray and set it on a crate. “It doesn’t matter. I won’t see her again.”
Something twitched in Else’s chest—was it relief or regret?
Fru Thorup reached for his arm. “Hem—”
“You know why.” His words were brusque, but his tone gentle, and he guided her toward the door. “Thank you for the hot chocolate.”
