Page 1 of Olive Becket Plays the Rake (The Seattle Suffrage Society)

Hell was entertaining one’s mother with a skull-splitting hangover.

Emil Anderson hoisted the last rattan picnic basket from the family carriage and set it on the rain-slick boardwalk beside its companions. A quick glance to assure himself his mother was occupied with the driver—good. He dragged a shaky hand across his bleary eyes.

One lunch. He could handle one lunch.

That’s all it would take to convince Beata Anderson her vacation home hadn’t been turned into his den of vice over the holidays.

It had been, of course, but at least he’d had the wherewithal to send his late-night guests home not long after the timid winter sun crested Lake Washington.

He’d even disposed of the evidence scattered around the living room before falling face-first into bed, and risen in time to bribe the community watchman into silence with a pint of gin.

Who was to say he wasn’t the picture of respectability?

“You look horrid,” said a gleeful voice behind him. “Did a vengeful mule stomp on your head?”

Correction: hell was little sisters.

“And you—” The words scraped his bone-dry throat, and he paused to swallow.

Shouldn’t have chased down those bottles of Rainier beer with hand-rolled cigarettes.

He gave up any attempt at returning an insult and turned pleading eyes on Astrid.

“Please tell me one of these baskets contains ginger syrup.”

“As if Mor would leave any of your favorites behind.” Astrid rolled her eyes as she tucked a flyaway curl beneath her wool tam hat. “Besides, you should be thanking me.”

“Why’s that?”

“I’m the reason we’re half an hour late. Thought you might need more time to send your fancy women on their way.”

“Fancy women? Who taught you that?”

At twenty years of age, Astrid shouldn’t know such things.

But perhaps it was the fact that his youngest sibling was the only one in their family who’d been born on American soil after they’d emigrated from Sweden.

From the moment she’d learned to string words together, she’d been on a relentless mission to prove how worldly she was—an objective she pursued with equal parts charm and audacity.

“It’s in a book Mrs. Langley lent me. I’ve taken to reading it aloud when no one’s listening. Improves my diction.”

How did his mother find time to worry about him with Astrid still under her roof? “Don’t let Mor hear you, or she’ll toss that book into the stove.”

“A thank you would be nice.”

“The half-hour reprieve is appreciated, though unnecessary. I slept alone.”

“Ah, yes.” Astrid clasped her hands behind her back and nodded sagely. “Rule number five.”

His humor died a quick, sputtering death. “What do you know about rule number five?”

“I hear things.”

“You eavesdrop.”

“The result is the same. I know Emil Anderson’s Bachelor Code by heart. Rule number one: mutual attraction. No coercion of body, heart, or mind allowed.”

“Jesus, Astrid.”

He craned his neck around the carriage to check Beata wasn’t listening.

No mother needed to know about her son’s carnal pursuits.

It wasn’t his fault he’d been blessed with a face that sent girls into fits of giggles and grown women into sighs of longing.

He wasn’t so foolish as to waste nature’s gift, but he had also learned—the hard way—that rules needed to be put in place.

“Rule number two,” Astrid continued. “Give more than you receive. I’m not entirely certain what that refers to, but I’ll assume you’re proficient at gift-giving.”

A muffled snort sounded above Emil, and he whipped his head up to catch the driver’s bemused smirk before the man slunk into his blanket-lined seat. Where was his mother?

“Rule number three—”

He smacked a hand over his sister’s mouth and listened.

The brief lull allowed him to track Beata’s whereabouts.

Luckily, she stood a good fifteen paces down the dirt lane by a cluster of mailboxes, conversing loudly with one of the community full-timers, Seán Meany, a retired Navy man in his fifties.

Half deaf from cannon blast, he seemed content spending his days luring mallards to his dock with breadcrumbs and embracing each dawn with a nude swim.

If he was half as good at monopolizing conversations as he was at scaring off prudish would-be tenants, Emil might have enough time to silence his sister.

Sharp teeth sank into Emil’s ungloved pinky finger, and he jerked his hand away with a yelp.

“Number three: discretion is paramount,” Astrid carried on doggedly. “It’s almost noble how you wish to protect a woman’s reputation.”

He flapped his stinging hand and shot daggers at Astrid. “Perhaps I have no interest in being trapped in marriage. Imagine becoming shackled to a harpy like you.”

Without waiting for a reply, he leaned down, hauled a wooden crate crammed with rattling crockery off the ground, and balanced it on his shoulder. His stomach balked at the quick movement, but he gritted his teeth and stepped onto the floating boardwalk jutting into the lake.

“Wait for me!”

“Not a chance.”

He strode forward, the gently undulating planks guiding him past a series of moored, uninhabited houseboats, and then past a territorial trio of white-headed gulls perched on the knobby handrail.

They launched into the crisp winter air with a guttural squawk and flurry of slate and ivory wingtips, but he didn’t flinch.

The rhythmic, purposeful clack of Astrid’s heels racing after him quickly replaced their clamor.

“Rule number four,” she belted into the hushed community. “No commitments.”

His sweet baby sister had grown into a she-devil.

The best he could do now was get her inside and out of Beata’s earshot.

Bracing the crate with one hand, he slowed in front of the back entrance to the floating home, a two-story cottage sheathed with gray, lapped cedar siding and white trim.

The door, which he’d left ajar with the hopes that one last airing out would permanently banish any lingering odors, swayed back and forth with a low creak.

What he wouldn’t give to duck inside and shut the door in his smirking sister’s face.

“Careful,” he said over his shoulder instead. “There are ice patches afoot.”

Miraculously, the risk of a December dip was enough to slow her trot.

Before she could launch into his fifth and final rule, he swung open the white gate leading to the cedar-planked deck and indicated for her to go ahead.

She obliged, crossing under the gable overhang and through the door to the kitchen.

Emil followed, lowered the crate to the floor, and met Astrid’s dancing eyes with a long-suffering sigh.

“Go ahead.”

“Rule number five: absolutely no cuddling.”

“That’s all of them. Are you happy with yourself?”

“Very much so. But what’s wrong with cuddling?”

“It tends to make women fall in love with me,” he said dryly. “You’re finished now? No more teasing in front of Mor?”

Her lips puckered into a pout. “I suppose.”

“Good.” He removed his coat and scarf, then sank onto his haunches. “Now, which of these jars has the syrup? I’ve earned it.”

When Beata arrived at the houseboat a short while later, Emil was mixing boiled water and ginger syrup in a mug.

“Hej, ?lskling,” she said brightly.

“Min lilla mor,” he replied, tilting his cheek down for her kiss.

“I heard laughing as I walked up,” she continued in Swedish. “What are you two going on about?”

“Emil was teaching me about the perils of cuddling women.”

“Cuddling?” She cut Emil a glance. “That better not be a euphemism for something else.”

“Like what? Sexual relations?”

“Astrid Hannah Anderson!” Beata’s dramatic gasp would do a stage actress proud. “I’ll not hear one word more. Emil, how could you speak to your innocent little sister like that?”

“Why am I being blamed for Astrid’s illicit knowledge?”

“Because you’ll always be my troublemaker,” his mother said simply. “No matter how many men you put in jail at the Tacoma police department. Before you quit—again.”

His temples pounded with renewed urgency. “Please don’t start.”

“Your brother would never quit his job or encourage your sister to learn such things.”

“Pete would rather dream up another boat design than speak to a woman. Including those in the family.”

“That may be, but I notice you have no comments regarding his commitment to the family business.”

He groaned. “I thought you came to have lunch, not to harangue me in Far’s stead.”

Her face softened, and she patted his cheek. “We’ll eat. And then we’ll discuss your future.”

“Can’t wait,” he muttered as he moved to the picnic basket and began removing covered containers. “Did you bring kardemummabullar?”

“Of course. It’s the price I will gladly pay to pry your mind.” She winked at him as she uncovered a plate of fragrant cardamom buns. “Speaking of—Astrid. Don’t you dare go up those stairs.”

Astrid froze, one foot on the ship ladder on the far side of the kitchen. “I was only going to—”

“Cause trouble, that’s what. You know as well as I do that the upstairs rooms are covered in dust.” She pointed a finger at Astrid. “Heed me, child. Turning yourself into a walking dust mop in petticoats will not get you out of calling on Mrs. Harper this afternoon.”

“It’s not her I mind.”

“I very much doubt young Jim will be present. Mrs. Harper has assured me he’s busy training with the university rowing team.”

“As if I’m not!” Astrid’s eyes narrowed. “Mor, he’s the worst. He’s a flirt, a know-it-all—”

“He’s my friend’s son and your brother’s apprentice. You might as well learn to get along.” She marched over and draped her coat across the topmost ladder rung. “The upstairs is closed to naughty girls.”

Emil smirked. “And you think I’m the troublemaker?”

“She’s young. I’m still training her.” She waggled a finger in his face. “You left my house long ago. And what do you have to show for it? Well-paying jobs discarded like last year’s socks, a strained relationship with your father, and—”