Stockholm Diaries, Melanie Page 22

  “Why do you think Henrik isn’t capable of loving someone else?”

  Ann-Kathrin’s eyes widened.

  “Henrik?” she said, drawing her lips down into a frown. “No, I was talking about Isa, his ex-wife. I know he blames himself for the divorce, but I could see she couldn’t love him the way he needs to be loved, even before the wedding. You see, I have some experience with that myself.”

  Mel was too stunned to speak. Ann-Kathrin’s last words poured through her, once again loosening everything fixed in her mind about her father. Did Ann-Kathrin stay away from her father for that reason: She couldn’t love him the way he needed to be loved?

  “No,” Ann-Kathrin whispered, breaking into Mel’s thoughts, “I think Henrik has quite the opposite problem.”

  What was the opposite of an inability to love? Henrik held back because he was afraid he needed too much? The pillars of her understandings shook once again.

  Henrik chose that moment to walk out onto the deck, coffee carafe in hand. He looked at his mother and froze, his face shuttered closed. He didn’t even look in Mel’s direction.

  The rest of the visit came and went in a haze of stilted conversation. Mel barely remembered what they talked about, but judging by the long pauses in the conversation, she was fairly sure that Ann-Kathrin was just as thrown off by the situation as she was. Henrik made no effort to talk, much to Mel’s increasing irritation. She was meeting his mother for the first time. Couldn’t he put aside his own shock and make her feel at least a little welcome? Apparently not. And Mel was too shaken up by the last conversation to think of small talk.

  When Mel stood up to leave, Henrik finally met her eyes.

  “I’ll be over later,” he grunted.

  Mel had to bite back the answer on the tip of her tongue: Don’t bother. Instead, she accepted a surprisingly warm embrace from Ann-Kathrin and then bolted down the steps of the deck. She needed to escape. Mel swallowed hard, too hurt for tears as she stomped down the path. She turned at the main trail and headed up the steep hill in hopes that the physical strain would dull some of the hurt.

  He had completely abandoned her when she—she and his mother—had needed him. He hadn’t been there for her in any way that afternoon. He didn’t even offer to walk her home.

  Earlier in the day, Henrik had told her that he wouldn’t leave her. Yet, only a few hours later, she felt completely abandoned. Even though he knew this was her vulnerable point.

  Mel reached the front porch of her cabin without full awareness of how she got there. Her muscles were tired from the steep climb, and the thoughts spiraling in her head had finally begun to slow. Her endless pursuit of her father had ended in a stalemate. She climbed up the steps and let herself into her cabin, wondering what she would do for the evening. The mystery behind the biography was solved, and she no longer wanted anything to do with it. What was left?

  Mel pulled a thick blanket off her bed and walked over to the bookshelf. Her body seemed to know where to go before her mind awakened to the idea.

  She pulled the book off the shelf. Against Odds, her father’s best-known volume of poems. She had deliberately avoided this one all summer. She knew parts of these poems by heart, but tonight, when she opened the pages, Mel knew they would look different. The poems were no longer pieces in the puzzle of her own life. They never had been. They were poems about the kind of love that pulled two families apart, that made casualties of each person, including her father.

  She walked back outside and settled into one of the heavy wooden deck chairs. The sun was still high in the sky, but it had circled around the island enough so that its reflection sparkled on the water. The other tiny islands out in the distance were barely visible. Mel curled up under the thick blanket and opened the book.

  The pages fell open to a poem she hadn’t paid much attention to in the past, mostly because it hadn’t made much sense to her. It felt too obvious, almost desperate, and certainly out of place in an otherwise ethereal collection. She began to read.

  What more can I give you?

  The words you’ve given back,

  the words I never said,

  the words still hanging between us?

  Whatever I’m offering, it isn’t enough.

  Mel put the book down. In the middle of this collection, he had inserted a love letter in its rawest form, just for Ann-Kathrin. Just these first lines were enough for now. She rested her head back against the wooden slats and closed her eyes.

  She opened her eyes again. Blinked, disoriented. The sun had moved farther north, out of sight, leaving a hazy twilight. But that’s not what awoke her. It was the sound of footsteps.

  Mel lifted her head, rubbing the stiffness in her neck, and looked up. Henrik had stopped halfway up the steps and was watching her with an expression she couldn’t read. She tried to shake off the sleep from her thoughts as her heart gave a sudden jolt. Henrik. He walked up the rest of the steps and across the deck until he was towering over her.

  “I can’t take this,” he said. “You can’t write about it in your book.”

  He was talking about her father and his mother, of course, though it took a moment for her sleep-infused brain to understand this. And he was making demands. The events of the afternoon rushed back to her, and with them, the anger at his total desertion of her.

  “How many times do I have to say this?” she said quietly. “Your negotiation skills need some refining.”

  He was staring down at her, not trying to bridge the distance between them in an attempt, she was sure, to maintain the upper hand in the conversation. Mel didn’t say that she had already decided not to write the biography at all. In fact, at that moment, she was tempted to change her mind, if only to put a stop to his seemingly limitless assertions of control.

  “You shut me out this afternoon,” she said, hating that her voice cracked a little. “And now you come over just to make demands? How could I have considered caring about someone who would ask me to choose between the book and—”

  “No.”

  His voice was loud, and the sound of hurt and fear rang out in that one word.

  “Please don’t go further,” he whispered.

  Henrik knelt down in front of her chair and reached under the blanket to hold her legs in his hands. His palms pressed into her thighs, kneading them. Mel didn’t know what to do, torn between the anger that had built in her all afternoon and the distracting softness she felt every time he touched her.

  But he was right. She had been prepared to say something she would have regretted. Mel closed her eyes, relaxing into the pressure of Henrik’s hands on her. And despite her anger, she couldn’t escape the fact that being with him, even when she was furious, felt right. But that was the problem, wasn’t it? That it felt so good to be with him that she couldn’t pull away. Mel opened her eyes again and steeled herself against her reaction to his touch.

  “You didn’t even walk me home,” she said, the bite of anger still in her voice. “You shut me out, knowing that’s my worst fear. And you still did it. I can’t be—”

  He cut her off again.

  “Stop. Please,” he growled. His voice softened a little. “Please don’t say that, Melanie. I couldn’t deal with hearing… that about my mother, and I fucked up. And I know I’ll fuck up again and again, probably even today. But you can’t—”

  Mel stiffened at the first words—another order from him? He stopped and ran his hand through his hair. He seemed to be struggling with what to say. He raised his hand and stroked her cheek. She could feel his pulse pounding through his hand, hot despite the cool night air. He let out a long, low breath.

  “Don’t give up on me now,” he said. “My instinct is to grab tighter.”

  Mel could see the side of Henrik that Ann-Kathrin had described more clearly now. The stark expression was gone from Henrik’s face, and for a moment, he looked more vulnerable than she had ever seen him. Was he right? Each conflict
they had sent her into a whirlwind of doubt about whether or not their relationship would work. This clearly took a toll on Henrik, too.

  Mel drew a deep breath.

  “You’re right,” she whispered. “I’m not giving up on us. But this afternoon really hurt.”

  He swallowed hard and shut his eyes at her words.

  “I was afraid I’d—” he stopped and hung his head. “I’m so sorry. All I wanted to do this afternoon was bury myself in you until the pain went away. If I looked at you, if I touched you, it would have all come out.”

  Mel wasn’t sure what to do with this statement.

  “And you couldn’t show those feelings to your mother?” she asked.

  Henrik seemed to consider her question for a moment before he shook his head.

  “Why not?”

  Her question seemed to trigger a burst of emotions in Henrik.

  “Melanie, I’m so fucking angry I can’t even think straight,” he hissed. “All this time I thought that my father had driven my mother away, but that wasn’t what happened at all. My mother had an affair the summer we bought this cabin. Of course it drove my father insane. Of course he was trying to get her back, any way he could. If it were you, I wouldn’t have let you go, either. But I’ve spent my whole life blaming my father for it.”

  Henrik paused, the night air filled with his heavy breaths. Mel watched him carefully, trying to take in all of the revelations that were shaking the foundation of his world. She took his hand and squeezed it.

  “I’m so sorry, Henrik.”

  Henrik nodded a little, hanging his head lower.

  “Did you talk to your mother about it?”

  Henrik winced, and he rested his head on her thighs. She stroked his hair, trying to take the edge off the pain that this conversation seemed to bring.

  “She told me it was true. She told me she and Björn had an affair that summer when I was five. And it ended when my father found out. Björn wanted her to leave my father, but she didn’t. Can you guess why?”

  Henrik’s face was severe, and his eyes were dark and pained.

  “Why?” Mel whispered.

  “Because of me,” he said. His voice was cold, but his face betrayed a glimmer of emotion. Then he gave her a humorless smile. “Just think of how many people’s lives I ruined. My father’s. My mother’s. Your father’s. Your m—”

  “Don’t,” she said, resting her hand on his. “If your mother had left your father for mine, I wouldn’t be here.”

  He reached up and pressed his hand to her cheek, gently stroking it, mirroring her own gestures earlier.

  “But that’s just the problem, isn’t it?” he said sadly. “That I can see why Björn would do this now. I’d pick you, even if it meant ruining four other lives.”

  Oh. She breathed in the heaviness of his words, the heaviness of the guilt that he had carried with him, even from a young age. This newest revelation about his mother and her father was only the latest addition to the web of events that he traced back to himself. It was no wonder that he had closed himself off on this island, away from the kinds of entanglements that had caused him so much pain.

  Mel pushed her blanket aside and scooted forward, to the edge of the big wooden deck chair. The book of poems fell to the ground, still open to the same page, and Henrik picked it up. He stared at it for a long time. He began to read.

  “What more can I give you?

  The words you’ve given back,

  the words I never said,

  the words still hanging between us?

  If I find the right ones

  Will we find our way to love?”

  He paused and glanced up at her. Mel smiled.

  “I’m not sure those last lines are from that poem,” she whispered.

  Henrik smiled back at her and put the book down.

  “As his translator, I’m taking some artistic liberties. It wasn’t his best.”

  Henrik rose on his knees, meeting her face to face. She leaned her forehead on his and smoothed her hands through his hair and down his neck. When she reached the tight muscles of his shoulders, he let out his breath in a low hiss.

  “You can be as angry as you want with me, but please don’t threaten to leave,” he said. His voice was rough with emotion. “As much as you’re scared of it, I am, too.”

  His arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her closer. She kissed him and stroked his cheek. The worry lines were back on Henrik’s forehead.

  “We can’t keep tearing at each other like this,” he whispered.

  Mel closed her eyes. Hope over fear, she silently reminded herself.

  “Please tell me what you’re thinking, Melanie,” he said in a voice laced with anxiety and then he gave a tight chuckle. “I think I’m about to have a heart attack over here.”

  Mel gave a snort of laughter that broke through all the tension and worry.

  “Yes, Henrik,” she said, her voice shaking. “I want to be together with you, whatever that means. I just have a lot to learn.”

  Even before she had finished her sentence, Henrik crushed her into a rough embrace that took her breath away.

  “Sorry,” he said, half-laughing and loosened his hold on her. But she pulled him back against her and buried her face in his neck, taking in his warmth, the delicious smell of him. His body was still hard and tense, and she listened to his uneven breaths in her ear.

  “Fuck, I need to take you to bed,” he said roughly.

  “How romantic,” she snorted, but she couldn’t deny that his words turned her on. All the frustrations, the worries, the intensity of the day instantly changed into desire. She needed that connection, too. “I had something to show you, but I guess it can wait.”

  He pulled back and looked at her carefully.

  “Is this what you want?”

  The question was about sex, of course, but from the seriousness of his face as his eyes met hers, Mel felt as if he were asking more. She had given him an answer just moments before, but his eyes seemed to ask, Are you sure you want me, despite everything you know? Her heart gave a jump at the depth of the uncertainty in his look. This was the uncertainty and fear that had kept him on his own all these years, and he was trusting her with it.

  She kissed the edge of his jaw, feeling the scratch of his stubble on her lips. He drew in a sharp breath as she brushed her lips against his.

  “Yes, Henrik. I want this. More than anything else I’ve ever wanted.”

  And that was the truth. Henrik’s body tightened against hers, and his voice was husky and filled with need.

  “Then let me get you off this porch before I pleasure you in front of the whole island.”

  Chapter 24

  The morning sun had made its way around the cabin, and it was now shining into the living room. Mel lay still in bed, Henrik’s arm draped heavily over her. It must be late, she thought, though she felt little desire to leave the warmth of the bed, with Henrik’s body so comfortably settled beside her.

  As if he were listening to her thoughts, Henrik stirred.

  “Mmm, this feels so good,” he murmured. “I haven’t woken up next to you in too long.”

  This was true, though it was only yesterday that she had seen him standing on the steps of her porch at twilight, looking both sullen and sexy at the same time. And it was only yesterday that she had met his mother.

  Mel tensed at the memory of Henrik’s coldness as the three of them had sat in awkward silence. Her mind jumped forward to his demand that she not write his mother into her father’s biography. She still hadn’t shown him the letters. She had put off telling him about them all of yesterday, and she could feel the subject weigh even more heavily on her today. It would only get worse.

  “What is it?” asked Henrik, propping himself up on his elbow to look at her.

  “I have something to show you,” she said.

  He frowned. “From the look on your face, I’m
not sure I’m going to want to see it.”

  Mel sighed heavily.

  “I’m not, either,” she said. “I finally started cleaning out my father’s bedroom.”

  Henrik tensed immediately, and Mel was sure he could guess where this conversation was leading. She rolled out of bed and found a t-shirt and a pair of comfortable pants. It would be easier—or, at least, less distracting—to talk if they were wearing clothes. She found Henrik’s jeans on the floor and handed them to him. He sat up and took the jeans from her, but he didn’t move to put them on right away. Instead, he rested his forearms on his thighs and looked at the floor. He knew. She was almost sure he knew without even seeing the letters.

  She walked over to him and put her hand on the nape of his neck. Then she lifted his face to kiss him.

  “Come on,” she said, nodding her head toward the door of her father’s bedroom.

  Slowly, Henrik lifted his legs into his jeans and stood up. Mel couldn’t help but admire the beautiful man in front of her, all hard muscles and dark, brooding eyes. He was struggling, walking toward an answer that he didn’t want to hear, but he didn’t say anything; he just followed her. Yes, she did love this man. And she was about to cause him more pain. Mel reached for his hand, turned the knob and opened the door.

  Her father’s clothing, the photos and the letters were where she had left them, in piles across the bedroom floor. She glanced over at Henrik. He was staring at the drawer with a deep frown.

  “You’ve never looked in here? This whole summer?”

  Mel shook her head.

  “Even after I showed you your school photos in his nightstand? Why?”

  He looked over at her, his brow deeply furrowed.

  “I’m not sure,” she finally said. “I guess I was afraid. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know what was in here.”

  He continued to watch her, as if he were trying to read her thoughts, though Mel was just as mystified by her own behavior as he seemed to be. She was a biographer, after all—how could she ignore the most personal and intimate room of her subject? Because he was her father. Because as much as she wanted answers about the shadows that hovered over her childhood, she knew this would be too much. Which was exactly why she shouldn’t be writing his biography.