Fiddling with Fate Page 2

  “Well,” Kari said finally. “We have to get going.” Kari and Trygve ran a dairy farm. Their routine was inflexible.

  “We can go anytime you’re ready, Frank,” Roelke told Chloe’s dad. She shot him a grateful look. They were spending the night at her folks’ house before heading home to Palmyra tomorrow.

  As Dad hugged his granddaughters goodbye, Kari pulled Chloe aside. “Make sure he’s okay.”

  Chloe suppressed a sigh. Kari was only a year older than her, but she sometimes took the “big sister” thing a bit too seriously.

  Or … maybe that wasn’t fair. Perhaps Kari was just reacting to the metaphorical cloak of “family matriarch” settling heavily onto her shoulders. One of their maternal grandmother’s sisters was still alive, but Great-Aunt Birgitta lived in a nursing home and was fading into dementia. Mom had been a force of nature. Maybe Kari felt a need to step into that void.

  And in truth, Kari had always taken the primary responsibility for their parents. When I got the heck out of Dodge, Chloe thought, Kari stayed. Kari had been the one to check on Frank and Marit during blizzards, to deliver Crock-Pots of homemade chicken soup in flu season, to invite them over for anniversary or birthday celebrations. Kari had gone bowling with Dad, taken rosemaling classes with Mom, made lefse and krumkake for Mandt Lodge dinners.

  Sometimes, Chloe thought, I can be extremely self-absorbed. “We won’t leave tomorrow unless we’re sure Dad’s okay,” she promised.

  Once Dad was in the truck, Roelke headed to Stoughton’s old Southwest Side, a celebrated historic district. Chloe felt wistful as they drove past fine Greek Revival, Italianate, and Queen Anne structures. Her parents’ less-grand house on South Prairie Street would always be home. She’d grown up here, playing with Kari in the yard beneath flapping American and Norwegian flags. The Ellefsons’ friends had gathered here for coffee, their conversation speckled with Norwegian words because many had grown up with the language. A sign Mom had painted hung by the front door: Velkommen til vårt hjem—Welcome to our home. Norwegian culture had become part of Stoughton’s thriving tourism boom. But behind the rosemaled park benches and glossy photos of Norwegian Constitution Day celebrations, countless families like the Ellefsons were proud of their Norwegian roots.

  Was Mom? Chloe wondered for the umpteenth time as they went inside. Had she known she was adopted? If so, did she embrace this heritage because it was in her genes and marrow? Because she’d married a Norwegian-American man? Because she desperately wanted to belong?

  No telling.

  Dad got as far as the kitchen before halting, staring around the cheerful room as if he’d never seen it before. He was a tall man, quiet and calm, with gray eyes that could sparkle with mischief. He liked to refinish old furniture, he liked to putter in the yard, he liked to have breakfast every Tuesday morning at a local diner with a few lodge buddies. He’d checked his daughters’ math homework. He’d beamed with pride when they’d performed with the Stoughton Norwegian Dancers or exhibited with 4-H in the county fair. Chloe’s relationship with Mom had been complicated; with Dad, not so much. Chloe hated thinking of him fumbling around this suddenly lonely kitchen.

  “Dad, how about a Wisconsin brandy old-fashioned?” she asked, as eager to busy herself as she was to offer him a cocktail. She knew where to find the Korbel’s brandy and Angostura bitters, the sugar, the oranges and cherries, the muddler used to squeeze juice from the fruit. Taking three glasses from the cupboard, she got to work. “And I’ll fix supper.”

  “Lord, no, don’t cook. Your sister was here yesterday.”

  Chloe cracked the fridge door and saw stacks of neatly labeled Tupperware containers. “Um … yeah. You’re set.” She added ice cubes and a splash of Sprite to each cocktail, stirred, and delivered them. “Here you go.”

  Dad lifted his glass. “To Marit.”

  “To Marit,” Roelke echoed. Chloe’s throat seized up, but she raised her glass.

  Dad tasted the concoction. “That’s perfect. Thank you.” Then he hesitated. “Chloe, I need to talk to you about something.”

  She felt an instinctive childhood-inspired flash of Am I in trouble? “O-kay …”

  He went into the den and returned with an envelope in his hand. “Your mother wanted you to have this.”

  As she accepted the envelope, Chloe darted a quick glance at Roelke: I have no idea what this is all about. He raised his eyebrows: Only one way to find out. Peeking inside, she saw multiple bills featuring Benjamin Franklin.

  Chloe had never seen a hundred-dollar bill before. Heck, she had only passing acquaintance with fifty-dollar bills. She looked up, dumbfounded. “What’s this?”

  Dad swirled the liquid in his glass. “Your mother was saving money so she could take you to Norway.”

  “So she could take me to Norway?” Chloe repeated blankly. She and Mom had not been particularly compatible travelers on a weeklong trip to Iowa a while back, but Mom had been thinking of a much bigger trip? “Don’t you mean Kari?”

  “They went together, you know. Before Kari’s girls were born.”

  Chloe looked back at the Franklins. She’d been living in Switzerland when Mom and Kari went to Norway, and she’d paid no attention. “But we did all go that time. When I was in middle school.” She remembered visiting some distant relatives of Dad’s in Oslo, and sailing north on a Norwegian Coastal Express ship. Crossing the Arctic Circle had been a big deal. “I got to go again with the Norwegian Dancers in high school. We danced for the king.”

  “But you were young.” Dad studied the rosemaled woodenware displayed above the cupboards. Mom’s work, all of it. “I think your mother always felt bad that she didn’t have a chance to take you again later.”

  This still wasn’t making sense. “Did Mom want me to go along on that research trip she had planned with Kent Andreasson?”

  “No.” Dad waved that away. “She just wanted to take you.”

  “Why didn’t Mom ever talk to me about it?”

  He lifted his palms in a weary gesture. “You know how your mother was.”

  She did, but that explained nothing. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “You don’t have to say anything. Just take it. It’s what she wanted.”

  Chloe glanced at Roelke again. He tipped his head with an affirmative expression: Clearly, it’s yours.

  Well, okey-dokey, Chloe thought as she stuffed the envelope into her shoulder bag. The last thing she wanted to do was make anything harder for her father. She’d think about the money later.

  Dad sat in a kitchen chair, tugged at his tie, and gestured for Roelke to join him. “And Chloe, I have a favor to ask. Your mother’s cousin Shirley cornered me after the service and asked if she could have one of your mother’s purses. Some little black thing with beads on it, she said.”

  This was safer ground. “Geez, Dad. It takes some nerve to make that kind of request at a funeral.”

  “I guess Shirley’s always admired it.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Kari already said she didn’t want it. Unless you do, the easiest thing is to find it and send it to Shirley.”

  “I can’t even picture it,” Chloe said, “so I don’t care.” She fished a cherry from her glass and popped it into her mouth.

  “I’d be grateful if you’d look for it.” Dad studied one thumb. “It’s probably in the guest room closet. But going through your mother’s things …”

  Ah, of course. “Sure, Dad. Glad to.”

  Chloe headed up the stairs. She paused in the doorway of her own old bedroom. Mom had never taken down a hideous purple macramé creation that Chloe had made in seventh grade, or the Doctor Zhivago poster reflecting her burgeoning love of period dramas. It all seemed a long time ago.

  Mom had used the guest room for things she didn’t need often. “Hoo-boy,” Chloe muttered when she opened the closet door. The space was jammed. M
om’s bunader hung on padded hangers next to the folk dresses Chloe and Kari had worn during their dancing days. Cardboard cartons labeled “Christmas decorations” and “School projects—K” and “School projects—C” were stacked neatly on the shelf. More boxes covered the floor.

  Chloe sat down—gingerly, since she was actually wearing a dress and pantyhose—and began pulling out cartons. It was hard not to get diverted by boxes of gloves, Stoughton High School yearbooks from 1937 and 1938, a heart-shaped button box that she and Kari had been permitted to play with when channeling their inner Laura and Mary Ingalls. In another box Chloe found long-forgotten toys, including an Etch A Sketch, a Magic 8 Ball, even a Slinky. Really, Mom? Chloe thought. You saved a Slinky? Either Mom had planned way ahead for grandchildren or she’d been more sentimental than she’d let on.

  A silk handbag embellished with jet beads turned up near the end of her quest. Not something Chloe could imagine carrying. You’re welcome to it, Shirley, she thought, and set it aside.

  There was only one box left in the closet, shoved into a back corner. She might as well find out what was in it before burying it again. The carton was sealed, but the tape had gone brittle with age and easily gave way. She lifted the flaps and found a tine—a bentwood box—oval, with a flat lid, and rosemaled in shades of blue, red, yellow, and green. The design itself was simplistic, but cheerful.

  “Mom,” Chloe said softly, “was this your first project?” Preserving the rose-painting tradition had been Marit’s greatest passion, but she only put her best work on view. It tickled Chloe to think that her mother had been sentimental enough to save an early piece.

  But the tine wasn’t empty. Easing off the lid, Chloe discovered something small and lumpy wrapped in tissue paper. She turned the wrapping back to reveal a small porcelain doll with long blond hair. “Oh!” Her eyebrows rose in surprise, for she’d never seen the doll before. It was dressed in a costume approximating a Norwegian bunad—red skirt, yellowing linen blouse, apron with a lace edge. Beads stitched on red ribbon suggested traditional ornamentation. Most distinctive was an elaborate crown made of wire, clearly representing the crowns that, historically, many Norwegian women wore on their wedding day.

  “Mom, was this yours?” Chloe struggled to imagine a young Marit sitting on the floor, playing with a dolly.

  She set the doll to one side. In the bottom of the tine were two more tissue-wrapped packets—both soft and flat. The first held a gorgeous example of white Hardanger embroidery with cutwork. “A doily,” Chloe murmured. The cotton piece was about seventeen inches square, probably intended to take the place of honor on a table, perhaps beneath a vase. Why on earth had Mom kept this amazing textile folded away in the back of the closet?

  The final treasure was another textile, this one maybe eighteen by twenty inches. The fine linen featured geometric patterns embroidered in black thread, much of it delicate cross stitch. The workmanship was exquisite, for the most part, although a couple of the mirror images didn’t quite match, and one or two motifs were off-kilter. Also, the maker had evidently been unable to finish the project, for half of the cloth was unadorned. It looked old.

  And it seemed to represent … something. I’d swear I’ve never seen this before, Chloe thought, but it seems familiar. The doll evoked curiosity; the doily, admiration. This cloth brought a tingle to her palms.

  Since childhood, Chloe had occasionally experienced lingering emotions in old places. She couldn’t explain or predict the sensations, but had accepted her ability long ago. Perhaps this cloth had come from a place still vibrating with events long gone. She closed her eyes, trying to open herself. But whatever the cloth represented glimmered only momentarily at the edge of her understanding before slipping away like a silver minnow darting into the shadows.

  Chloe opened her eyes again. I wonder … she thought, but cut herself off before going too far. No point in speculating. She nestled the doll, the doily, and the embroidered cloth back into the tine and carried it downstairs.

  “I was beginning to think you’d gotten lost,” Dad said. His forehead wrinkled as he saw what she held in her hands. “Weren’t you looking for a purse?”

  “I found that, but I also found these.” Chloe placed the oval box on the table between the men, removed the lid, and slid into a chair. She brushed nonexistent crumbs from the table before reverently displaying her finds. “Dad, have you ever seen any of these pieces before?”

  Dad studied them. “Don’t think so. No.”

  “They were buried in a carton in the back of the guest room closet.” Chloe felt Roelke’s questioning gaze. He was always quick to pick up on her mood. She tried to compose her expression to suggest offhand curiosity.

  “Your mother probably found those things at a garage sale or something,” Dad was saying. “She couldn’t bear to see heirlooms like that forgotten.”

  But if that were the case, Chloe thought, why was the carton hidden away? She glanced around the kitchen—familiar blue curtains, blue teapot on the stove, blue-and-white dishtowels. A krumkake iron hung above the stove, and an antique lefse pin was displayed on the counter. It felt as if Mom had just stepped out.

  Right that minute, Chloe wanted nothing more than to see Mom stride briskly into the kitchen, to offer a plate of Norwegian cookies, even to murmur some lightly veiled barb about her younger daughter’s inadequacies.

  Most of all Chloe wanted Mom to explain why she’d hidden the tine and its treasures in her closet, and why she’d set money aside for a trip to Norway, without mentioning it to her.

  TWO

  Dad trudged up the stairs to bed early, his shoulders bowed with grief and loneliness. It hurt Chloe’s heart to see him so lost.

  “How are you doing?” Roelke asked Chloe when they were alone. “Is there anything you need?”

  Chloe hesitated. “I think I need to talk to Hilda Omdahl.”

  “Your mom’s friend?” Roelke’s forehead wrinkled. “What for?”

  “I want to ask her about the things I found in Mom’s closet.” She glanced at the wall clock. “It’s only a little after nine. She’s probably still up.”

  He studied her. “Chloe, what is this all about?”

  “I can’t explain it,” she admitted. “The tine I found might have been an early project of Mom’s, and I suppose the doll might have come from a garage sale, but the doily is worthy of a museum collection. And something about that unfinished blackwork cloth seems important. I’ll check with Kari, but I have this feeling she won’t recognize the pieces either. The only other person who might is Mom’s oldest friend.”

  “Want company?”

  She grabbed his hand, profoundly grateful that she was engaged to this guy. Roelke could be wound a bit too tight, but he was surprisingly patient with her more inexplicable notions. She didn’t take that for granted. “Thank you, but I think I should talk to her alone.”

  Fifteen minutes later Chloe parked the truck in front of Hilda’s 1920s bungalow in East Park. Behind drawn curtains, light glowed from the living room.

  Hilda was clearly surprised to find Chloe on the front step. “Honey, what are you doing here?”

  “I wanted to show you something.” Chloe held up the carton. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

  “I’m glad you’re here,” Hilda said. “I was feeling lonely. Please, come in.”

  Hilda’s living room was a comfortable space with rose-toned furniture, and travel photographs on the walls. A carved nisse—a creature from Norwegian folklore—stood on the raised brick hearth in front of the fireplace. The television, on but muted, provided a hint of company.

  Chloe was distracted by a cloth worked with Hardanger embroidery draped over a table in one corner. She’d seen it a thousand times, but suddenly she was more interested. Focus, she told herself, and settled on the sofa. Hilda moved a crewel project from a chair and took a seat.


  “I found something in Mom’s closet that I’d never seen before.” Chloe put the carton on a coffee table and pulled out the tine. “I don’t know if Mom painted this.”

  “If she did,” Hilda said dubiously, “it was a long time ago.”

  “And these were inside.” Chloe removed the doll, the doily, and the blackwork cloth. “Are these familiar?”

  Hilda shook her head. “No.”

  Chloe realized that a part of her—apparently a big part—had wanted Hilda to smile nostalgically and say, “Of course! Marit saw those at the Mount Horeb antiques mall and had to have them. That was a fun day.” But she didn’t. Chloe felt herself teetering on the edge of something unknown.

  “Why do you ask, dear?” Hilda leaned forward, her eyes shadowed with sudden concern. “Is it important?”

  “I don’t know.” Chloe hesitated. “Aunt Hilda, did my mother ever tell you that she was adopted?”

  “Adopted?” Hilda repeated blankly. “Marit?”

  “Mom’s aunt Birgitta told me.”

  Hilda shook her head slowly. “No. Marit never mentioned it.” She was silent for a moment, staring at the episode of Kate & Allie flickering on the TV screen. Finally she said, “Does your father know?”

  “He’s never mentioned it, and I haven’t asked. Kari doesn’t know anything about it.”

  “Wouldn’t Marit have said something?” Hilda looked bewildered. “She was a genealogist!”

  “I’ve got copies of the genealogical work that Mom’s done. It shows her birthday, but there’s no mention of an adoption. I’ve also seen baby pictures of Mom and my grandma together.” Chloe rubbed her palms on her skirt. “But Mom could have been an infant when she was adopted.”

  Hilda’s brow furrowed thoughtfully. “Did you know there was an orphanage in Stoughton? The Martin Luther Orphanage. It dated back to the 1890s, I think.”

  “Really?” Chloe sat up straighter.

  “At some point they transitioned from housing orphans to helping troubled youth, but the whole enterprise closed five or six years ago. Who knows what happened to the records.”