but even though these houses have been moved, they’re from the area around here and more or less in their natural setting.”
“I’ll try,” Pix said, “but I want to talk to some more people and, if possible, squeeze in a sauna.”
“All right. I’m going to lie down for a while; then I’ll write postcards in the lobby and see if I can make some friends, too.”
Pix had no doubt the gregarious traveler Ursula, aka Mother, would.
She wished people wore name tags, much as she would hate to sport a “Hello, I’m Pix” badge herself. She wanted to search out Helene Feld and hear about the quarrel she’d witnessed on the train between Kari and Erik. Reminding herself that if you don’t ask, you don’t get, she went up to Carl. If the Petersons weren’t on his bus, or maybe even if they were, she thought they should switch to it tomorrow and compare the two guides. The guides, after all, had been on the tour since Copenhagen, too.
“I wonder if you would mind pointing out the Felds to me. I have a friend who lives in the same town and I wonder if they know her.” The Felds were from Mount Vernon, New York, and Pix did know someone from there— but she’d moved years ago. Still…
Carl seemed delighted to have something to do for her. He really was terribly attractive. She wondered how many broken hearts there were at the end of each Scandie Sights tour.
He looked around. “The Felds must already have gone to their rooms, but I will point them out to you at dinner
and let them know you’d like to meet them. Perhaps you can sit together. They are quite friendly.”
Pix had the feeling he was talking about approachable pets. “That would be lovely. Thank you.”
The lobby was empty, but the gift shop was full. Pix decided it was not conducive to an exchange of intimacies. Hard to fit in a pointed question when someone was intent on a hand-knit sweater. The sauna would give her a chance to collect her thoughts.
Demurely wrapped in a towel, Pix sat in the sauna and sweated. There were several other occupants, all men, none of whom she recognized from the tour. Every once in a while, someone would leave to take a cold shower, reenter, and throw some more water from the wooden bucket on the hot rocks, creating a sudden hiss of steam. Pix was doing the same. The fragrance of the hot wood and the intense heat was soporific. She found herself battling sleep. It was so relaxing. So very, very relaxing.
Someone shook her. “It’s not a good idea to fall asleep in here. You shouldn’t stay in too long, especially if you haven’t taken one in a while.” It was Lynette Peterson, and Pix couldn’t help but think how much more flattering the towel was on the young bride than on her own middle-aged body.
“Thank you. I’m only going to stay in a little longer. My name is Pix Miller. My mother and I are on the Scandie tour, too. I met your mother-in-law this morning at the hotel.” Pix felt obliged to explain how she had recognized the woman. Lynette was not surprised.
“Oh, I know all about you. Carol told us. You’re from Boston.”
“Actually, about twenty minutes outside the city.”
A slightly wicked smile appeared. “Carol thinks it’s Boston. She likes to know things. That’s the main activity of my mother-in-law’s life—besides organizing things. I’ll let her know she’s wrong.”
Pix didn’t envy Roy junior. The Battle of the Titans was getting under way and it would go on for his entire
married life, until his mother died or his wife walked out, both acts certain to be interpreted as victory by the other side.
“Are you enjoying the trip?” Pix thought it was worth a try to question Mrs. Roy Peterson, Jr. She might have picked up on something between Kari and Erik that the others had missed. Lynette took her time responding to the opening.
Pix had teenagers. Lynette’s face had “Give me a break” written all over it.
“Look, Mrs. Miller”—Pix instantly felt ten years older—“is fish for every meal, a million museums, and your in- laws along your idea of what a honeymoon should be?” She answered her own question. “Of course it isn’t. We should be in Bermuda, but we’re not, because Carol decides this is her golden opportunity to show Roy the land of his people. It was his great-grandparents who came from here! He never even knew them! And it’s not as if we live in…well, Boston. Duluth is about as close as you can get to Norway without hopping on a plane. But I agreed. There’s something Carol doesn’t know, and when she does, she’ll be ripping. As I said, Carol likes to know things. Nosiest woman I ever met. She was even asking Roy whether he’d moved his bowels every morning until the third time, I said he’d let her know if he didn’t and let’s drop the subject. She didn’t like that, not one little bit. And she’s not going to like what’s coming, either.”
Pix was finding the daughter-in-law as loquacious as the mother-in-law, more even. Although the tone was the same. Who said men don’t marry their mothers? Pix quickly focused on Sam’s mother, a charming lady who’d died several years ago, much mourned by everyone.
“I’m sorry things aren’t going well. This should be a very happy time for you.” It was all she could think of to say, and she stood up as she said it, ready to leave while some remnants of the lack of tension the sauna had induced remained.
“Oh, I’m happy, very happy.” She spoke through slightly clenched teeth. Her towel had slipped. From the appearance of her firm young breasts, Roy junior was probably happy, too, at least in bed. Lynette tugged at the towel, then, irritated, took it off, either oblivious or indifferent to the sauna’s other occupants. Pix closed the door behind her and headed for the showers. What surprise did Lynette have for her mother-in-law? Suddenly, it didn’t seem like a fair fight at all.
Ursula was sitting by the wall of glass at the end of the hotel lobby, a wall that served to magnify the view. The mountains appeared to be a few steps away, especially the tallest, its rocky summit high above the timberline. The peak had a slight purple cast to it. Pix walked toward her mother. The mountains were in fact close, the hotel surrounded by them, and only a large well-kept flat green lawn separated the front of the hotel from the precipitous drop to the valley far below.
Ursula had made friends, two slightly grizzled-looking older men, faces reddened from working outdoors, and something else perhaps. Mother was drinking coffee. Her new friends were sticking to beer.
“Oh, there’s my daughter now.” Ursula waved Pix over. “This is Mr. Knudsen and that’s Mr. Arnulfson. My daughter, Pix Miller.” The men stood and shook hands. “We were just talking about how we all came to be on the tour. Mr. Knudsen and Mr. Arnulfson are from North Dakota. Such a long way from home!”
Mother was sounding perky, even slightly coquettish. It was working.
“You must call me Ole—everyone does—and he’s Henry. Anyway, as I was saying, the whole thing was that fool Svenson’s fault.”
Henry nodded solemnly and drained half his glass.
“My sister read about a tour of Norwegian farms in the Sons of Norway newsletter and thought the lodge might want to go. ‘See how they’re doing things over there,’ she said. ‘Be a good chance and very cheap.’ So at the next meeting, we counted heads and decided to do it.”
This explained the large number of males from Fargo on the list—Norwegian bachelor farmers. Pix had seen them sticking together like glue and assumed they were some sort of group. Sons of Norway, of course.
“But I don’t think this tour has many farms. Just one, on the fjord after we reach Balestrand,” Ursula commented.
Henry nodded slowly and finished his beer.
“That fool Svenson”—the three words had become his full name—“wrote down the wrong tour number on the form when he sent in our deposits. He’s our treasurer, or was, and when we found out the money was nonrefundable, we decided to go. No sense in wasting it. They make a big-enough profit. So we came.”
Henry joined the conversation briefly. “We never should have put that fool Svenson in charge, his mother being Swedish and all. Anyone want another drink?”
No one did and the farmers ambled along. As soon as they were out of sight, Pix began to laugh until she thought she’d cry.
“I think we can eliminate them from whatever it is we’re listing,” she said.
“Yes, they seem to travel in a pack, poor things. You notice they’re always first on the bus, by the door, or in the dining room. They must be terrified of getting lost or left behind.”
“Have you made any other friends?”
