Page 10 of One Weekend in Iceland

She checks a slim silver watch on her wrist. I notice it’s not designer, simpler but, like everything about her, unique and stylish. I don’t want her to leave, but I know she is meeting her father for lunch. I could tell by the way her face lit up when she talked about it earlier that lunch with him is a special event. So I don’t want to be the reason she’s late.

“Where are you meeting your father?”

“My uncle’s bar. It’s our regular family meeting place. I should be going.”

“I can walk with you?” I offer.

She nods, and I fall into step with her, shoving my hands deep into the pockets of my jeans.

If it means I get to spend more time with her, listening to her talk about local folklore or funny stories from her childhood, I’ll gladly take it.

Chapter six

Freya

My father is already at the table when I enter the private alcove. This is where we always meet, because it’s the only place in the city that guarantees we won’t be interrupted by his fans. We embrace long and hard.

“Sakna bin,” I whisper.

Nothing beats being engulfed in one of my father’s bear-like hugs. And after another extended absence, it’s important for me to let him know I missed him. It’s become our tradition. I understand why we have to be apart, but it’s never easy. It’s the reason the Loss painting had such an impact on me earlier. Loss can be felt in different ways, and for me, it’s saying goodbye to my father.

“Sakna bin lika,” he replies, telling me he misses me too.

We don’t have a typical father-daughter relationship, not that I’m even sure there is such a thing. But our relationship was certainly nothing like that of my friends and their fathers. Throughout my life, we’ve only seen each other once or sometimes twice a year. Yet I’ve never doubted that when we need him, he’ll come, like this brief visit to see my mother. He told me once that we are his anchors in his otherwise crazy world, and I think I’m okay with that. It was harder to understand when I was a child, but I get it now that I’m an adult following my own dreams. Well, maybe not following my dreams, but trying to find a path to them.

We place our orders and get straight down to catching up on each other’s life. With these fleeting visits, I’ve learned not to waste a minute of our time together on small talk.

“You haven’t sent me any photos of your paintings lately. Have you been busy?” he asks. We might not spend a lot of time together face-to-face, but our three-way WhatsApp chat group is very active. And he’s right. I haven’t sent any pictures lately, mostly because I’ve not completed any.

I drop my gaze to the tablecloth, drawing circles with my finger over it, feeling like a little girl again who doesn’t want to admit she didn’t do her homework. Not that homework was ever one of the discussions we had when I was growing up, because I loved school. “It’s hard finding the time with my gallery job and things.”

“Freya, I don’t know what the things are, but you need to make time. Painting is your passion, your dream. Don’t give up on that.”

Damn, it’s like he just read my earlier thoughts. “I know. I like living in Dublin, but I don’t want to be stuck selling other people’s artwork for the rest of my life. One day I want my own little gallery selling my paintings.” I don’t add that I’ve been looking into a community of artists in Wales that support each other in establishing careers in the art world. It would give me the opportunity to spend more time painting and the chance to exhibit again. That’s something I haven’t done since I left Reykjavik three years ago.

“If you’d let me, I can help you.” My father has offered to help me financially at different times in the past, but I want to do this on my own. I need to know that my success is my own, not just because of my father’s fame.

“Pabbi, I need to do this my way. Just like you found your success your way.”

He nods but doesn’t have a chance to say any more as a waiter arrives with our lunch. And as I pick up my fork, we move on to another topic.

“Tell me, who’s this guy you’ve been meeting?”

With a smile on my lips, I roll my eyes. “Not you too.”

He laughs a deep, rumbling belly laugh, and hearing it feels as good as one of his hugs.

“Please tell me you’re not going to start poking into my love life like Mum and Embla.”

“Not unless you want me to.” He gives me one of his smiles that had women swooning at concerts and chasing him around the world.

“Good, because then I might have to start asking you about yours,” I joke before digging my fork into my smoked salmon salad. “I guess Mum told you the story about the bag mix-up.”

He nods.

My fork clanks against the plate as I set it back down and lean forward on my elbows. “His name is Rory, and he seems like a nice guy, really interesting to talk to. I like him, but it’s only for the weekend because he returns home to Edinburgh on Monday. Showing him around is fun. But please don’t tell Mum any of that. She’ll make more of it than it is.”

“It always amuses me how much your mother wants other people to be in relationships when she has chosen to live her life as free as a bird.”

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