Page 49 of Olive Becket Plays the Rake (The Seattle Suffrage Society)

“And that’s when Emil punched the foreman.”

“Robbie,” Emil said in exasperation, shooting Mor an apologetic grimace. “My mother doesn’t need all the gritty details. And punching—well, it’s bad. Very bad. Don’t do it.”

“Then why did you do it?”

Because the foreman was a nasty bastard who tried to bar Emil from entering the masonry, even after Emil explained why he was there.

No manner of calm reasoning had worked. Then the man had stepped too close, sneering, and Emil’s patience had snapped.

He flexed his hand, the knuckles swollen and already purpling.

“Because if I didn’t, your sister might’ve done it herself. And we can’t have Olive damaging those piano hands of hers, now can we?”

“That’s true.” Robbie grinned, cookie crumbs stuck to his cheeks. “It really was the best. Will you do it again next time?”

“There won’t be a next time.” Emil refilled the boy’s glass of milk and gave him the short answer. “You’re never going back there.”

Robbie’s smile faded, then he nodded in agreement. “It wasn’t a nice place.”

“I imagine not,” Beata said, sliding a fresh plate of cookies across the table. “That’s a place for grown men. Not for boys who belong at home with their mothers.”

“I don’t think Olive will let me stay home. She wants me to go to school.”

“You have a very wise sister. Have another, sotnos. You worked up quite an appetite today.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Anderson,” he replied politely, snatching up another cookie and stuffing it into his mouth.

Emil stood and ruffled the boy’s dirty hair. “Once you’ve finished, you’ll follow Mor to the bath.”

Robbie pouted. “Do I have to?”

“Yes,” Emil and his mother said in unison.

“We want you cleaned up before you give your mother a hug,” Beata added. “Or you’ll leave half the masonry on her pretty dress.”

Emil’s gaze swept over Robbie, and his chest tightened. Dust clung to the boy’s clothes and skin like a second layer, and his hair was stiff with grit. A shallow cut marred his right cheekbone. Beata had already cleaned and treated it, but it still looked raw.

It had only taken one day.

One day, and Robbie looked like one of the countless boys who worked long, brutal hours for pennies.

He’d taken one look at the boy and decided to take him to Ballard first—there was absolutely no way Olive or Anna was seeing him like this.

Not when Emil could shield them from the pain.

He’d scribbled off a quick note to let Olive know he had Robbie, the boy was hale, and they’d be home by suppertime. But first, a bath in Ballard.

“Mor,” he said quietly, switching to Swedish. “I need to speak with Far. Is he in his office?”

“Yes, he is.” Her lips flattened before adding, “Though I’m not certain of his mood. He’s had a burdensome month. Which you would know if you ever let us talk about business.”

She wasn’t wrong. It had taken him far too long, but he’d finally seen the damage he’d caused his family.

Instead of fighting tooth and nail for them, as Olive did for her family, he’d spent months sulking.

Resenting. Hiding out in Tacoma or the floating home.

Instead of drawing those who needed him close, he’d pushed them away.

And all because he hadn’t liked being told what he didn’t want to hear.

He’d acted like a child, while Olive had carried the weight of her world on her shoulders.

No more.

“I’m going to make it right. I promise.”

“Go, go,” she said, flapping her hands toward the door, tears shimmering in her eyes. “I’ve got Robbie.”

“Careful,” he warned, dropping back into English. “Word is he’s slipperier than an eel when it comes to bathtime.”

“As if I didn’t raise two eels of my own!”

Robbie’s mouth—full of crumbs—fell open. “You have pet eels?”

“You’ll have to see for yourself, k?ra barn.”

Laughing under his breath, Emil left them behind, their soft voices following him down the hall. He paused before his father’s office. The door was ajar, his father visible from his seat at his desk.

The uncharacteristic slump in his posture was evidence of his fatigue.

His hands were folded over his belly, a deep vee between his eyebrows as he stared at a sloppy stack of papers.

His coat was unbuttoned, and a yellow stain—mustard, maybe—marred his wrinkled shirt.

For a man who claimed a good suit could make a man, this was tantamount to giving up.

He thought back on the comments his father had made about Nordstar Yachts in recent months.

Each one he’d dismissed as theatrics, a strategic performance to reel him back into the fold.

Hell, he’d believed himself too clever to fall for it.

But now, watching his father slumped at his desk, visibly worn thin by months of strain, he questioned everything.

Had he mistaken desperation for control? Anguish for anger?

Only one way to find out.

He rapped on the open door with his knuckle. Olof startled, then straightened.

“Min son.” He cleared his throat, and Emil watched as a mask stole over his father’s face, hiding his distress. “What a surprise. Come in. Sit.”

Emil sat in the familiar, worn leather chair across from the desk.

He’d dreaded that chair since boyhood. It had always meant a lecture was coming, an admonition cloaked in duty and family pride.

But now he settled into it. He crossed one ankle over his knee and flipped open his small notepad.

Removed a pencil from his pocket and set it to the page.

“I’m ready, Far. Tell me about the troubles we’re facing.”

Olof blinked. “Are you—are you certain?”

“I am. Tell me everything.”

Olof’s sigh of relief was deep and shuddering.

Emil listened attentively, jotting down notes and asking questions.

With each passing minute, his concern deepened.

It had all been real. Rising costs. Underhanded competitors.

The looming threat of decline. His father hadn’t been lashing out at him—he’d been fighting the world to keep their family afloat.

Their rise from working class to upper-middle had not made them immune to danger.

The Becket family was proof of how easily a single misstep, or a streak of bad fortune, could send a family tumbling down the social ladder.

Emil could all too easily imagine the dismal future: His father would wear down to nothing.

His mother would lose the vacation home she’d always dreamed about.

Astrid would have to fund her own university tuition.

And he would have to live with himself, knowing he hadn’t lifted so much as a finger to help those he loved.

His willful ignorance now sickened him.

An ache stirred behind his eyes. He blinked rapidly, surprised by how close he was to tears.

He hadn’t cried in years—not since Olive Becket had walked into his life and shattered his notions of weakness and strength.

She had taught him that emotion wasn’t a flaw.

That tears could be a release, not manipulation.

So he let the tears come. Let them fall.

“Jag ?r ledsen, Pappa,” he said. “I’m so sorry. I’ve been a terrible son. You gave me everything, and I took it for granted. But I’ve woken up. I’m here now. I’ll always be here for you and for our family.”

His father cleared his throat once. Then again. A third time. And then he stood. Emil stilled, his heart thudding. Was he too late? Had his apology come after the damage was done? But instead of rebuke, his father stepped forward and pulled him into an embrace.

For a moment, Emil remained rigid against the barrel chest. He expected the embrace to end as quickly as it began, like every rare show of affection in their past. But his father didn’t let go.

The arms tightened. Held on. It was all the permission he needed to sag in Olof’s embrace.

He brought his arms around his father’s back and leaned in.

They stood that way for a long time, and the cracked, tender part of his heart began to heal.

When Olof finally stepped back, sniffling, he let out a hearty, booming laugh. “Don’t tell your mother, or she’ll never let us live it down.”

Emil chuckled through his tears. “I don’t want to tell anyone—”

But that wasn’t true. There was someone he wanted to tell.

Olive.

She wouldn’t judge him for how long it had taken to come around. She would smile, and nod, and listen with that quiet strength of hers. She would understand. She would celebrate. And he would fall even more in love with her.

“Not even that lovely pianist, Miss Becket?”

“Am I so obvious?”

“Yes,” Olof said bluntly, his eyes twinkling. “Haven’t seen a man glow like that since I saw myself in the mirror the day I met your mother.”

“And ten days later, you were married,” Emil said, smiling at the familiar line.

“So we were. It might’ve taken you longer than ten days, but I suspect she was worth the wait.”

She was. And after everything they’d been through together, Emil had no intention of ever letting her go.

“I’m going to propose. Soon.”

His father raised a brow. “I didn’t say that to pressure you—”

Emil shook his head. “It’s not that. I’ve finally figured out what matters. That includes Olive and her family.”

“All of them?” Olof moved behind the desk and opened a drawer.

“Yes, all of them. Including ten-year-old Robbie, who, by the way, is in our kitchen eating all of Mor’s cookies,” Emil said dryly. Olof chuckled, nodding as he continued to rummage. “You haven’t met Olive’s mother yet. Anna. She’s gentle and kind, like Olive. But she isn’t well.”

That stopped Olof’s search. He straightened, brows drawing together. “How so?”

Emil quickly explained Anna’s inability to leave the apartment, the landlord’s threats, Robbie’s day at the masonry, and the financial strain it put on Olive.

The fury that lit his father’s face was instant, but for once, Emil knew it wasn’t directed at him.

It was for Olive and her family, as if they were already his own.

“They’ll move into the floating house at once,” Olof said firmly.

“I can’t ask you to do that—”

“You didn’t ask. I gave.”

Emil’s voice caught. “Thank you. I’ll tell them when I take Robbie home. They may hesitate—”

“Then don’t give them an option. I know how persistent you can be.”

The words, which so easily could be a complaint, were spoken with pride. Warmth rose in Emil’s chest. His father had finally seen him. He nodded, at a loss for words.

“Aha. Here it is.”

Emil leaned forward. “What is it?”

“The deed to the floating house.”

“No, absolutely not. Mor would kill—”

“I’m not giving you her house, you numbskull.” Olof chuckled. “I’d be skewered with hot toothpicks until I was nothing but Swiss cheese.”

Emil chuckled sheepishly. “Of course.”

Olof spread the deed across the desk and pointed to a line farther down the page. Emil scanned it, not yet understanding. “I didn’t know our property extended to the other side of the boardwalk. That empty lot is ours?”

His father nodded. “That’s where we’ll build your house.”

“Far,” he said weakly, undone by the magnitude of his father’s generosity.

“We won’t be in your hair. Your mother and I will stay in Ballard most of the year, at least until we get the business back on track and I can retire.”

Emil was silent, possibilities rushing in with increasing optimism.

“You’ll oversee the construction from our house, and when it’s finished, Olive can invite me over for a piano concert.”

“She’ll say yes. She adores you.”

“Imagine that.” Olof puffed out his chest. “And you can keep an eye on your sister. Come summer, she’ll be on the water every day, rowing her heart out. Who knows what trouble that girl will get into?”

“She is the source of Mor’s new gray hairs.”

“And you mine,” Olof grinned. “Come along, son. Let’s see if Robbie spared us any cookies.”