Page 23 of The Christmas Book Flood

TWELVE

Anders bent the last tack into place over the cardboard backing and spun the framed painting around, setting it back on the easel. He took a few steps backward, surveying his work critically.

Beside him, his mother tilted her head to the side. “Is it a bit skewed?”

“No. I measured four times.” But was it?

No. No, math didn’t lie, but eyesight could, especially when affected by nerves.

Case in point—though he’d been pleased with how the painting had turned out yesterday when he finished it before going out on the juniper hunt, just now he thought it the worst thing he’d ever done. “Do you think she’ll like it?”

“If she doesn’t, she’s too much a fool for you to waste your time on.” But Mother grinned and looped her arm around his. “It’s beautiful, Anders.”

His chest went warm and tight. He couldn’t remember her ever saying such a thing about one of his paintings. Though, to be fair, he hadn’t shown any to her, hadn’t asked her opinion on them, in more than a decade. “Thank you for coming. Giving me your opinion on the frame.”

He’d second- and third-guessed his decision to put it in one to match her other painting, not certain the stark black of that one would best set off the colors here. He’d needed someone else to weigh in.

His family hadn’t been his immediate thought. Which was exactly why he’d called his mother. If he wanted things to change, he had to take the steps to make it so. Had to set aside all the years of hurt feelings and misunderstandings and try to grapple with the fact that he’d been wrong.

His family wasn’t ashamed of him. His mother didn’t hate the life he’d chosen. She didn’t dismiss all his work.

She treasured it. Treasured it so highly she tucked it away where it couldn’t be damaged. Where only she could see it, but see it every day.

Mother patted his arm. “Frankly, I was happy to escape the kitchen for a while. Kristin has it all in hand, anyway.”

For the first time, he paused to wonder what it was like for his mother, living with Dalmar and Kristin and their boys. He’d always assumed she loved it, given that Dalmar was living the very life their family had always lived. The one she knew, was comfortable in.

But now he wondered if it was that simple.

If perhaps after Father died, the house they’d raised their family in had begun to feel less hers and more Dalmar’s.

If she ever clashed with her daughter-in-law.

If perhaps all the food she brought to Anders wasn’t because she thought he couldn’t take care of himself, but because she needed to feel useful.

Needed to take care of someone ... and Kristin did have a strong personality.

She liked to be in charge. Perhaps Kristin, for her part, hated that the family still referred to it as Ommu’s house, when it was hers and Dalmar’s too.

Families were such complicated things. And he was going to do better being a part of his.

He leaned down and planted a kiss on his mother’s cheek. “ Glethileg jol, Mother.”

She smiled up at him and, in a rare show of affection, reached up to pat his cheek. “She’s the one, Anders. I know it. Knew it the moment I saw you walking together last week. And I... I couldn’t be happier for you.”

He held her gaze, returned her smile. “I’m so glad you like her. I still can’t quite wrap my mind around the idea that she actually likes me , but... I don’t intend to let her get away.”

Mother turned toward the door, but her smile didn’t fade. “I wish I could have seen you two last night at your fancy party. Did someone take photographs, at least?”

He nodded and moved with her. “Valdi’s wife did, yes.

She promised to get prints for everyone in the new year.

” A blink, and he was there again, in their festively decorated great room, an arm around Tatiana’s back as she slipped one around his waist. The way they’d turned in together, then smiled for her aunt’s camera.

It had felt so... real. Like they were really a couple. Truly together.

When the photographs came back, they’d probably show that he’d been mooning at her like a lovesick schoolboy, heart in his eyes.

That would be all right.

Mother tilted her head to the side as she stopped by the door, making her bun of silver and gold slip a bit. “Maybe next year I should impose a dress code on Christmas Eve. Tuxedos and evening gowns. What do you say?”

Laughter burst out. “Can you really imagine Ulric in a tuxedo?” His brother had grumbled about wearing a proper suit for his own wedding.

Mother’s eyes danced. “No, but the look on his face if I were to suggest it would be priceless, don’t you think? I’ll tell him we need to bring some class to the place.”

Still chuckling, Anders shook his head. “If you suggest it, I want to be there to see his reaction. But in truth, I don’t want your Christmas Eve dinner to change.

” He was wearing the same suit and tie that he had last night, yes.

But it would be an altogether different sort of party.

No fancy music, no fancy food. His brothers—all but Ulric—would be in their Sunday best and his sisters-in-law would be in festive dresses, but there’d be no evening gowns or bubbling wine.

There’d be family. Laughter. They’d eat their meal of skate like they always did, and the exchange of gifts would be raucous and loud.

He’d be the quiet one, sitting in his favorite chair, exchanging glances with Garri now and then as his nephew also retreated to a quiet corner with one of the books he’d receive.

And this year, Tatiana would be at his side while Elea played with Heidi.

Perhaps perched on the arm of that chair, or squeezed in beside him.

It would be perfect.

He reached for the coat his mother had hung on a hook when she’d come in and helped her into it. But to his surprise, she didn’t then just say goodbye and reach for the door.

Instead, she turned to face him, her mouth serious now, laughter gone. “The other night, when Dalmar got home... he told me the advice you’d given him. About how he should behave with Garri.”

Anders’s shoulders went tight. “He never actually told me what he said—just that you and Kristin were angry with him for it.”

Mother sighed. “It’s so much easier to see, when I’m that half step removed.

When he says something to upset his son, I can see the mistake in it.

When it was me... when it was your father.

..” She shook her head, hands gripping the edges of the coat she’d yet to button.

“We never meant to hurt you, Anders. Never meant to discourage. We just couldn’t dream as big as you did.

We didn’t see how you could be anything but what we always were.

” A tremulous smile found her lips now, to match the tears he’d so rarely ever seen in her eyes.

“Yet here you are! My baby boy, so successful. So wise that even Dalmar has to listen.”

A laugh eked its way past his tight throat. “Did he?” He hadn’t seen any of his brothers since that night, to hear what had happened after Dalmar got home.

Mother nodded. “When he got back, he went straight up to Garri’s room.

Kristin and I sneaked up to listen, afraid he would start shouting again.

But he didn’t. He apologized. And he asked to read Garri’s story, said how proud he was.

And then he even joked that Garri might have to explain any words he didn’t know.

Said later that one was yours, by the way. ”

Anders sagged against the door. “He really did listen.”

His mother finally buttoned her coat. “You ought to have seen Garri the next morning. All but floated around the house, and his brothers had him read the story out loud to them five times since then.” Her hands fell.

“I’m sorry, Anders. Sorry we never did that for you.

Sorry it took seeing my son hurt the feelings of my grandson over and again to realize I’d done the same to you. ” She held out a hand.

He took it, squeezed it. “I’m sorry too, Mother. I made so many assumptions over the years. Closed myself off, thinking... thinking you’d all be happier without me, I suppose. That you were ashamed of me.”

She gripped his fingers so tight he would have yelped in exaggerated pain, had the conversation not been so serious. So good. “Never, Anders. Never . I was just... afraid. Afraid you’d outgrown us. That if I let you, you’d move on and forget all about us.”

“Never.” The hand wasn’t enough. He pulled her into a tight hug, this woman who so rarely cried, who’d always seemed sturdy enough to weather any storm, who he’d never thought could bend or break. “I love you, Mother.”

“I love you, my precious boy.” She squeezed him tight, sniffed, and then pulled away to dash at her eyes, smiling. “Enough of this. You have a painting to wrap and a woman to woo. I’ll see you at dinner.”

He grinned. “See you at dinner.”

Once he’d closed the door behind her, he strode to the easel and picked the painting up, lowering it carefully onto the paper he’d already laid out on the table. A few careful folds, a few lengths of tape, then all that was left was to tie the ribbon around it.

He cast a glance toward the pile of gifts he’d load in his car for his family—books, all of them—and wished once more that he’d had time to correct the mistake with Tandri. If Tatiana didn’t like the painting, she’d still love the book, he knew.

Then he wished he’d had time to paint more, for his family. Scenes of whimsy for the children’s rooms, perhaps some landscapes for his brothers and their wives.

Next year. There would be time enough to give everything on his heart, even if not today.

It took him several trips to get everything loaded into his car, careful to keep Tatiana’s and Elea’s gifts separate from the rest, so he could get to them first. At last he was driving the now-familiar route to her building, smiling through the swirling snowflakes.