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“I’m fine. Give me ten more minutes.” Linnea pecked his cheek and closed the door on his worry. She returned to Peter and licked her chapped lips, praying the nausea would behave itself. “Tell me?”

Peter, absorbed in the paper, didn’t answer, and she noted a slight tremor in the hand holding it. With the other, he wiped his lips. Apparently, she’d opened something inside him. His eyes were not that of a criminal, and the odd connection she felt toward him stung her chest. That look of horrific guilt. He’d carried it as long as she had. She made a small sound to remind him of her presence.

Peter slowly peeled his eyes from the picture. “Do you want to know how I met her?”

“Who? Ronja?” What was she supposed to say? No, Peter, cut to the chase? She’d not planned for a senior citizen listening session. She flicked her eyes to the door. Taylor would have his timer set. Besides, Linnea didn’t want to talk about Ronja. Not because she didn’t love or care about Ronja but precisely because she did. Ulla’s mother had served as Linnea’s mother, too, in the time of her life when she needed one most. She was dizzy now. Not the normal dizziness. Is this what happens from shoving the worst of your memories into all the nooks and crannies of your body? One poke, and it floods your veins? “Can I sit down?” she whispered.

“Of course.” Peter motioned to the couch. “I’m sorry, it’s not the most comfortable.”

She waved off his apology and sat, grateful for his contemplative silence until the edges of her vision cleared.

He sat on the opposite side of the couch, returned his attention to the picture, and said, “She was on the Finnlines from Germany back to Sweden, and only what, eighteen? I was returning from a . . . business trip. That would’ve been, I don’t know, 1963, maybe four? She was—” He cut his sentence with a sigh, a pained nostalgic sigh, like he’d replayed this moment countless times, knew it by heart but not by words. “She was so sad, had been searching for her family. And I knew,” he caught Linnea’s gaze, “I knew I couldn’t live without her.”

Did Ulla know this? Linnea felt horrible for wanting him to speed up the story, the part where Ronja gained possession of the Dala horse, the part where Ronja and Peter had sex and conceived Ulla, because that seemed to be the most logical, albeit disappointing conclusion. Ronja had always insisted Peter was not Ulla’s biological father. And Linnea recalled a disjointed timeline of events as told by Ulla once, where Peter had been a part of their lives, then wasn’t.

Peter must have sensed Linnea’s urgency. “We were a family, that’s what matters. I was Ulla’s father.”

Linnea said nothing, waiting for more and then ventured, “Depends on what you define as a father?”

His expression closed, and he stood, handing her the picture. “What you’re doing is pointless.”

Linnea limply accepted it, mustering the resolve to stand. She muscled down the humiliation at the fact that he was right. This was a stupid endeavor.

He must have noticed her struggle because he lunged to help, and she swatted him away. “I’m sorry I bothered you.” She didn’t care to hide the bitterness, though her voice was strained and small.

“Linnea,” he said in a soft tone, pausing her. “You’re not wrong. The only way to Ulla’s father is if you find that Dalahäst.”

Cautious hope surged. “You said this was pointless.”

Peter nodded yet said, “But I didn’t say you shouldn’t try.”

Chapter Two

Two Weeks Later

Linnea

Seated at a coffee shop table in Minneapolis on Washington Avenue, Linnea regarded the 3x5 pictures of the tiny bejeweled Dala horse. Before she could even begin the search for Ulla, for redemption, she needed that horse. The one Ulla had given to Linnea in an act of great love that she had recklessly squandered.

After her visit with Peter Johansson, the desperation to find Ulla escalated. If only it hadn’t taken a death sentence to revive Linnea to the fact she still loved her. The cancer seemed to be consuming all but her emotions around Ulla, especially the guilt. Oh, the guilt. Why couldn’t the cancer have eaten that up?

Her only hope of finding the Dala horse now lay unfortunately in the hands of her ex-husband, Everett, who would be arriving any minute. He was more likely to ridicule than help. Especially when it came to Ulla.

When she had called and asked Everett to meet, he suggested coming over—never a good idea. He always harped about the divorce judge giving her the house, the cars, and the ongoing alimony.

So she wrestled her fatigue to meet him somewhere else. Everett would notice the silk scarf covering her patchy dark hair. Probably crack an inappropriate joke.

She saw him through the tall windows outside on the brick walkway and slipped the photographs into her purse. He entered the coffee shop that was a modern mix of rustic and industrial. “Ev!” She lifted her hand but doubted he heard her above the espresso machine’s hiss and acoustic guitar music from overhead. He scratched his close-shaved, peppered beard, scanning the faces. His once-skinny frame had finally caught up to his late forties.

Everett spotted her, but his eyes shifted, as if checking to make sure it was her.

He approached in his leather oxfords that she knew were soft from the years she spent buying them for him. The Italian wool coat was casually open in the still-cool but promising April weather. It revealed a navy sweater vest. He and Taylor shared the same taste in expensive fashion. But God forbid she ever point that out to Taylor.

Everett kissed her on the cheek, surprising her. There was a foreign tenderness when he said, “Hey, Lin.”

He didn’t sit, rather pulled out his billfold. “I’m getting coffee. Want your usual? Chamomile, two honeys?”

My usual? She nodded. Who are you? Seven years post-divorce had either mellowed his narcissism, or she’d forgotten how charming he could be when he wanted something.