It was tradition. Every year they spent a weekend in Sörmland, at the home of Norah’s best friend and her husband. This year he hadn’t wanted to think about it. He’d intended to plan something else, to do one of the many things he used to wish, as a married man with small children, that he could still do. But when Norah asked if he wanted to come along anyway, for the kids, and because they were his friends too, he said yes. Breathlessly, as though the chance might vanish if he was too eager.
“Just like always, Dad,” his daughter said in the car, looking at him in the rearview mirror.
Anxious — his daughter sounded anxious, and he said, “Of course, it’s just like before,” and glanced at Norah. She gave him a tentative smile, leaned into the backseat, and stroked her daughter’s cheek. Not even Norah wanted to protest.
As usual, Adam, Norah, and the kids stayed in the guesthouse. When they said it would be perfect, that they were happy to stay there, their friends had looked relieved. Still, their hostess offered him the sofa up in the house, but Norah shook her head silently, and that was the end of that. No one had expected Adam to say what he wanted. Everyone knew Norah was in charge here. She was the one who’d asked Adam to move out. It was all up to her — every decision about what they would do from now on.
They had dinner down by the dock. The warmest evening of the summer. They’d laughed at the same stories, the same memories they’d been telling and retelling for years now. And the children had fallen asleep an hour ago. Adam had put them to bed; Norah had stayed behind, had looked up at Adam and mimed a thank you.
As night fell, the air became chilly. Norah had drawn a blanket over her shoulders and Adam had wriggled into his sweater. But they stayed where they were. A fresh bottle was uncorked; a thermos of tea was put out on the table, and each time someone rose Adam was afraid Norah too would say, Good night, time for me to hit the hay. He was afraid because he didn’t know what he would say then, whether he should rise to join her or wait until she was ready to get in bed before he followed.
But the minutes passed, the sea grew dark, and the shore vanished into the dusk. The moon rose above the water and then the two of them were the only ones left.
Norah flailed angrily at the mosquitoes swarming around her. Adam took a newspaper from the table and rolled it up, front side in, and waved it in her direction. He never had as much trouble with mosquitoes as she did. Norah took the paper from him and smacked him on the shoulder.
“Did you get it?” Adam wondered.
Norah smiled, shook her head, and looked down at the paper.
It had been lying there all night, on the edge of the table, with its black headline and large photo. They’d discussed it, of course, how could they keep from talking about Stig Ahlin?
“Was he guilty?” someone had asked Adam.
“I don’t know,” he’d heard himself say. “But regardless, he shouldn’t have been killed.”
They agreed about that. Beaten and stabbed to death on a concrete floor by three fellow inmates. No one deserved that. Not even Stig Ahlin.
There was a picture of Sophia inside the paper, but they hadn’t said much about her. She wasn’t important to them.
“I’ve worked with her,” Adam had said. But no one had paid attention. There had been a big interview with Sophia. She’d looked like her normal self, her ponytail at the back of her neck, a white T-shirt, those piercing eyes. Adam had looked at the photo, but not for long.
“She’s a good attorney,” he had mumbled. No one had reacted to that either.
Adam had written Sophia an email. That was only two weeks ago, but it felt like an eternity. Two days after the decision on the new trial was handed down, he had walked off, just before he was supposed to eat lunch with the kids in that cottage he’d rented. It had taken him ten minutes of walking to find a spot with coverage enough to send an email. That had felt less intrusive than a text. Not as personal. But she had never responded.
Had what he had written been unclear? He hadn’t wanted to congratulate her, but he had said that she had done an important thing. Last time they saw each other had been so strange. He’d sounded like he was accusing her of something. He had upset her.
But most of all he’d just wanted to have contact with her, any way he could. To see her. He had thought a lot about her, out there in the forest. But Sophia hadn’t responded. She never responded.
Norah whacked him on the shoulder with the paper again. More gently this time.
“I can’t take it anymore,” she whispered. “They’re everywhere. I’m going up to bed.”
Adam placed his hand over hers; he took the paper and set it on the table, front page down.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go for a swim instead. They can’t bite us in the water.”
At first, she said nothing. And he could hardly breathe. Because she was in charge now. These decisions lay with her, and her only. Then she stood up. She pulled off her shirt and stepped out of her pants and underwear.
Just before she dove in, Norah’s eyes flashed. He followed her.
The water was warm and silky, but he was shivering as if with fever. Norah’s bare skin shimmered under the surface. She swam four strokes away from him before turning around to let him catch up. As he took her by the waist and pulled her close, the surface rippled. He stood on the soft bottom to put her legs around him.
As she took his head in her hands, he kissed her. Her fingers in his wet hair, her chest against his. The water lilies turned away from them as he pressed into her, and everything was just like always.