Page 14 of A Copenhagen Snowmance
Done, she looks at him, waiting.
He dictates his number, which she dutifully adds.
“Next time, please call and I won’t be standing talking to myself in the fruit aisle.”
“I’m sorry, really.”
He mulls her apology then gives her a nod.
“Just a thought, Anna; you might find facing things rather than running from them more cathartic.”
“I’m not looking for catharsis,” she says, but it comes out slightly snappy. He doesn’t know the score, so she doesn’t appreciate his opining on it.
“Beneficial, then?”
“Nope. Really.” She turns and busies herself cleaning the dusting of icing sugar that’s settled on the opposite counter.
Jamie doesn’t say anything, and she feels not that he’s judging her, but trying to get a read on her. She doesn’t mind that so much. Something makes her want him to get it right, another something fears him doing so. Either way, it intrigues her.
The oven beeps and she removes the baking tray, to fill a bowl with the hot pancakey dumplingy goodness.
He picks up the mugs and both plates and heads towards the stairs.
“There’s a jigsaw that needs progressing,” he says, and jerks his head for her to follow. She takes it her olive branch has been accepted. But if she follows, then she doesn’t know where the conversation will go, and that’s uncomfortable. On the other hand, she doesn’t want to walk away from him. At the very least she’s still mid-apology with theæbleskiver; she can’t just grab her plate and bugger off to her room, although part of her is tempted. More to the point, doing so will give him more ammo in his pseudo-psychology that she runs from things. So.
Anna picks up the bowl and teapot and follows.
* * *
Jamie dips one of the dumplings first into the jam and then into the icing sugar before taking a bite. They sit at either end of the sofa, his faux candles lit in the windowsill and on the shelves opposite them, the tartan throw over her lap, Snow Patrol playing low on the speaker pod. She watches him as he chews, getting the flavours; first of the sugar and raspberry jam, but then the subtler flavours of the pancake batter with the added hint of cardamom and lemon zest. It’s a flavour she hasn’t realised how much she’s missed. A true flavour of her childhood, when Mormor made them for her and Morfar, turning the half-cooked batter in the funny seven-holed frying pan. After Mormor died, they’d bought them ready-made from the shop to remind them of her, and because neither of them could turn the dumplings properly in the pan. Giving up after a couple of attempts, they’d decided shop-bought would do. The taste brings Anna right back to the memories.
“Delicious,” she hears him murmur. He shoves another one in his mouth. Shoving is perfectly acceptable etiquette when it comes toæbleskiver.
“Perfect for a winter day, right? Hot and sweet. Nom.” She shoves one in her own mouth, savouring it, then licks the remaining icing sugar off her fingertips.
When she looks up, he’s watching her. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.
“Have I got icing sugar on my face?” she asks, self-conscious, and paws at her cheek.
His nose twitches for a second, then he says, “Mmm-hmm, but you got it.” He sits up straight then to look at the coffee table. “Right. It’s not often I have a jigsaw partner, so here are the rules. One: no looking at the picture, which you already know. Two: first person to correctly place five pieces, wins.”
“Competitive jigsawing?”
“Aye,” he says, and she realises he’s already scanning the pieces. Cheat!
Anna is, and always has been, competitive and shifts forward to get in the game. “What’s the prize?”
“Glory and bragging rights.” He doesn’t look at her, but she’s dismayed to see him pick up a piece and click it into place.
“Lame,” she states. Bragging rights between two people is pointless.
Jamie pauses and does now look at her. She deliberately shifts her eyes to the pieces, wishing she can find something quick. The manifesting must work, as she finds the next part of a boat’s mast.
“That’s fighting talk. OK, increased stakes. Winner chooses dinner and decides what we do this evening.”
“Can’t be outside,” she negotiates, manically looking for another piece.
“No restrictions, Lundholm. You either want stakes or you don’t.” Damn him. “Come on, ya feartie. It’ll be properly dark soon, anyway.”
