Page 35 of Olive Becket Plays the Rake (The Seattle Suffrage Society)

Olof stared at him, and for a moment, his expression shifted.

Not softer, exactly, but less sure. Less like the father Emil knew him to be.

Then it was gone. It rattled Emil more than he cared to admit.

But he wouldn’t budge. He couldn’t budge.

If he did, he’d never control the reins of his life again.

“I need some air,” he muttered.

“Take your air,” Olof said, eyes dropping to the ledger. “I forget sometimes that not everyone feels the same weight of this family as I do.”

Emil stared at his father’s bent head, his chest tight with emotions he couldn’t name, until he could no longer stand it. He turned and strode from the room.

Just once it would be nice to come out of one of these conversations unscathed.

“Hammer. Now.”

Emil’s older brother, Pete, took one glance at him, then handed him a mallet without so much as a word.

Merely pointed at a warped slab of pine leaning against the wall, then turned back to continue sanding the one-man scull on the worktable.

At least one Anderson family member could be counted on for silence.

Emil crossed the shop in three strides, lifted the mallet in both hands, and brought it down hard.

The slab splintered under the first blow.

He hit it again. And again. Wood chips flew as he worked through his anger, his frustration.

His disappointment. He wasn’t sure what burned more, his father’s arrogance or that brief flash of vulnerability buried beneath it.

A crack in the armor that made Emil hesitate. That made him feel…what? Guilt?

Damn him for that.

By the time the slab was little more than a pile of kindling, Emil’s breath came in short, angry bursts. He let the mallet clatter to the ground and leaned forward, hands braced on his knees.

“Time for kaffekalas?” he asked, panting.

Pete grunted in assent and sat up on his stool, wincing slightly as he rubbed the small of his back.

A telltale sign he’d been at it for hours.

Emil had never understood how his brother could do the same thing day in, day out—planing wood, measuring, nailing, filing—until whatever he was working on emerged as near to perfect as human hands could make it.

But Pete not only took pride in it, he thrived on it.

As they’d grown older, Emil had learned not to begrudge him for being the son he couldn’t be.

“Far being a prick again?”

Emil’s lips twitched. It helped that Pete was loyal.

“Always.” He crossed to the scull and ran a hand over the sleek edge. “What a beaut. She for sale?”

Pete contemplated the scull while he rubbed his hands on a towel. He folded the towel in three precise motions, then set it on his worktable. “Not sure yet,” he said finally. “Might keep her.”

“I can see why. If not, I’ll buy her.”

“Aren’t you unemployed?”

“Don’t you start on me, too,” he warned, throwing a light punch to Pete’s biceps. “I have a plan.”

Pete only grunted, but Emil didn’t mind. It was an old family joke that Astrid had stolen Pete’s share of words at birth and never returned them.

“Let’s get to the table before Astrid’s piano lesson ends. I want to be there when Olive meets Far.”

Pete rose to his feet in answer, his knees popping. Emil opened the workshop door, and they crossed the yard to the back entrance of the house. The moment they stepped inside, they were met with raised voices—Olof’s and Olive’s, overlapping in what sounded like a heated argument.

“Goddammit.”

Why had Astrid’s lesson ended early? How had Olive come to be with his father at all?

It was one thing for Olof to come after him—he was used to that—but Olive didn’t deserve the ire of a grumpy old bastard.

If this turned into one of his father’s infamous interrogations or worse, some dismissive sneer dressed up as conversation, Emil didn’t care that they were under his family’s roof.

He’d drag Olive out and never look back.

Jaw clenched, he strode down the hallway toward the dining room.

He stopped dead in the doorway.

Olive was seated at the table, her face lit not with strain but with enthusiasm. She leaned forward in her chair, her finger poking the table as she made her point. Across from her, Olof wore a rare grin, gesturing animatedly as he responded.

“The Cubs most certainly deserved to win the World Series.”

“I’m not disputing the results of the World Series, Mr. Anderson. I contend that they never should have made it there in the first place. They stole the honor from the Giants!”

Emil’s gaze flew back to his father. Surely, he’d be apoplectic at the mere notion of being challenged. Yet his father leaned forward in his chair, his knee bouncing with excitement. Emil spared a glance at Pete, who was just as bewildered.

“Poppycock,” Olof declared. “They tied for first place, and then Three Finger Brown put the Giants through their paces.”

Olive was already shaking her head. “They were only tied because of the Merkle debacle. If the game hadn’t been decided on a technicality, the Giants would have had first place.”

“Rules are rules—”

“Emil!” Olive spotted him first. “Your father and I are having the most delightful argument about the World Series.”

“So I hear,” he said carefully.

“Miss Becket knows America’s greatest game,” Olof said with a nod of approval. “More than my sons, I’d wager.”

Olive chuckled, a touch of pink rising in her cheeks. “It has been years since I’ve had a proper baseball debate. Not since my father passed, really.”

Olof’s stern features softened at that. He reached out and gave her hand a gentle, if awkward, pat. “You’re always welcome at our table.” He sent Emil a quick glance. “It’s good to have someone around here who knows what they’re talking about.”

It wasn’t an apology, but it was the closest thing to it. Emil nodded stiffly.

“Astrid gave up halfway through her lesson,” Olive told him with a sheepish wince. “Your father found me shortly after that.”

“I didn’t want our guest to feel unwelcome.”

Well. That was unexpected. Maybe something Emil said had actually gotten through that ironclad pride. Or maybe he was just feeling guilty and disguising it as diplomacy. Either way, Emil couldn’t deny the effort.

“Thank you.” He met his father’s gaze, letting him know he meant it, before raising his voice to continue. “Thank you for filling in when Astrid reneged on our deal.”

The door separating the kitchen and dining room opened a crack, confirming Emil’s suspicions that his sister was eavesdropping on the other side.

“I hate the piano!”

Olive giggled, and Emil and Olof shook their heads at each other in exasperation. Good luck trying to get Astrid to do anything she didn’t want to do.

“I’m sorry about that,” he started. “I’ll still pay for—”

“I’ll take a lesson,” his father said abruptly. “After our kaffekalas. If you’re willing to teach an old man a new trick, that is.”

“Of course,” Olive said at once. “I’d be happy to.”

Emil was again speechless—Olof had moved beyond simple hospitality.

He was spared from commenting when the door swung open and his mother entered, a stovetop percolator in one hand and a cream jug in the other.

Behind her came Astrid, balancing a tray piled high with squares of golden, flaky pastries.

Emil’s mouth watered at the fragrant aromas of strong coffee, toasted almonds, butter, and sugar.

He made a beeline for the empty chair beside Olive and sat, already reaching for the sugar pot.

“Milk or sugar?” he asked her.

“Both, please.” She licked her lips when Astrid circled behind them to lower a pastry to her plate. “Mrs. Anderson, these look delicious.”

“Thank you,” Beata said. “Though I must admit I bought them from the bakery down the street. They make the perfect Danish weinerbr?d!”

“Is this your first kaffekalas?” Astrid asked. “It sort of means coffee party. Though you could drink tea, I suppose.”

“It is,” said Olive, taking a large, but dainty bite. “And I’m already a fan.”

“You must come to our next kafferep. That’s when we have seven different kinds of cookies. You’ll adore it.”

“Have another,” Olof insisted, nudging the plate toward her. She smiled, then added another to her plate. Once everyone had their portion, Mor sat in her chair with a contented sigh.

“Olive,” she said, “tell us how you two met.”

“No one wants to know—” he began.

“I do,” Astrid cut in.

“He accused me of being a jewelry thief,” Olive announced cheerfully.

Mor gasped. “He did not.”

“He was wrong, wasn’t he?” Astrid asked.

“Of course. Then he accused me of stealing silver spoons.”

“?lskling, no!”

Heat crept up Emil’s neck. “The circumstances were…complicated.”

“Was he wrong?” Olof asked.

“He was.” Olive’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “The third time—”

“Not a third time,” Beata groaned, dropping her head into her hands. “My son cannot be this foolish.”

“The third time was a pocket watch, but he was—”

“Wrong!” everyone chorused, laughter breaking across the table.

“She was in a pawn shop,” Emil said defensively. Astrid snickered, and even Pete gave a grunt that sounded vaguely like a laugh.

“Good for you,” Olof said—a bit too profusely, in Emil’s opinion. “Sounds like you gave him a merry chase.”

Olive glanced at him, her eyes alight with mischief, and something struck Emil—sharp and sudden, right in the solar plexus.

Not love. He was sure of that. But something potent nonetheless.

It coursed through him, growing stronger as he watched her laugh and weave herself effortlessly into his family’s stories.

He leaned back, sipping his coffee slowly, letting her command the table with her quiet charm.

Letting her glow under the warmth of his family’s attention.

Letting himself, for the first time, imagine what it would be like if she were part of the family.

Just then, a plaintive yowl came from under the table. A second later, the tabby leapt into Olive’s lap and made a show of presenting itself. Emil reached over to grab the cat by its scruff, but Olive cooed and buried her face in its fur.

“Oh hello, min k?raste.”

The table went silent. Emil immediately busied himself with pouring more coffee, as if sheer denial could erase what had just been said.

“Pass the sugar?” he muttered.

No one moved.

“You’re learning Swedish?” Beata asked.

“A peculiar phrase to start with,” Olof added.

“Not really. I only know a few words.” Olive scrunched her forehead in thought. “Hello, please, thank you. And cat, of course.”

Emil’s grip tightened on his spoon. No, no, no.

“Olive, k?ra barn.” His mother’s voice was gentle. “The Swedish word for cat is…katt.”

Olive stilled, then let out a self-conscious trill of laughter. “Oh my, what a silly misunderstanding.”

Everyone nodded, but no one spoke. They waited, glancing at him.

His mother narrowed her eyes at him, as if prompting him to speak.

To tell Olive what it really meant. But if he admitted it, it would be real.

There would be no turning back. It would be out in the open, where everyone knew how he felt.

Olive gazed around the table uneasily. “Then what does min k?raste mean?”

Goddammit, he would not be the reason for her self-consciousness. For her unease at his house. The longer the silence, the more time she had to conjure up all kinds of fears. He couldn’t do that to her. Not when the truth was far from awful. It was uncomfortable, but not awful.

Maybe he was courting her. That didn’t mean he was ready to give up everything.

Not his independence, not the parts of himself that still felt half-wild.

It certainly didn’t mean he was rushing off to buy a ring.

Plenty of courtships fizzled before they made it to the altar.

And if this one somehow didn’t—if it carried him all the way there—well, maybe that wouldn’t be the worst fate.

God forbid he change his entire life just to have it explode in his face.

He could take this one step at a time, on his terms. Just.. .seeing where it went.

It could be rather wonderful, if he let it.

“It means my beloved,” he ground out.

Olive’s face flooded crimson, her gaze dropping to the table. “Oh.”

Oh, was right. He ignored everyone else at the table, concentrating only on her reaction.

Did she find the endearment overwhelming?

Too strong? What if she didn’t like it? He was tense, ready to spring from the table and pretend the whole thing had never happened, when she peeked up at him.

Her doe eyes punched the air out of him all over again. And then she smiled.

A strange relief settled in. The secret was out. No more hiding. No more pretending. His family knew, and that was that. Perhaps it wasn’t so awful, after all. Perhaps tying himself to someone might not be the doom he’d always imagined. He turned to meet his father’s gaze.

“You were right.”

His father sat back in his chair with a smug nod. No one else moved.

“About what?” Olive asked, raising her teacup to her mouth with trembling fingers.

“I’m courting you.”

She spluttered mid-sip, and the cat launched itself off her lap with a cranky yowl. Emil simply leaned over and gently patted her on the back.

“She’s overwhelmed with delight,” he said dryly.

“You do have that effect on women,” Astrid quipped.

He shot her a warning look—God forbid she bring up his damn code—but she only grinned. So did his mother.

Olive finally wrestled her breathing under control, though her face remained the color of ripe tomatoes.

She stayed in her seat, but she eyed the door longingly.

Emil had no doubt she was seconds away from bolting.

He didn’t blame her. It was overwhelming.

But by now, he knew Olive well enough to trust she’d resurface.

She always did. She just needed a moment, a little space, and maybe a closed door between her and the spotlight.

He leaned in, voice low. “Would you like—”

“I think it’s time for my lesson, don’t you?” Olof interrupted, startling them both.

“Absolutely,” Olive blurted, springing to her feet.

His father stood and led her from the room like nothing at all had just exploded over the family’s kaffekalas. Astrid and Mor exchanged another of their looks that made him want to leave his own body, but to his surprise, they didn’t say a word.

Until Mor smiled softly. “She’s wonderful, son.”

Astrid and Pete nodded in agreement.

For once, he had nothing to argue with.