“Go and see her,” Tom said. “Talk to her, show her what’s real as far as you’re concerned.”
44
Henrik arrived in Västervik by train that same evening. It had been snowing, and the place looked like something out of a fairy tale.
He had tried calling Nora to tell her he was on his way, but of course she hadn’t answered. He went straight to her apartment from the station. The patisserie had closed for the day much earlier, and the door leading up to her apartment was locked. He tried her number again, but it went straight to voice mail.
He sighed, decided to go for a walk and then give it another shot. When he returned, he saw that the apartment windows were dark. He looked around and decided he had no choice. He bent down, gathered some snow, and shaped it into a big snowball. He took a few steps back and aimed for the window.Bull’s-eye.
No reaction.
He threw another snowball, then another. Then two more.
Suddenly the light was switched on. She came to the window and looked down at him. Shook her head and disappeared. His phone buzzed with a text message.
I’m sleeping. I don’t want to talk right now. Maybe tomorrow.
Those last two words made his heart race.Maybe tomorrow—it was almost a promise.
Nora was woken by her alarm. She had slept badly because of Henrik’s repeated calls, then his snowball bombardment against her windowpane. Now she had a broken heart, public humiliation, and a disturbed night to thank him for.
But there was something about those snowballs ... As if the two of them were lead characters in a romantic movie. Romantic movies had a happy ending. And there was something soothing about that realization. It didn’t have to be like this. She didn’t have to feel angry, hurt, and let down. Maybe Henrik deserved the chance to explain himself.
She got out of bed and got the coffee machine going while she showered and dressed. She poured herself a cup, brushed her teeth, and went down to the bakery.
She switched on the ovens and uncovered the trays of bread that had been proofing overnight. She wassotired.
She went into the café, put on another pot of coffee, and began stocking the glass display counters while she waited for it to brew.
It had been tricky for both of them, knowing what was real and what had been a game for the cameras. Could she really blame him for telling his father that he’d do whatever he had to for the show? And now he’d come here, to Västervik. And thrown snowballs at her window. He was obviously prepared to fight for her, and she wanted to hear what he had to say.
When the coffee was ready, she refilled her cup, went over to the window, and gazed out at the deserted street. She took out her phone and wrote a quick message:How about a walk after lunch today? Then we can talk.
Suddenly an acrid odor filled her nostrils. She raced into the bakery and saw smoke coming from the wall above the ovens. A flame appeared, then another. She grabbed the fire extinguisher and sprayed the white foam up at the wall, but the fire had grown too big. She dropped the extinguisher on the floor and ran into the café where she’dleft her phone. She called the emergency number and ran out the door into the fresh air.
She quickly gave the address, then stood by the window peering in.
“What’s going on?” someone asked behind her.
She turned around to see Ingemar standing in the empty street. “I couldn’t sleep, so I came out for my morning walk,” he explained.
“There’s a fire,” she said, unexpectedly calm. “But the fire department is on the way.” She could see the smoke billowing from the bakery into the café. “The sourdough,” she exclaimed. “The sourdough. Shit, the sourdough!” She had to rescue it. She flung open the door and rushed inside.
The winter morning was cold and clear. And pitch dark. Henrik had slept for only an hour or so, then decided to go for a walk.
He received her message while he was out. So she was awake, probably in the café already. He had to talk to her right now, he didn’t want to wait until after lunch. When he turned off the main street, he saw a small crowd gathered outside the patisserie and picked up his pace.
“What’s going on?”
“There’s a fire, the fire trucks are on their way.” It was Ingemar, the customer who’d been in the café during the early days of filming. “But she’s gone back in to fetch something, the silly girl.”
“Fetch something?” The sourdough, of course. Henrik rushed in after her. The smoke hit him like a force field, and he shielded his face with his arm, kept going.
“Nora!”
He ran through the café into the bakery.
“Nora!”
