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“Will you tell me more about your family?” I ask, hoping she won’t shut down my questions this time. Especially now I know who her father is, the reason I suspected for her false cheerfulness earlier.
“You recognized my father, didn’t you?” she asks, flicking her gaze to mine briefly before returning it back to the straight stretch of bitumen.
“Yes, I recognized him immediately. I’ve been a fan of Midnight Sons for fifteen years.”
“Me too.”
“Cute. But why didn’t you mention that? I know you didn’t expect to see him today, but it was kind of a big thing when you were talking about going to lunch with him. You only mentioned your father wasn’t around much.”
She shrugs. “Habit, I guess.” She draws in a deep breath. “No, that’s a lie. Hold on.” She turns her head from left to right, checking her mirrors before indicating to turn. A signpost on the side of the road has me sitting up straighter.
“We’re going to the Viking World Museum?” I ask, turning to look at her. I remember reading about this place, but I didn’t expect I’d get to see it. A frown pulls my brow low. Why are we stopping here?
“This is an unplanned detour so we can talk.”
“Aye, right. I like this kind of detour. The building was designed by Gudmundur Jonsson.”
Her soft laugh tugs on something in my chest. “I hadn’t thought of that. What a happy coincidence?” She chews on her bottom lip. “It’s hard to explain about my odd family dynamic while I’m driving.”
She pulls the car into the parking lot. “Wow, that is something special, isn’t it,” she exclaims, peering through the windscreen at the unusual structure before us. “I’ve never been here before.”
The museum entry is dominated by the replica Viking ship, The Icelander—the purpose and focus of Jonsson’s design. At the far end of the long rectangular hall is a wall of windows overlooking the nearby harbor, and that’s where the café is located.
A waft of tempting food teases my nostrils as we get closer to the café, and my stomach rumbles. Breakfast was only a large takeaway coffee, and I need more than that to fuel my body. Especially after the vigorous activities of last night and this morning.
“Let’s get food,” I suggest, and Freya’s head bobs eagerly in agreement.
We both order the lobster soup, the source of the delicious aroma, and take a seat beside the double-story wall of windows. When the steamy bowls are placed in front of us, along with a basket of warm crusty bread, Freya begins to talk about her family.
“I never tell people who my father is. Not my friends, not anybody. When I said it’s a habit, it’s true. All my life, I’ve hidden the fact. I mean literally nobody knows outside my family and my father’s close circle of friends.” She sucks in a deep breath. “I’d really appreciate it if you could keep it to yourself too.”
I nod, and she continues. “Although, these days, it probably doesn’t matter as much. But when I was younger, my mother and father decided it was best for all of us to keep it a secret. My parents have been best friends since they were children. They grew up next door to each other. But there was never anything romantic between them until the night they were celebrating Midnight Sons signing their first recording contract. Apparently, there was a big party, too many drinks, and one thing led to another. That was the night I was conceived, and one week later, my father and the band left for London to record the first album.”
Freya stirs the spoon around and around in her bowl of soup. I’m not sure if she’s trying to cool it down or if she’s feeling uncomfortable telling her story.
Still looking down, she continues. “My mother told him she was pregnant and that she wanted to raise me on her own. It made sense, especially when the band was celebrating their first number one by the time I was born. My father was there for my birth and has always supported my mother, though she has her own successful career designing Icelandic-inspired jewelry.” She lifts a spoon of soup to her lips, blows on it gently, then replaces it in the bowl untouched. This can’t be easy for her, sharing the closely held family secret.
Sliding the bowl away, she links her hands on the table in front of her. “As the band’s fame grew, they agreed that the best thing to do would be to keep our family connection private.”
“And neither of them married?” In the short time I spent with Freya’s parents, they seemed like a real couple. The way Jon resumed his seat on the edge of the bed close to her mother, then rested his hand over hers a bit later. It seemed more than friendship.
“Icelandic women are strong and capable. We don’t need a man to take care of us.”
I get the message loud and clear, whether she means to direct it to me or not. “I’ve no doubt. I see those same characteristics in you.”
She looks up at me but doesn’t say anything.
It sounds like a strange family situation, but given mine was far from the model family with an alcoholic, abusive father, I’m not the best judge of what’s normal. From what Freya has told me, at least she had a happy, stable childhood.
I dip my spoon in the creamy soup. “Mmm, this is pure dead brilliant.”
Freya raises a quizzical brow and moves her own bowl closer again.
“I mean good. Really good.” I scoop up another bite-sized piece of lobster and pop it in my mouth. After the first taste, it doesn’t take long for me to empty the bowl.
Freya puts down her spoon, having only eaten about half of hers. She seems quieter after sharing about her parents. It must have been difficult keeping her father secret all her life.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
