Whereas in America wealth seemed to be the primary divider among the classes. There were no kings. Nor were there slaves, not anymore. And for a certainty, there were vast estates here for the very wealthy, including Torolf’s father, who owned a vineyard named Blue Dragon with his wife, Angela.
One glaring difference, it occurred to him, was that this was a peaceful place, whereas Norsemen were always fighting, if not with the Saxons or the Franks, then with each other. Even with huge gray military warships visible in the distance, even in the midst of a war with another country, people in America could walk about without fear of death. Children played freely, for the most part. There was the terrorist threat, but mostly it seemed far removed.
If he was stuck in this country, would he live in a house like these? Would Miklof be with him? Or other children? And what about Lydia?
Really, his life was in such flux. He did not even know what he could do for a living here. A military job, that was for certain, though Lydia might pray to the contrary. Fighting was all he knew. Of course, he knew how to run a large estate, as well, but what market was there here for a man to direct the activities of his cotters and housecarls?
In truth, he had no place in the world, and that scared him mightily.
Straightening, he resolved, I will make my own place.
On that resolution, he walked back to Lydia’s Silver Strand Studio. She was still teaching a class. He watched through a window in the door for a while as she and the other women, and two men, jumped and pranced about to the music. No pole dancing here, although Lydia did look fine in a red, skin-hugging garment, similar to the black one he had taken great joy in removing yesterday.
He decided to leave Lydia to her dancing and walk outside some more. This time he walked toward the town center, where the Hotel del Coronado could be seen. Torolf and Hilda had taken him for dinner there last month, and even they had to admit it resembled a white fairy-tale castle with its red-tiled roof. He passed taverns where people ate and drank at outside tables, chatting merrily, many of them wearing what he had come to recognize as Navy uniforms.
Hilda had told him on that dining trip that there were more than seventy eateries in Coronado.
He had countered with, “Such excess! Just like you having twenty pairs of shoes. Torolf needs to rein you in, wench.”
To which Hilda had raised her middle finger at him. It had not been a compliment, if Torolf’s laughter had been any indication.
Along the way, several women gave him appraising glances, and he sensed they would welcome his advances. Curiously, he had no desire in that direction. In truth, Lydia more than satisfied all those needs. Which could be dangerous, to be so reliant on one woman, but that was something he would worry over later.
There were glass-fronted clothes marts he passed, where bright clothing was displayed. Still other marts sold nothing but sherts, emblazoned with Coronado or Navy SEAL words. And there was the bank where Torolf had taken him to open an account, after selling several of the gold and silver coins he had carried with him. He still wore his gold armbands, which were portable wealth if he ever needed it, according to Torolf. A church, a school, food stalls, a toy mart. Who knew there were marts that sold naught but playthings for children? Noticing a set of miniature chain mail, gauntlets, and a wooden sword, he went in and purchased it for Lydia’s son, who hopefully was his son.
“Is this enough?” he asked the young man who placed his purchases in a parchment bag.
“Dude!” the young man exclaimed. “That’s three hundred dollars. The Sir Lancelot outfit costs only sixty.”
His confusion over money got the same reaction when he went into a medicinal mart to purchase condoms . . . five boxes. Apparently, hundred-dollar bills, of which he had many, were of considerable value. Also, it must be unusual for a man to buy five dozen condoms at once. Sweet Valkyries! A man had to be prepared, did he not?
He shrugged at the white-jacketed man and pocketed the remaining money. What a strange country, to use parchment for money!
He was better prepared when he came upon a jewelry mart, where he handed the merchant two hundred-dollar parchments for a hunk of amber that had caught his eye in the window. It would serve no purpose, this polished stone the size of a fist, except that the specks of dirt in the center resembled a star, and for some reason he’d thought of Lydia. A gift, he supposed, which was new for him. Oh, Vikings loved gift-giving, but he could not recall ever giving Luta a gift. Mayhap that had been his problem . . . or one of them.
In another trader’s stall, he purchased a Minnesota Vikings shert, which he thought might generate a smile from Lydia. He wore it now as he continued his walk and shook his head at his fancifulness in caring whether the wench was pleased at his appearance or not.
Just then, he noticed a place with a red-and-white striped pole in front. Inside, men were sitting in chairs, having their hair trimmed. Hesitating for only a second, he went in and waited his turn. His hair seemed to mark him as different in this country, especially this military base. If he was resolved to find his place here, cutting it off would be a first step. Besides, he was not a vain man. It was only hair.
“What’ll it be, buddy?” the barber asked once he was in the chair.
Thorfinn glanced over to the next chair. “Like him,” he ordered.
“A high and tight,” the barber concluded.
A woman walked up to him and said, “Hi! My name is Sally Enders. Would you like a manicure and pedicure while you’re having your hair cut?”
He must have looked unsure, because she quickly added, “Never had your nails done before?”
Slowly, he shook his head.
"C’mon, give it a try. Half price.”
And so he underwent the amazing process of having his fingernails and toenails clipped, sanded, and buffed, with the cuticles “cleaned up,” ending with wonderful hand and foot massages. It had actually been a nice experience, though he could not imagine his hands or feet staying this clean after doing a warrior’s work. Nor could he imagine ever telling his fellow Vikings that he had pampered himself so.
While she worked on him, Sally talked. And talked. And talked. He soon learned without ever asking—only an occasional grunt was required—that she was betrothed to a seaman who was deployed to the Arab lands. Devon, her fiancé, was great. He made love like nobody’s business. In fact, she told him in a whisper, “He gives good oral sex.”
Frowning, he asked, which was probably a mistake, “Is that like a blow job?”
She laughed and punched him playfully in the arm. “You kidder! No, a woman gives a blow job.”
“Oh,” was all he said, recalling his phone conversation with Torolf and realizing yet another of the mistakes he had made.
She also told him about her two-year-old daughter from a previous marriage, her interfering mother-by-marriage, the high cost of gasoline for her German bug, a sale at Victoria’s Secret, some stud named George Clooney, and how important it was to floss. When Thorfinn exited the shop, his head buzzing from all of Sally’s blather including a tearful good-bye over his giving her a hundred-dollar bill in thanks, he held two beaded war braids in his palm. The air felt surprisingly good on the back of his neck, and his body felt lighter. The barber, who had listened to Sally’s chatter without remark, except for rolling his eyes occasionally, had clipped his hair very short on the sides and left an inch or so on top, which he told Thorfinn to care for with the gel he sold him.
He liked his new haircut.
He wondered idly what Lydia would think.
Chapter 11
She saw dead people . . .
Lydia thought she was losing her mind.
Finn was gone, and she was in as much pain as she had been the first time she’d lost Dave. Which was insanity because Finn wasn’t Dave. She knew he wasn’t. So why was she running around like a chicken with its head cut off?
When she’d finished with her classes, she consulted with her manager over instruct
ors to replace her for the rest of the day. In fact, she planned to take off the rest of the week. She had plenty of backup help, so a minivacation was no big deal to arrange.
When she went out to the lobby, she found Finn gone. That didn’t surprise her. But then she’d gone outside to see if he’d walked down to the water or around the neighborhood. No one had seen him. And the first inkling of alarm set in.
Two hours had passed since the end of her classes. She stood in the parking lot leaning against her car. He was gone, she just knew he was. As quickly and amazingly as he had entered her life, Finn had disappeared. The grief staggered her with pain.
But then, through the haze of her tears, she saw something.
Ambling toward her as if he had all the time in the world was . . . Dave.
“Oh, my God!” she moaned, two hands pressed against her heart. “Oh, my God! Oh, my God! Oh, my God!” Her words were as much prayers of thanks as exclamations of shock.
His long legs were encased in jeans. He wore a Minnesota Vikings T-shirt. And his dark hair was cut in its usual high and tight. A small smile tugged at his lips as he got closer, causing the dimple to emerge.
Dimple!
Dave didn’t have a dimple.
Blinking away the tears, she saw now that it was not Dave after all, but Finn with a haircut. The disappointment was palpable. The pain was excruciating.
Running up to him, she began to pound him on the chest. “How could you? How could you?”
“What in bloody hell . . . ?” He dropped his bags to the ground and picked her up bodily by the waist, feet dangling off the ground. Being held tightly against him didn’t stop her; she pounded at his shoulders and head, sobbing the whole time. Somehow he managed to get her arms within his embrace so that now she was held tightly against him, feet still dangling. Against her ear, he was attempting to soothe her with shushing sounds and words of comfort, “Shhhh, sweetling. Do not fret. Shhhh.”
When her sobs finally subsided to sniffles, he set her feet back on the ground and practically dragged her to the car. Once inside, he turned to her, waiting for an explanation of what must seem bizarre behavior.
“I thought you were gone.”
“I did not realize how much time had passed. And you were that angry over my being late?”
She shook her head, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. “I was upset . . . worried . . . that you were gone, but when I saw you . . .” She stopped herself and glared at him. “You got a haircut,” she accused him.
“And you are angry because you do not like my haircut? ” He was incredulous, and he deserved to be.
“No! Why would you get a military haircut? Oh, never mind. It doesn’t matter. It’s just that at first . . . oh, hell, from a distance, you looked just like—”
He put a hand over her mouth, and he was the angry one now. “Do not dare say one more time that I looked like Saint Dave.”
“Dave was no saint.”
“What a wonder! The way you worship his memory I thought for a certainty that he was. And just so you know, I am beyond sick of being compared to your dead husband. ”
His surly attitude annoyed her, but first she needed to continue her explanation. “At first, I thought you were Dave, but then when I saw that you weren’t, that you had just gotten a haircut, I was devastated all over again.”
“And that is supposed to make me feel better?” He appeared to be gritting his teeth.
“I’m sorry.”
“Let us depart.” He didn’t even look at her.
As she pulled out of the parking lot and headed toward home, she said, “I need to stop at the grocery store on the way home.”
He didn’t respond.
“Be in a mood, then. See if I care.”
“Mood is a mild description of the emotions battering my already beleaguered brain. I was almost happy this morning, happier than I have been in years. I had resolved to try to fit into this country, to make a new beginning for myself.”
“Oh, I see. Your haircut was the first step toward fitting in,” Lydia concluded, though why it had to be a high and tight was beyond her. It didn’t have to be that short. But she’d better watch how much she criticized; so, all she said was, “And I cut you off at the knees for the effort. I really am sorry.”
He waved a hand dismissively. “’Tis past time I concentrated on the most important thing. Finding Miklof. When will you be going to Minnesota to get your son?”
Lydia stiffened, but managed to curb her first instinct denying him access. “On the twenty-seventh. As I told you before, there’s going to be a ceremony the next day honoring . . .” She stopped midsentence. Any mention of Dave could set him off again.
He was deep in thought before he added, “I will go with you.”
“No! Oh, no, no, no! That would not be a good idea.”
“You cannot keep me away from the child forever.”
“I know that, but I need time.”
“Time will alter nothing. Either your son is Miklof or he is not.”
“And what if he’s not? What will you do then?”
“I will do as I have always done. Nay, that is not true. I had already decided back in Baghdad to give up my search. If your Mike is not Miklof, I will give up my search and get on with my life, such as it will be.”
She wanted to ask where she would be in his life, in that case, but feared what he would say in his present mood. “And if you decide they’re the same, then what?”
“I will not be separated from Miklof again. Beyond that, I am not sure.”
“Can’t you wait ’til I bring Mike back here?”
He shook his head. “I have waited five years. That is enough.”
She pulled into the parking lot of Albertsons, shut off the ignition, and looked at him. Maybe she could turn this rotten-egg day into a yummy quiche. “I like your haircut.”
“Pfff! Too little, too late, m’lady.”
She hoped not.
A land of plenty, and plenty, and plenty . . .
Thorfinn had been in a food mart before with Hilda when Torolf had been off doing SEAL work, but she had rushed him through the aisles, telling him he “dawdled” too much. Hah! The more she had nagged, the more he had dawdled, but in the process of attempting to annoy the wench he had had no opportunity to really study the place.
Now he was taking his time, and it was a paradise. For this alone he could stay in the future.
In the produce department, he touched with reverence the various fruits, some of which he had never heard of before, smelled their delicious scents, and marveled at the colors. Apples, lemons, limes, oranges, bananas, peaches, pears, plums, apricots, watermelons, cantaloupes, blueberries, blackberries, raspberries. He put some of each in the cart, even though Lydia kept chastising him that it was too much. Finally, he went back to the entrance, got his own cart, and told her, “Begone!”
Lydia did as he ordered but kept coming back to check on him, rolling her eyes. He was still angry with her for her continual Dave-comparisons. So, mostly, he ignored her.
He was not ignored, though. Not by Lydia, and not by the women who eyed him, or even came up, offering to help. He knew what they were really offering and rebuffed them by saying, “I thank you for your offer, but my woman gives me all the help I need.”
Lydia overheard and hissed at him, “I am not your woman.”
“How do you know I was talking about you?”
“Oh,” she said, going off again, red-faced this time.
She followed him for awhile, and he noted dozens of different kinds of bread. Loaves. Sliced. Rolls of various shapes. White bread, rye, pumpernickel—whatever that was! Bread with raisins, dates, nuts, seeds, and bananas— a fruit new to him, for a certainty, and didn’t it have a suggestive shape! “In my land, women wake before dawn to begin making the unleavened manchet bread for the day. First, they grind the wheat with a mortar and pestle, mix the dough, then bake the circles of bread, leaving a hole in the cente
r so the loaves can be stored on a short pole in the scullery, rather like pizza. A daily, arduous process. But here, for the love of Frigg, women have only to walk in and purchase their supply. What an easy life women have!”
“Hah! Next, you’ll be talking about how you had to walk five miles in the snow to get to school, after chopping wood and milking the cows.”
Thorfinn’s head jerked to the side. He had not realized he’d spoken aloud, but, really, this woman could be irksome, except for those times when she was . . . well, not irksome. Usually, that was when nakedness was involved. Or kissing. He had developed a new appreciation for kissing. Who knew there were so many kinds? But, really, he was a man of great pride, and she had no cause to make mock of his ignorance. “Nay, I am practically a high jarl, and that is servants’ work. As for school, we have none. The monk scholar came to tutor me and my brothers, whilst my sisters learned a woman’s role in running a large household.”
Her jaw dropped, as it often did when he talked of his land. He got some small satisfaction in that. “Wowoman’s role?” she sputtered.
“Yea, that is what I said, and do not think to call me a male pig, either.”
“Male pig?”
“Must you repeat everything I say?”
“Male pig? I don’t understand. Do you mean a boar?”
“Nay, I do not mean boar. I mean what I say. Male pig. That is what Madrene and Hilda call me betimes . . . well, truth to tell, all the time.”
She thought a moment, then laughed. “You mean male chauvinist pig?”
“Ah, her thick head thins,” he mused into the air above his head.
She made a low growling sound.
Tossing two loaves in his cart, rye and date nut, he left her behind and went to the meat section, which was next to the milk and egg section. Dozens of cuts of beef, pork, and chicken, not to mention fish of numerous species, were displayed in windowed cases, or wrapped in a clear film so they could be seen. And none of it was rancid. He pondered this bounty of offerings. Then, puzzled, he went through the door behind the display cases.