The Unlikely Romance of Kate Bjorkman by Louise Plummer

Author:Louise Plummer [Plummer, Louise]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-307-80931-5
Publisher: Random House Children's Books
Published: 2011-12-14T05:00:00+00:00

THE TRADITIONAL CHRISTMAS EVE dinner at our house is an authentic Swedish smorgasbord that my mother spreads out across the buffet in silver and fine china. There are, of course, meatballs made with sausage and ham, cheese, at least three kinds of pickled herring, a pork roast, lutefisk with white sauce, and saffron buns. The dining room is lit with candles only—candles on the buffet and on the table, and candles in a spectacular wreath of greens, especially mistletoe, that my father suspends over the dining room table from the ceiling with wide red ribbon just before dinner. It is our family’s nod to the Festival of Lights. The wreath is the width of the dining table—my mother’s design. Fleur and Trish oohed and aahed when they saw it for the first time. They had come down the stairs dressed to the teeth. I didn’t look bad either. Mother had said earlier, “Wear what makes you comfortable,” but Bjorn had interpreted: “She likes us dressed up.”

“But not uncomfortably dressed up,” Mother had said.

“No formal wear,” Bjorn had interpreted.

Mother had turned from the kitchen sink, where she was washing her hands, and, purposely splattering water on Bjorn, said, “Am I not speaking English?”

All the men wore jackets and ties. My stomach curled when I saw Richard in a charcoal-tweed coat with a crisp blue oxford shirt. Silent sighing and accelerated pulse all over the place.

“When did that gorgeous wreath go up?” Trish wanted to know.

“Don’t know,” Dad said. “Keebler elves.” He kissed her cheek. “Mistletoe.” He pointed at the wreath.

Soon everyone was kissing. Trish and Fleur kissed Dad on each cheek at the same time. “Merry Christmas, Professor Bjorkman,” Fleur said, grinning. His ears colored shamelessly. Mother passed out drinks and received kisses from all the men.

Bjorn smacked a wet one on my nose, followed by another wet one on my cheek. “Like being kissed by a Saint Bernard.” I laughed and, turning, faced Richard.

He raised his glass to mine. “Merry Christmas, Kate,” he said, using my name for the first time. He kissed me lightly, gently, on the lips. Our eyes held.

“Merry Christmas, Richard,” I said and, catching myself, said, “I mean Rich.”

“I like Richard,” he said.

“I like Kate.”

He smiled. “I’ll try to remember,” he said, and he kissed me ever so lightly again. “Kate.”

I thought I would melt into the carpet.

Mother encouraged us to try everything. Trish passed up all three varieties of herring, but Bjorn spooned some on her plate along with chopped onions. “The Swedes call it sill,” he said. He also spooned a little lutefisk on her plate. “Cod,” he said. He didn’t say anything about the lye marinade. “You’ll love it.”

Fleur was interested in all the food, asking Mother if various dishes were hard to make, if she’d thought of writing a Christmas cookbook.

“I’m sure it’s all been done,” Mother said.

“No,” Fleur said. “Not just food recipes, but directions for making the wreath, for all the homemade things you have to decorate the house—all of it.

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