“If it happened once,” she said, “that means it can happen again, don’t you think? Maybe that’s what Micah and Peter were getting at. We just have to wait until we’re fully accepted here.”
They had almost reached the Hotel, where people were milling about. On the porch, a man was strumming a guitar with only two strings; Cal had learned his name yesterday but had already forgotten it.
“Frida,” Cal whispered. “Be careful.”
“Of what? Smolin, with his ballads?” She nodded at the man with the guitar.
Cal couldn’t believe Frida was being so blind, but he didn’t want to worry her or crush her hope. It was probably keeping her spirits up. He couldn’t say what he wanted to say, which was that she might be wrong. Even if Anika was telling the truth, it didn’t necessarily bode well for him and Frida. Sandy Miller might have had Jane on the Land, but Jane wasn’t raised here. And what about Garrett? The Millers had left this place: that was the point. Now Cal and Frida needed to find out whether they had done so by choice.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” he said.
“Yes, sir,” she said. After a moment she added, “Are you really joining Micah in the mornings now?”
“How does everyone know? This is why we can’t tell anyone you’re pregnant.”
“It’s true, then?”
He nodded. “I’ll be on the inside, Frida.”
“Try to hide your boner.”
He ignored her. “I’ll find out what happened to the Millers.”
“Sure you will,” she said, and raised an eyebrow.
They were almost to the porch, and Frida was waving at one person and then another, like a beauty queen on a parade float.
“You must be happy about the Plank contingent,” she said.
“It kind of weirds me out, actually. What did they think they were coming out here to do?”
15
The cold weather had snuck up on her. Frost lay on the field every morning, and one night, hard rain pinged off the Hotel roof. The next day, the construction team had nailed boards across all the glassless windows on the Land. Now the Hotel was dank and fortresslike, Frida and Cal’s room simultaneously stuffy and cozy, especially when they were falling asleep. “At least it’s not freezing in here,” Cal said.
Frida preferred the Hotel kitchen to anywhere else. Not only was it the warmest place on the Land, but she could also still look out the windows and watch the sky turn lighter and lighter as she worked. Once the sun rose, they had to stop baking and start Morning Labor, but she didn’t mind. She was just happy to be able to walk down the Hotel stairs in the morning before anyone else did, pondering the tasks ahead and wondering if what she made would taste as good as what she’d served the day before. She had a reputation to uphold. After the first morning with the clafoutis, Anika had given in and allowed her to bake bread.
“I guess we need something to soak up all the soup,” Frida had joked.
Anika didn’t laugh. “We need bread for sustenance. Desserts are frivolous, but they help every once in a while to keep up morale.”
Anika always had the oven lit by the time Frida met her in the kitchen. She’d be standing by it for warmth, and when Frida entered the room, Anika would lift one hand in greeting before bringing it back to the flames. More than once Frida had expected to see Anika plunge her whole arm into the oven with barely a wince; she seemed indomitable like that. Or just crazy.
Anika could be a little scary, but beneath her swagger was a softness. The more time Frida spent with her, the more it seemed that Anika longed to reveal this side of herself, exchanging history for history, secret for secret. She wanted to share things like old friends did, or maybe like a mother would, carrying her newborn through the house, naming all the objects around them. The lesson being: This is how the world works. This is how we make order.
It didn’t take long for Frida to understand that Anika was a fine baker, probably a great one, and that she didn’t need any help from Frida. Anika kept inviting Frida back to the kitchen, not for assistance, but because she wanted her there. She was after information, and Frida had it. For the first time, Frida was valuable.
They started out small. Anika asked, “What was it that Sandy named her second child again?” and Frida said, “Garrett.”
“A boy.” Anika paused. “How old?”
“He’s four. Was. He was four when he died.”
Anika nodded.
She waited for Anika to ask another question, and when Anika didn’t, she realized it was her turn to ask something. It was that easy.
“How old was Jane when they left?”
“We’d celebrated her third birthday a few months before. I made her a belt I sewed from an old dress. It was purple, and adjustable because she was growing so quickly.” She smiled. “Everyone gave her presents, and we sang all the songs she loved.”
Frida didn’t respond immediately, and when Anika looked away, Frida felt the delicate connection between them tremble, threaten to snap. Frida realized she should have pretended to have seen Jane wearing the belt, but now it was too late to lie; Anika wouldn’t fall for it.