Stockholm Diaries, Caroline Read online

  “I think he was a little drunk,” added Caroline as she took another bite of the gigantic cinnamon roll on the plate in front of her. “He smelled like beer and cigarettes.”

  “Mmm—even better.”

  But his hand on my skin…

  Caroline tried to stop herself before that thought went any further, but it was too late. She could feel her heart give another jump.

  The tiny café was mostly empty now. Only one lone man had his computer open, settled in for a longer haul—work, the look on his face suggested. All the other patrons had finished their coffee and pastries and then left, presumably not wanting to waste one of Stockholm’s truly warm days indoors.

  But Caroline and Veronica made no move to get up, despite the fact that their second round of cinnamon rolls had nearly disappeared. The two of them still looked enough alike to be sisters, both with their long, wavy brown hair and skin a few shades darker than anyone Caroline had seen around this part of Stockholm. But somehow, despite the ten years that had passed since they had seen each other, Veronica had managed to keep the spark of optimism that Caroline hadn’t felt in herself for a long time.

  “Oh well, I guess you should be happy. You got more out of him than anyone else in the building has,” said Veronica. “He never even looks my way when I pass him on the stairs. Even when I’ve said hello, he just grunts and nods.”

  “Yeah—he grunted at me, too. But you don’t know who he is?”

  “He moved in not long before you arrived. And besides, this is Sweden—people don’t make friends with their neighbors. In fact, they avoid it,” said Veronica with a laugh. “Something about respecting each others’ privacy. Filip warned me against trying to talk to people in the halls when I first got here, but I still can’t help it. You can take the girl out of Mexico…”

  Caroline snickered.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said, taking the last bite of her cinnamon roll. “What I really need to be thinking about is life stuff, like how I’m going to fund the rest of my way around the world. I spent most of my money on the plane ticket.”

  “How much does the ex-patriot interview job pay?”

  “Not much at first, though if we can get a good readership, they’ll pay more. There are three others working on this series, all on different continents. I need to come up with one article every two weeks, max two per country, through the summer. I’ll have some spare time here, but after two articles in Sweden, I have to move on. Which gives me about a month total to figure out some other income sources. I have some savings, but not much.”

  “How about portraits? Baby portraits, maybe? Who’s that woman—Anne Geddes? She must make heaps off of them. And people love their babies here in Sweden.”

  “Ugh,” Caroline sighed. Baby portraits were exactly what she was trying to put behind her. Though she was grateful for the job—many of her college friends had long given up any hope of making a living in photography by now—Caroline found the mall studio where she had worked for the last six years depressing. She had left to get away from that kind of thing.

  “No,” Caroline added decisively. “No more baby portraits. I want something more real, something outside the studio. I really don’t care what it is. I’m just tired of cleaning baby spit-up off the props. If that’s what I wanted, I might as well have stayed in Michigan with Brad.”

  “No, you definitely should not have stayed with Brad, Carolita,” said Veronica and shook her head vigorously, eliciting a laugh from Caroline.

  She agreed with Veronica, or at least she had when she bought her ticket a few months ago. She and Brad had actually planned to travel together “after I finish law school and get established,” he had said when they moved in together. Now Caroline wasn’t sure he had ever intended to follow through on that promise. Did he say it just to get her to stay? He was always so rational, and his arguments made so much sense at the time, but over the years she had begun to suspect that his smooth demeanor was a calculated method for getting his way.

  “Brad was nice, wasn’t he?” Caroline asked, almost to herself.

  But Veronica’s thoughts went in a different direction, and she waved her hand dismissively at Caroline’s question.

  “Nice is something you want in your dentist, not the man you’re having sex with every day.” Then she stifled a laugh with her hand. “Did I say that too loudly?” she whispered.

  Caroline looked over at the man in the corner, who was clearly not paying attention to his laptop anymore.

  “Yep, you did,” Caroline chuckled.

  Veronica shook her head. “I’m always the loud one. Even after five years in Sweden, I still haven’t learned to keep my voice down.”

  Veronica smoothed her dress and drank down the last of her coffee. Then, in her best business voice, she said, “Now, back to planning your career.”

  “Planning is what usually gets me in trouble,” said Caroline, shaking her head. “If I think too much, I end up making the safe decisions, not the decisions that make me happy.”

  “That’s what I’m here for.”

  Veronica’s eyes were sparkling—she was clearly enjoying this.

  “You already found me a place to stay in your building,” said Caroline. “You don’t have to find me a job, too. Though something tells me you’re going to try anyway.”

  Caroline reached across the table and squeezed her friend’s hand.

  “I’ve missed you, Veronica.”

  “I’ve missed you, too. That’s why I have to help you find a way to make money here,” she said, her smile growing wider. “Maybe you’ll stay longer.”

  “But my best connections are for travel publications, which means… well, travel. If this series gets some traction, I’ll be able to pitch more ideas to this magazine and others. I’ll get my foot in the door. I just need to eat in the meantime.”

  “There must be money somewhere else,” said Veronica resting her chin on her hands. “How about sports? The hockey world championships are at The Globe in Stockholm starting next week—Filip bought tickets. I’m sure sports photography pays a lot, right?”

  Caroline raised her eyebrows and leaned back in her chair. “I guess so.”

  Sports photography probably did pay more if she could get the right kind of shots. True, she hadn’t shot a hockey game since college, but there must be something in common between the candid portraits she prided herself on and the action that surfaced on a hockey rink. And if there wasn’t? She could come up with something.

  “Hmm…” Veronica strummed her fingers on the table. “Filip knows someone who could probably get you a press pass,” she said and then gave Caroline a mischievous smile. “And this guy is single, too.”

  Chapter Three

  Caroline turned the key—the one she had found patiently waiting for her on the hall table, just out of reach when she had wielded the long spoon the morning before—and let herself back into the apartment. Even after a week of staying in this apartment, it was hard not to feel like she was invading someone else’s life each time she walked in.

  The couple that owned the apartment had left everything, large and small, when they took off for Brazil. Gustavsson was their name, Tommy and Annika Gustavsson, some sort of reference or joke in Swedish, she had gathered, judging from the way people who didn’t know them chuckled at their names. Veronica had made the arrangements, so she had never met the couple in person, yet she had a strangely intimate knowledge of their everyday life.

  They drank espresso rather than coffee—Veronica had to show her how to work the strange metal contraption that went on the stove instead of plugging into the wall—and they liked to travel, judging from the row of guides on their shelves. There were shelves of other books with indecipherable titles, some with small print and serious-looking covers and others in mass-market paperback. Definitely a reader in the family. The rooms were white, clutter-free and sparsely decorated with low, geometric furniture that was
surprisingly comfortable. Tasteful, but more like something out of a magazine than anything she’d seen in real homes before.

  But it was the photographs that connected Caroline to the phantom couple she was living with. While only a few abstract paintings hung on the living room and bedroom walls, one of the walls behind the breakfast nook was covered with an eclectic mishmash of photos, all framed in black and artfully fit together into an intricate puzzle. The photos created a kind of travelogue of the couple’s adventures together: Annika on top of a rocky cliff, long blond hair blowing behind her. Layers of white buildings rise up behind her in the distance on one side, water in Mediterranean blue on the other. In the photo below, Tommy is standing on the side of a busy city road somewhere in Asia, listening attentively to whatever the rickshaw driver is telling him.

  There was just one photo of the two of them, standing in front of the Coliseum in Rome. The picture was not particularly well framed, their bodies cut off at the knees and the Coliseum at an odd angle, but Caroline understood immediately why they had hung the photo up anyway. What it captured was probably a mistake, in fact, the photo taken right before they were ready. Tommy was pushing the hair out of Annika’s eyes as she laughed in a last-minute attempt to fix their pose. But instead of the usual smiling couple in front of a landmark, this photo captured a more intimate gesture that told of a different kind of happiness—not just happy to be in Rome but truly happy to be together.

  Was it possible to know someone through photographs alone? At the very least, they hold a part of the people they capture, Caroline decided as she sat down at Tommy and Annika’s kitchen table. It’s why she had brought a tiny photo collection of her own on this trip, now set up underneath the window in the bedroom. The photographs were pieces of the people she loved, pieces she wanted to hang onto.

  But today was beautiful and warm, not a day to spend inside, looking at photos of other happy couples. And she had work to do. There were a few cafes along the park, potential spots to photograph her first subject: Veronica. And despite her procrastination, Caroline wasn’t worried. Veronica had always looked both lively and relaxed in pictures, with her easy smile even when caught off guard. Caroline had finished most of the interview that morning, and when the editor mailed to ask if her first article was ready, she had said yes. This evening she’d pull it all together and send it out. Then, if she still had the energy, she could look into getting a press pass for the hockey tournament.

  Caroline grabbed what she had come back upstairs for: her laptop and her camera. Then, double-checking for her keys this time, she opened up the door.

  In front of her, only a few feet away, stood Viking Guy. He didn’t turn around but just continued to unlock the door.

  “Hi,” she said, her voice echoing in the dark hallway.

  “Hey,” he nodded over his shoulder and then started to walk in. Was this what Veronica had referred to earlier—the Swedish neighborly friendliness?

  “Wait,” she called just before he shut his door. “I still have your spoon.”

  She reached back onto the hall table and grabbed it. Then she walked over to his door, holding it out, as if offering proof—of what, she wasn’t sure. He stopped. After a long pause, he finally turned around. Caroline drew in her breath a little louder than she had intended. He was bigger than she remembered, still unshaven but now with an angry red cut above his eye, patched together with a few surgical strips. She tried to keep the surprise off her face though, judging from his look, she wasn’t completely successful.

  “Your spoon?” she said quietly, offering it again.

  Finally, reluctantly, it seemed, he met her eyes. And when he did, she saw a fierceness in them that ran through her. He looked down at the ground, and when he looked back, it was gone. Caroline opened her mouth to speak again, but nothing came out.

  “Haven’t missed it,” he answered with a half-smile, taking the spoon from her. But as he grabbed it, his large hand brushed across hers, sending a jolt through her—the same crackle of attraction she had felt the other day. He seemed to feel it too, and his hand jerked back.

  “Thanks,” he muttered.

  “I’m Caroline, by the way,” she said.

  He nodded and said, “Niklas,” just before closing the door.

  Caroline remained there for a moment, her face only inches from his door, trying to figure out if this guy had just slammed the door in her face again. He did, she decided as she turned toward the stairwell. It was another good reason why she shouldn’t waste her time thinking about him, in addition to the reason that had occurred to her the minute he had turned around: Why would a grown man, especially one as intent on avoiding other people as he seemed to be, have a cut over his eye? He looked like he had been in a fight. She couldn’t help thinking that with his size, the other guy must look even worse. The image of him in the elevator—before the stench of beer and cigarettes took over, that is—came to her without warning: the broad thick shoulders, the long, tightly muscled arms. Something about the base physicality of those arms had made her avert her gaze, despite the fact that no one could see her staring. Now, her breath quickened again.

  Enough, Caroline told herself. Judging by his abrupt exit, he certainly wasn’t sitting at home thinking about her.

  Even in the short time she had spent gathering her things from the apartment, the day had heated up, making the walk up Odengatan positively hot, with the shaded park across the street offering little relief. In fact, it was the first time the weather had approached anything near hot since she had arrived in Stockholm. Veronica had assured her earlier that warm summer weather was the exception, not the rule here.

  “You’re coming to a country where the sun barely rises for months. There are places up north where the snow hasn’t completely melted yet.”

  Caroline wasn’t sure if this was fact or exaggeration, though by Veronica’s tone she was inclined to believe the latter.

  Odengatan stretched out in front of her. She gazed up at a tall yellow apartment building, sandwiched together against other similar buildings along the street, all six stories high with dark metal roofs and various lookouts, all made of hundred-year-old stone and plaster. In Detroit, anything this old would be missing half its windows and be surrounded by empty lots, she thought with a wry smile. But here, people actually seemed to be living in these places. Even her, in fact.

  Caroline walked slowly down the street, peering in dark entranceways and down basement staircases. She peeked into the neighborhood “favorites” that Veronica had listed in her ex-patriot interview: The home-style restaurant hidden away on the side street around the corner that served Swedish pancakes and meatballs. The Italian kitchen shop at the end of the street, where she saw in the little display window the espresso maker Tommy and Annika had in their kitchen.

  Finally, Caroline found what she was looking for: the bakery. She couldn’t miss the smell of bread and cinnamon that wafted out onto the sidewalk. The glass windows that lined the front of the café were folded open, and inside the air was cooler. Perfect.

  Caroline ordered a coffee and stared at the cinnamon rolls that were piled high onto a glass cake platter. One more wouldn’t hurt, she told herself, not with all the walking she was doing. She found herself a seat that faced the park across the street and opened up her laptop.

  It only took a minute or two of searching to find out what she should have guessed: Getting press passes for international hockey tournaments required a great deal of documentation about who she would be freelancing for, and, worse, the application deadline passed back in January. Caroline leaned back in her chair and sighed. What were her options? Sneak in?

  But the idea of shooting the hockey games had planted itself into her, and she wasn’t ready to give up so easily. In fact, the more Caroline thought about the idea, the more she was intrigued. She actually did have some experience in sports photography, Caroline reminded herself, even if it was many years ago. Back at
the University of Michigan, she had worked for The Michigan Daily, basically doing any kind of photography the college newspaper needed. She never had much interest in hockey assignments. With a Mexican father and Texan mother, the family generally balked at the idea of going out into the cold voluntarily. Needless to say, hockey, along with other sports that required extra layers, was looked upon with skepticism by the Mendoza family.

  Still, the photo that had received the most attention at the Michigan Daily was, in fact, one of her shots from the Big Ten hockey finals in Detroit. She had saved it in her personal portfolio, not because of the award she had won for it but because she had managed to capture the emotion of the game and the crowd around her in one, fixed moment.

  Caroline scrolled through her folders and found it. The game was University of Michigan versus Michigan State, a rivalry which would have provoked rowdy crowds even outside of the playoffs. She had managed to capture the winning goal, scored with only 14 seconds left to play. The shot itself was impressive: the Michigan player (his name now lost to her) tottering off balance, reaching forward to make the shot before his impending crash into the boards. But it was the crowd behind the player that set the photo apart. Two guys with Michigan State jerseys were suspended forever in the middle of a long and angry, “Noooo,” while the woman beside them in Michigan blue and yellow peeked through her hands, eyebrows raised and mouth open. Fans sitting right where the player was about to hit the boards pulled back, protecting themselves from the imagined impact they couldn’t help but shrink from. Every single spectator, with their emotions ranging from horror to celebration, came together in one resounding image: at that moment, the game was everything.

  Caroline gazed at the photo. Sure, I can do that again, she thought with a rueful smile. True, her best lenses these days were suited more for portraits than for action shots, but she should still be able to capture some of what she had seen in that game. Portraits, hockey—at least they both involved people. In all honesty, the photo was a fluke, but she didn’t have to tell anyone else that. She had been green enough to call it a fluke to her own editor at the time.