Thirty-Five

A month later, thunderous applause greeted Chloe and Roelke when they walked into Stoughton’s Sons of Norway lodge hall for their reception. “Oh my,” Chloe murmured. The room was packed with friends from high school, friends from Old World Wisconsin, friends of her parents. Cops from the Eagle and Milwaukee Police Departments were there, and Roelke’s cousin Libby with her kids and her steady, Adam. Museum director Ellinor Falk had even scheduled her trip to Wisconsin to coincide with the event.

“What a great space!” Roelke murmured. The lodge hall had retained most of the original church windows, including a huge work of stained glass that lent a warm golden glow to the gathering.

It took a long time for well-wishers to pass through the receiving line. Kent Andreasson was one of the last to greet them. “Congratulations!” he exclaimed before leaning close. “I’m so sorry about everything that happened. Both over there and here. With Trine. I feel just horrible.”

“None of it was your fault,” Chloe said. “Let’s try to forget about all that right now.”

“Of course.” Kent looked relieved. “I’m truly happy for you both.” He moved on.

After the last handshake, Roelke shook his head and murmured, “Holy toboggans. I didn’t expect quite so many people.”

“It means a lot, doesn’t it?” Chloe laced her fingers through his and took her first good look around. “And the lodge members have done an awesome job. This party is more Norwegian than the one we had in Norway.” The hall was adorned with Norwegian flags and banners. Many people wore bunads, and some of the Old World staffers wore period clothing. Sprightly folk music played on a sound system. Chloe’s sister, Kari, had baked a kransekake—the traditional cake made with almond meal and powdered sugar, baked in rings, stacked high and decorated with icing, flowers, ribbons, and tiny flags.

“The lodge members have been great,” Roelke agreed. “And now, I could use something to drink.”

Before they could reach the refreshments table, Kari joined them. “The cake is amazing,” Chloe told her sister, while Roelke headed toward the punch bowl.

“You two did make it legal, right?” Kari asked. “There are eighteen layers in that cake, Chloe. I went to a lot of trouble.” Then her teasing look disappeared, and she surprised Chloe with a quick hug. “I wanted to do it. I’m so glad you and Roelke found each other.”

“Our marriage is absolutely legal,” Chloe assured her. “But listen, I’ve got something to show you.” She pulled Kari out of the traffic flow. “Guess what came in the mail today? A copy of the letter Amalie wrote from Stoughton. Want to hear it?”

Kari hesitated only briefly before nodding. “At this point, yes. I do.”

Chloe pulled a folded piece of paper from her purse. “The original was in Norwegian, of course, but Pastor Brandvold sent a transcription. Let me share the most important part.” She found the appropriate paragraph and began to read.

Solveig, before we parted I promised that I would always do my very best for your precious Marit. Before we left Bergen I bought a bride doll for her, to one day help remind her of the country where she was born. On the journey I often felt overwhelmed with the responsibility of her care, but I have also come to love her as my own. I often sing to her, and whisper stories about her brave mother.

Now I am trying to be brave. You see, I have promised myself to a wonderful man. Rasmus and I met on the ship and already I can not imagine life without him. He had no prospects in Norway and is very poor, but has accepted a job with a railroad company. It will be his job to travel throughout the West to inspect ongoing work projects and consider new ones.

Rasmus already loves Marit. When we began speaking of marriage we imagined becoming a family of three. But Solveig, since arriving in Wisconsin, and talking with his brother (who already works for the railroad, and made arrangements for the job), I have come to realize that the life Rasmus and I will lead is no life for an infant. We will be moving from here to there, not making a permanent home for who knows how long. After much anguished thought and prayer, and many tears, I have decided that Marit’s best chance for a happy life does not lie with me.

Many Norwegians have settled in Stoughton, Wisconsin. Tomorrow I will take sweet Marit to an orphanage, with the request that she find a home with a well-settled Norwegian couple.

My heart breaks as I write these words. Please don’t think of me harshly. It is not laziness that has led me to this decision, but only love and my promise to you to always put Marit’s needs first. I will leave several family treasures with her in hopes that one day she can rediscover her true homeland.

“There’s more, but that’s the main bit.” Chloe folded the paper back away. When she looked up, she saw a tear trickling down Kari’s cheek. “I know.” She’d had time to think about Amalie’s decision, but re-reading the letter still brought a lump to her throat. Would I, Chloe wondered, have been strong enough to make that decision? She wasn’t sure.

“Well, now we know,” Kari managed. “Chloe … thank you for that. For persevering. You were right all along.”

Before Chloe could answer, Roelke approached with a crystal cup of cranberry punch. “Everything okay?” he murmured as Kari swiped at her eyes. Chloe nodded, sipping gratefully.

Dad stepped up to what had once been the church chancel. After tapping a microphone, he waited until the room fell silent to thank everyone for coming. “My family is blessed to belong to such a community.” He paused to clear his throat. “And we’re blessed to welcome Roelke and his family and friends to our community.”

“That’s a long speech for my dad,” Chloe whispered. “He’s going to make me cry.”

Dad offered a toast to the newlyweds, and everyone raised glasses of punch or akevitt. “And now,” Dad concluded, “we have a special surprise.” He looked toward a side door just as Kent walked in—with Aunt Hilda on his arm.

Chloe gasped. “I didn’t think she was coming!” She had visited Hilda, now recuperating at home with full-time caregivers, several times. Chloe had found the tiny telltale letter R that identified the fiddle maker as Jørgen Riis, and she’d explained what she’d learned about Hilda’s fiddle. Hilda had confirmed that it had been a gift from Marit, but a private conversation had been impossible.

Kari smiled. “She wanted to surprise you.”

Kent helped Hilda to a chair on the dais, then handed her the Hardanger fiddle that Jørgen Riis had made for Solveig. As Hilda began to play, Roelke put his arm around Chloe’s shoulders. She closed her eyes, hearing not just Hilda’s beautiful music but Grandfather Jørgen’s too, and Grandmother Solveig’s. It was magical.

After the tune, Roelke cocked his head toward the front. “You go say hello.”

Chloe greeted Hilda with a kiss on the cheek and pulled another chair close. “I am overjoyed to see you here, and to hear you play.”

“I’m grateful to be here,” Hilda said fervently. “But—there’s something we need to talk about.”

“Okay.” Chloe scooched her chair even closer.

Hilda’s eyes were troubled. “Chloe, I’m sorry I never told you that your mother gave me the fiddle. We were fifteen, I think. I’d heard someone play at a lodge meeting and was crazy to learn how. And Marit told me she’d painted the sides, which made it even more special. I didn’t know she’d inherited the fiddle.” She lifted a palm, let it drop back to her lap. “I did wonder where she got it … but that was a different time. Back then farmers stored cattle feed in their grandparents’ rosemaled trunks. Ale bowls and ambars disappeared into attics. Heirlooms represented the past, and the immigrants’ children wanted to be American. But … I should have asked.”

“Aunt Hilda, you have nothing to feel bad about,” Chloe assured her.

“When you and Kari were in high school, I tried to give the fiddle back to Marit. I thought it should go to one of you girls. But Marit said no, that she hadn’t changed her mind about the gift.”

Chloe snorted. “Mom was not one to change her mind.”

“But,” Hilda continued, “she did say that if it troubled me, I should leave the fiddle to you in my will.”

“To me?” Chloe repeated. “Why me? Kari was closer to Mom.”

“Marit didn’t say. Maybe it was because she never really knew how to connect with you.”

Or maybe, Chloe thought, Mom trusted me to figure everything out.

“I almost told you,” Hilda said. “The day of your mother’s funeral.”

Chloe nodded, remembering.

Hilda leaned forward and clasped Chloe’s hand with surprising strength. “I want you to take the fiddle now.”

Chloe placed one palm on the fiddle. She’d seen it many times, but now it told new stories about people and places she couldn’t have imagined. The pearly inlay and black inked designs held new meaning. Jørgen had included the twin spirals she’d remembered, but also the squares representing fertile fields, and an ornate sun. The designs were balanced and spoke of his dreams of a happy family. It was a precious artifact.

But it was not one she wanted to possess. “Thanks to you, Aunt Hilda, that fiddle brings people joy. That’s as it should be. I can’t accept it.”

“Well, I have to do something,” Hilda fretted. “Now that we know who made it, it seems too important for me to keep.”

“It would be nice to have an expert remove a bit of Mom’s painting, to expose a devil or two,” Chloe mused. “Both Jørgen’s handiwork and Mom’s painting are part of this fiddle’s story now. But Aunt Hilda, all I want is for you to enjoy playing it for many more years to come. Leave it to the Stoughton Historical Society or the Hardanger Folkemuseum in your will. In fact, the Norwegian museum director is here. I’ll introduce you later.”

The older woman hesitated, considering the fiddle. Then her facial muscles eased. “All right, dear. That’s what I’ll do.”

“Pardon me.” Kent approached, looking apologetic. “Hilda, people are hoping you’ll play a dance tune or two. Only if you’re up to it, of course.”

Hilda smiled. “I am indeed.”

She began a schottische, and couples moved to the open area in the middle of the room. Chloe rejoined Roelke, who was watching from the side.

“Everything good?” he asked.

“Everything is wonderful.”

It was fun to watch the dancers—young and old, skilled and not, happy people wearing folk costumes and immigrant attire and everything in between. After a few sprightly tunes, Hilda began a slow piece.

Roelke held out his hand. “May I have this dance?”

“But you—you don’t dance,” she stammered.

He led her onto the floor and pulled her into his arms. They swayed back in forth in time to the melody. “This is the extent of my ability,” he warned her. “No Hallings or Springars for me.”

Chloe had never been happier on a dance floor. “This is perfect.”

After a moment he said, “I’ve been thinking about our Norwegian wedding all day. You know what my favorite moment was?”

She shook her head. The day had overflowed with favorite moments.

“The part where we promised to go adventuring together.”

Chloe tipped her head to meet her husband’s gaze. “I think we have lots more adventures ahead of us.”

“That,” Roelke said, “sounds very good to me.”