Heritage of Darkness (2 page)

Ethan Hendricks—Chloe’s college friend

Nika Austin—intern, Old World Wisconsin

Ralph Petty—director, Old World Wisconsin

Sigrid Sorensen—Marit’s best friend, member of The Sixty-Seven

Club

Violet Sorensen—Sigrid’s daughter

Bill Sorensen—(deceased) Sigrid’s husband

Emil Bergsbakken—chip carving instructor

Oscar Bergsbakken—(deceased) Emil’s brother

Lavinia Carmichael—chip carving student

Gwen—rosemaling student

Petra Lekstrom—member of The Sixty-Seven Club

Adelle Rimestad—member of the Sixty-Seven Club, expert wood

carver

Tom Rimestad—Adelle’s husband

Howard Hoff—director, Vesterheim Norwegian-American

Museum

Phyllis Hoff—(deceased) member of the Sixty-Seven Club

x

Edwina Ree—retired archivist, expert in Norwegian Christmas

traditions

Bestemor Sabo—cookie baker extraordinaire

Peggy Nelson—member of the Sixty-Seven Club

Linda Skatrud—member of the Sixty-Seven Club

Sigmund Aarseth—a beloved rosemaling instructor; the only real

person depicted in the novel

xi

Map to come

xii

one

Although she tried to hide it from Mom and Roelke, Chloe

Ellefson’s emotional distress inflated with each passing mile. Distress descended into panic by the time they left Wisconsin. She exercised driver’s prerogative and pulled into the first Iowa gas

station she saw. “Pit stop,” she announced.

“I need to powder my nose,” Mom said. “Roelke, would you fill

the tank?”

He already had the car door open. “I’d be glad to.”

Chloe got out and leaned against the Buick, hunching turtle-

like into her coat. The December wind whipping off the Missis-

sippi River was wicked.

Roelke set the pump and began washing the windshield. “You

OK?”

“I’m having second thoughts,” Chloe admitted. “This little

adventure in family bonding was ill-conceived.”

“This little adventure was your idea,” he reminded her.

1

“Do you think it’s too late to bail? Maybe Mom could take a

cab the rest of the way to Decorah.”

“Since we’re driving your mother’s car, that doesn’t seem quite

fair.” Roelke returned the squeegee to its tank. “Stop stressing.

Everything will be fine.”

“Easy for you to say.” Chloe had officially been dating Roelke

McKenna for three months, but he had yet to spend any real time

with her mother. “You have no idea what you’ve gotten into.”

“It’s going to be a fun week.”

Even at her most optimistic, the notion of “fun” had not

crossed Chloe’s mind.

Roelke put his hands on her shoulders. His cheeks were red

from the cold, which was a good look for him. He was younger

than she was, and had that cop-persona going for him too: dark

hair clipped short, broad shoulders, intense gaze.

That gaze was now focused on Chloe. “Hey. You said you

wanted to spend time with your mom on
her
terms. Get to know her better.”

“I do, truly.” Chloe sighed. She and her mother had drifted

along in a superficial
Everything’s fine
mode for years. Then, after a solitary visit to a largely-deserted island back in September, Chloe had vowed to strengthen her family ties.

While visiting her parents, she’d spotted a flyer from Vester-

heim Norwegian-American Museum, announcing simultaneous

Beginning Telemark and Advanced Hallingdal Rosemaling classes.

“Hey, Mom,” Chloe had said. “How about we sign up for these?

Beginning for me, Advanced for you.” Chloe fully expected the

beginners’ workshop to end with public humiliation … but for one

brief shining moment, it had seemed like a good idea.

2

She had also fully expected enthusiasm from Mom. Instead,

Mom’s eyebrows had arched high. “You want to take a
rosemaling
class? You’ve never wanted anything to do with my little hobby.”

Chloe already regretted her impulse. “Well, I thought it would

be nice to try it now.”

“I suppose we can do that,” Mom had conceded skeptically. “If

you’re sure.”

Now Chloe said, “It’s the Vesterheim part that’s going to bite

me in the butt.” Chloe watched an old pickup truck rattle by.

“There’s no way I can live up to the expectations of Marit ‘All-

Things-Norske’ Kallerud this week.”

Roelke cocked his head. “Why do you say that?”

“My mother has a Gold Medal in rosemaling,” Chloe reminded

him. “She wanted me to paint when I was in high school. I didn’t,

and she’s never forgiven me for it.”

“That was a long time ago. I wish …” His voice trailed away,

and he shrugged.

Roelke’s parents were dead, so Chloe could easily imagine what

he wished. She felt guilty for complaining. A little.

Mom strolled back across the lot. “Roelke, would you drive the

rest of the way to Decorah?”

“Glad to,” he said again. Chloe crawled into the back seat. Once

they were entombed in the car again, Roelke headed west.

“I can hardly believe it,” Mom said. “But here we are, heading

off to Decorah!”

“Yes!” Chloe said brightly.

“I’ve always wanted to share the Vesterheim experience with

Chloe,” Mom told Roelke, “but she’s never shown any interest.”

3

“Actually, I have been to Vesterheim before,” Chloe reminded

her mother. “Several times.”

Mom leaned closer to Roelke and confided, “The last time

Chloe came was when I earned my Gold Medal. Nineteen seventy-

two. A
decade
ago.”

Chloe looked out the window. “I spent a decade away from the

Midwest, remember? Including five years in Europe? That made it

a tad challenging to pop over to Iowa.”

Mom ignored her. “Roelke, I’m delighted you wanted to join

us. December is a perfect time to visit the museum.”

Am I speaking Swiss? Chloe wondered. Perhaps she’d lapsed,

and everyone was too polite to mention it.

“After our week of classes,” Mom continued, “we’ll enjoy the

Norwegian Christmas Weekend. She sighed happily. “It’s my favor-

ite special event.”

“I love Christmas,” Roelke assured her.

Chloe was pretty sure that Roelke, who might euphemistically

be described as “tightly-wound,” hadn’t used the words “love” and

“Christmas” in the same sentence since he was seven.

“I’m looking forward to my carving class.” Roelke sounded

genuinely pleased. “I like to whittle, but I’m pretty much self-

taught.”

“This week will be an epiphany for you,” Mom promised. “The

Norwegians have
such
a strong woodworking tradition. My favorite pieces are the wooden mangles once used to press linens. Tradi-tionally, a man carved a special mangle for the woman he hoped to

marry, and left the mangle on her doorstep. If she took it inside, it meant she accepted his proposal. Once a woman had declined a

proposal gift, it couldn’t be offered to anyone else. Mothers used to 4

tell their daughters to ‘Beware the man with many mangles.’” She

laughed. “My husband used to tease that he had hedged his bets by

carving several at once, but I know the one he made to propose to

me was his one and only.”

Chloe winced. She tried sending Mom a mental message:

Please nix the talk of betrothal gifts.

“Men also carved love spoons,” Mom continued. “For their

special girl.”

Chloe used one foot to nudge the seat in front of her. She and

Roelke had been getting along pretty well, but they hadn’t yet

been … intimate. She tried harder on the mental message thing:

Please,
please
quit the matrimony talk.

“And if the couple married, the groom carved
two
spoons

linked by a chain.” Mom clasped her hands together joyfully.

Chloe clenched her teeth. Perhaps she should just say
Mom,

Roelke and I haven’t even had sex yet, so give it up
!

“Will I be able to see any of those wedding spoons in the

museum?” Roelke asked.

“Vesterheim’s collection is incredible,” Mom promised him.

“I’m sure you’ll be inspired.”

“Mom!”

“I’m sure I will, Ms. Kallerud,” Roelke said earnestly.

“Please, Roelke dear. Call me Marit.”

Chloe unclicked her seatbelt and curled up on the back seat. If

Mom starts prattling about baby cradles, she thought, I will leap

out the window.

5

two:

december, 1947

Marit Kallerud’s feet slowed as she approached the train sta-

tion, a beautiful old structure with swooping rooflines now graced with evergreen garlands. It was always hard to leave Decorah. She’d attended Luther College here, and she’d started volunteering at the Norwegian-American Museum as a freshman. Some of her dearest

friends still lived in town. She felt at home here in a way that was hard to define.

Not that Stoughton isn’t a good place, she reminded herself.

Her home town had its own Norwegian identity. She’d been raised

hearing elders—people who’d never left Wisconsin—speaking

English with a distinct Norwegian accent. Her family’s table grace was spoken in that language. She helped at the Lutheran Church’s

annual
lutefisk
supper and baked sweets for the Women’s Society to sell during Syttende Mai—Norway’s Constitution Day celebration.

6

Still, she’d known since the first time she’d stepped from a

train, right here, that Decorah would become her second home.

My
vesterheim
, she thought. The early immigrants had referred to America’s Midwest that way: my western home.

Well, she’d had a lovely visit, but it was time to go. Marit

walked resolutely into the station.

She waited in line at the ticket counter behind a young couple

snuggled arm-in-arm. “My parents are going to love you as much

as I do,” the young man murmured. His sweetheart giggled.

Marit studied her shoes. One by one, almost all of her college

friends had paired up, gotten married, settled down. Marit had

always just assumed that someone would come along for her, too.

But it hadn’t happened yet.

I have had offers, she reminded herself. She
could
have been married, if that was her only goal. But she didn’t want to settle.

When the right man came along, she’d know.

Ticket in hand, she picked up her suitcase and headed outside.

Well-bundled Luther students crowded the platform. The air rang

with shouts: “Merry Christmas!” “Happy holidays!” “Joyful new

year!”

The only one who hasn’t found the holiday spirit, Marit

thought wistfully, is me.

She edged through the crowd, hoping to be among the first to

board so she could choose her seat. When a shrill whistle split the air she leaned forward, looking toward the train as it chugged into view. The eager travelers behind her swayed in anticipation, and

the sunlight sparkling on nearby snow banks was dazzling. Marit

felt a moment of vertigo as someone jostled past—

7

Then she knew a moment of raw terror as she fell toward the

train tracks.

Someone grabbed her arm with a steel grip and jerked her back

to safety. “Whoa, there,” a man said.

“
Thank
you,” Marit gasped. She pressed one hand over her

chest, trying to slow her pounding heart. Then she looked up, and

her heart began to pound all over again. Her white knight looked a little like Cary Grant and a little like a fresh-faced farm boy who’d just stepped from his tractor.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said breathlessly. “Thanks to you.”

The train slowed to a stop at the platform, and the crowd

surged again. The man kept his hand on her arm. “I’m glad I man-

aged to catch you,” he said. “I’m Frank Ellefson.”

“Marit Kallerud.”

She allowed him to take her suitcase. On the train, it seemed

the most natural thing in the world to settle into a pair of adjoining seats. “What’s your final destination?” Marit asked.

“Stoughton, Wisconsin,” Frank said. “My hometown.”

Marit stared at him with surprise. “Mine too! How is it we

haven’t met?”

“My parents have a farm outside of town, and I suspect I was

in and out of high school before you. Then I was in the service for a while. I’m back at my folks’ place now, although I don’t think I want to farm. I’ve been visiting a friend in Decorah. How about

you?”

They chatted about this and that as the train rattled through

the frozen Iowa countryside. Frost glazed the window with lace,

8

but Marit scarcely noticed. She
knew
. Somehow, she just knew that Frank Ellefson was the one for her.

And I found him in Decorah, she thought. That made every-

thing perfect.

9

three

Darkness was falling by the time Roelke drove into Decorah.

Snow too, and Eastern Iowa’s rolling hills were already blanketed

with a good six inches. Chloe watched the big flakes caught in the headlights. It’s a winter wonderland, she thought, and allowed herself a sliver of hope. Maybe it really would be a good week.

Mom consulted her watch. “The reception for teachers and

students has already started. Let’s go straight to the museum.” She directed Roelke to Water Street in downtown Decorah. “See the

old train station? That’s where I met Chloe’s father. And there’s the old Winneshiek Hotel. Perhaps you two can have dinner there one