I notice there’s a series of large photo frames hanging on the wall in the hallway and cock my head toward them. “Do you mind if I take a look?”
“Of course, honey, make yourself at home.”
The entire downstairs of the house—every room that I can see, at least, including the adjoining living room—features this same ginger pine. It’s also tiled throughout, with dark-patterned rugs placed at regular intervals.
What I wouldn’t give to get my hands on this place, brighten it up a bit.
I swirl my wine around in my glass out of habit as I study the family photos. The frames are all oval-shaped and vary slightly in size, but each is made of a different material, from dark polished wood to ornate gold-plated metal.
In the kitchen, Peggy is sliding the chopped beans into a pan on the hob, but once she’s done, she joins me.
“Who are they?” I nod at a dour-looking couple in a black-and-white photograph. It’s very old and shows a man standing to the right of a woman who’s sitting in a high-backed armchair.
“That’s Patrik’s great-great-grandfather Haller and his wife, Sigrid.” Peggy’s accent is American with a Midwestern lilt, but she pronounces Haller, “Hah-ler,” and it sounds Scandinavian.
“Are they the original settlers?” I ask with interest.
“Yes, they are.”
Another black-and-white photograph shows a man and a woman in exactly the same pose. I’ve got to say, it’s a little creepy. “They’re sitting in the same chair,” I realize, peering closer.
“Yes,” she replies with a giggle. “That’s Henrik, Haller’s son,and his wife, Edna.” She moves farther along the wall. “And here’s Aan and Rose, and Erik with Mary.”
They’re all photographed in the exact same pose with the exact same chair.
“And here we are,” she says cheerfully, pointing at a picture of herself with her husband.
It’s a color photograph, as were the last two, and there’s no disguising the twinkle in Peggy’s eye, even as she keeps a relatively straight face. She looks so young—her late twenties, perhaps. Anders has her green eyes, I realize, and her striking eyebrows.
“We still have that chair.” She points into the living room and there, in the corner, is the red high-backed armchair.
“I love it!” I say with delight, going to take a closer look.
The chair’s fabric is faded and threadbare, but seeing it here thrills me.
I turn my attention to the rest of the room. Practically every single surface is crammed with ornaments, antiques, and photo frames. And the more I look, the more I want to scrap what I said earlier about getting my hands on this interior. There’s over a hundred and seventy years’ worth of history inside this house. If itwasup to me, maybe I’d leave it exactly as it is.
Then again, a lick of white paint would work wonders.
My gaze drifts to a photograph in a silver frame and my heart skips a beat when I realize it’s Anders on his wedding day.
“That’s Laurie,” Peggy says when she sees what’s snagged my attention.
And now his wife has a name.
“Anders told me what happened,” I say, matching her subdued tone.
I study the photograph. Anders is devastatingly handsome in a fitted black suit, white shirt, and slim black tie. His hair is shorter than it is now and he’s looking down at his wife—Laurie—who’s laughing up at him. Her blond hair has been scooped into a tousled updo and there are tiny white flowers in it. Her dress is white lace and sleeveless. She’s absolutely beautiful.
“One of the worst things ever to happen to our family,” Peggy murmurs, her voice strained with grief.
One of?
She must read my mind because suddenly she looks embarrassed.
“How is Patrik?”
“Oh, he’s fine,” she replies dismissively, making me think that she doesn’t place his heart attack up there with whatever other tragedies this family has endured.
