Edvard noticed her serious look and he realized where her mind was. He whispered her name, and after a couple of attempts, she reacted and looked up.

"Where are you?" he asked.

"Here," she said simply.

She got up from the table. Edvard did the same and together they left the increasingly noisy group. Lindell felt that she had to guard her tongue. The shots and the beer had affected her more than she had realized while she was still sitting at the table.

They walked quietly, side by side, down to the sea. Edvard turned his gaze to the west. A mighty rainbow rose up from the horizon, but the sun was still shining over the island. They halted. Lindell wanted to touch him but hesitated. Edvard was the one who continued the walk. He did not choose the usual path. Instead they ended up walking through high gra.s.ses and herbs and arrived at the old boathouse.

"How have things been for you?" she asked.

"Good."

Touch me, she thought.

"How about the knee?"

"It's better."

He continued along the sh.o.r.eline and came to the new dock.

"We built this one last winter," he said. "Me, Victor, and the boys."

Ann nodded.

"It's nice," she said and gazed at the ma.s.sive construction, which by its enormous weight and new lumber stood in stark contrast to the old boathouse and the graying logs of the old dock.

Edvard took a few steps out, testing its stability with bouncing steps.

"This will last a long time," he said and turned to Ann.

"The boys helped you?"

He nodded.

"They slaved over those stones and boulders every day of their spring break. This stone coffin construction-that's the technical term for it-is the largest on the whole island, according to Victor. They really worked hard."

"Stone coffin-is that really what it's called?"

"Uh-huh."

"It's a little creepy," Lindell said.

"Victor spent two weeks on the couch after we were done. He was completely finished."

Edvard looked out over the water. Stood silently.

"What did the boys say? Did they think it was fun?"

"Yes, they liked it. It's the best thing that's happened since I got divorced."

What about me, Lindell thought, but she understood what he meant.

"Maybe it's genetic. I loved stone masonry, my dad was the same, and now the boys."

He talked more about the stone boulders, how they had gathered them and thought of various solutions in order to get them where they needed to be. Some had weighed hundreds of kilos. The tractor and an old winch had been needed in order to coax the boulders into place, but they had also had to strain with their hands and sticks.

As Edvard talked, it struck her that it was the dock that had been the destination for their walk. This was what he had wanted to show her.

She realized that the four of them had built a monument. Victor had approached it from his particular perspective. This was likely the last dock construction he would be involved with. He had overworked his old body and had had to rest for fourteen days. For Edvard, with his love of stone and physical labor, it was his first construction of a stone coffin, a task to his taste. Few projects were as archaic as this. And the boys could finally be united with their father in a shared undertaking. She could imagine their enthusiasm, their pride.

A monument resting in the bay, equipped with seven-inch-wide pressure-treated planks, protecting the boats. A place to anchor that could withstand a nor'easter, the power of the ice and waves.

Edvard kept talking. He showed her the plaque with their names.

"And it turned out to be a fine dock," he said as a concluding statement. Then he looked at her.

Lindell agreed. When the story of the dock was finished, it didn't look like Edvard knew what else to talk about.

Lindell sat at the very end and let her legs dangle.

"I left," she said suddenly. "I loved you, but I left anyway. It was too much."

She sensed Edvard's anxiety but went on. It had to be said, six months worth of dammed-up thoughts.

"It got to be too heavy. Partly the job and partly you. We just didn't laugh enough. Do you know what I mean?"

She wasn't sure how to go on. She wanted to do it right, not to hurt his feelings or say things that would shut him down. She wanted to get him to talk about himself, about her, in the same way that he had talked about the dock.

"You gave me so much. I was richer with you, saw things in a different light. I know you don't want to move away from Graso. That was what I wanted last Christmas: that you would bet on me, move in closer to town, meet your boys, start to live."

"I love you," he interrupted.

It was as if the dock swayed from an imperceptible wind. He sat down by her side and put his arm around her shoulders. It was a weight she had been longing for. He repeated what he had said. They sat completely still, staring out over the water.

"I've thought about moving," he said, "but it doesn't feel fair to Viola. But I know it. I know I have to move closer to you and the boys."

Go on, Lindell thought, keep talking. She leaned her head against his shoulder.

"I want to try with you," he said softly. "Maybe we can pull it off."

Pull it off. She smiled to herself.

The sun had set behind the alder trees when they got up from the dock. They strolled hand in hand like a pair of newlyweds. Not much had been said, and they walked quietly back to the house. We have to learn to talk again, Lindell thought. This time I won't let go. I will force him to let go, to talk, to express himself, to give his opinion on how life should be lived.

"I'm not letting you go," she said when they arrived at the woodshed.

The old people had gone inside. The bank of clouds from the mainland had come a little closer, but the air was still warm. Dusk enveloped the house and its surrounding area in an expectant silence. It was completely still. The calmness of the nature around them, the light clouds to the south that slowly sailed into one another in the sky, swiping a neighbor here and being pushed together there, spoke of a clear evening and night. The birds in the trees were celebrating the twilight. They weren't moving as quickly anymore. They were flying in lazy arcs between the old rowan and the juniper bushes in the pasture. Edvard had a notion that they might be visiting one another, that the worst of the spring and early summer frenzy was over. The territories had been meted out and defined, the eggs were under way, and now there was time for a little relaxation, a little chirping in the bushes.

They did not go directly into the main house. Instead they took the stairs up to Edvard's room. Ann peeked in the room next to Edvard's bedroom and saw that he had made up the bed.

"Did you think we would have separate bedrooms?"

"You can never be too sure of these things," he said. "The fact is, that little bedroom is always made up these days. Fredrik comes out sometimes and then the boys. It's become a bit of a hostel."

She snuggled close to him. She wanted to feel his chest against hers.

"Should we go down?" he said and gently loosened himself from her grip.

Their need for closeness and-at the same time-their shyness with each other meant that they simply ended up standing there with silly smiles on their lips. Lindell wanted so badly for him to squeeze her long and hard, but he only smiled tentatively.

The rest of Midsummer's Eve they spent in Viola's parlor. The cousins were starting to calm down, but Victor and Gerd were still in high gear and playing cards. The television was on, displaying images from Dalarna: the raising of a Midsummer pole, a choir singing, and a tug-of-war. Lindell looked around and for a moment imagined that they were in a nursing home.

Edvard told Victor that the dock received approval from the police, at which the old man laughed heartily.

Viola bustled around the kitchen, making the coffee. Lindell went out to her and stayed there. Edvard sat down in the sofa. He could hear the two women talking and the dishes clattering.

When the shadow of the rowan reached the roof of the chicken coop, the old people gathered themselves together and left in the tractor. Lindell, Edvard, and Viola stood in the yard and watched it disappear around the bend by the plum orchard.

"The air is a bit raw," Viola said and shivered. "But at least there won't be any rain."

She kept talking, chilly but unwilling to turn in. Lindell wanted to ask Viola what she thought about the fact that she had returned, but realized that she couldn't. For a moment she was struck by uncertainty. Was this really the way things were supposed to be? Should she and Edvard go up the flight of stairs and become reunited? Her choice was so close at hand. Longing mingled with worries for the future. The stairs up to Edvard's room const.i.tuted a path that felt decisive. She wanted in some way to have Viola's blessing, as if the old woman with her gruff wisdom could pa.s.s final judgment and say: Of course, this is right. You're going to pull it off. Or perhaps: Go home to Uppsala, Ann, Edvard isn't right for you. I know, I'm a woman and live with him.

Say something one way or the other, Lindell thought, and in the old woman's talk of the weather, she tried to discern something else.

As if Viola could sense Lindell's inner struggles, she suggested that they have a final snack before turning in. Lindell knew that she had trouble falling asleep and liked having company as long as possible, but Edvard said he was more than full.

"In that case," Viola said, "we should get ready for bed and dream sweet dreams."

The day after started with nausea. Lindell woke early. Edvard was still sleeping heavily when she got up, pulled on her clothes, and went outside.

It was a heavenly morning. The birds greeted her with a song she had not heard for a long time. She had hardly gotten through the door before she gagged and got an aftertaste of herring. Suddenly the morning was no longer as appealing. She felt terrible and quickly made her way around the corner of the house. Just beyond the corner, by the large rain barrel, she vomited. Brutally, violently, and abruptly. She broke out in a cold sweat and hardly had time to think before the next attack came on. She leaned forward and stared repulsed at the ground.

She moved her hand along the barrel and dipped her fingers into the water. The nausea still came in waves. She spit and felt completely confused. Yes, she had drunk alcohol, but only in small amounts. It must be Victor's home brew, she thought, and felt panicky. She had heard about bad liquor and witnessed the consequences.

For a couple of minutes she stood completely still, splashing the water, dabbing her face, and rinsing her mouth. Hopefully Viola hadn't seen her. The old woman's window faced this way but her blinds were still down.

After a while, when she felt better, she straightened back up. She shivered and cursed herself, or rather her body, for ruining this beautiful morning. The birds paid no attention to her troubles, the wind continued its soft humming in the alder thickets down toward the sea, and-despite the early hour-the sun was warm. But still she shivered uncontrollably.

She wanted to walk down to the sh.o.r.e but hesitated. If she went in to get a sweater, Edvard would likely wake up. Then she remembered that Viola had an entire collection of coats and sweaters in the hall. She walked carefully across the gravel yard, opened the creaking door, and picked out a red sweater, which she wrapped around herself.

The sea was almost completely calm. A slender band of mist hovered like smoke along the inside of the bay. She felt better and smiled. The peacefulness of the water and the pastoral idyll of this early morning caused her to swallow, deeply moved. So beautiful, so breathtakingly beautiful. Nature smiled at her and seemed to say: I envelop you in my finest clothing, my beloved.

Lindell wasn't religious but felt an intoxicating sense of wonder. Her shivering was replaced by a warmth rising up through her body. This was what Edvard had seen, she thought. The faint scent of thyme and a tidy little stand of goldmoss sedum emerging from a crack in the rock brought her to her knees. A light spray of water rinsed the bun-shaped rocks on the beach. A tendril of water snaked up toward her foot but then retreated languidly. She stretched out on the rock and let the sun warm her face.

She could hear noisy sea gulls carrying on in the distance. She knew that they would soon appear, perhaps attracted by her presence. She lay completely still, her eyes closed. One of her hands caressed the rough goldmoss. She mentally examined her recent interactions with Edvard. He had been shy, hadn't said much. She had expected-perhaps because he had talked so pa.s.sionately about the boys and the construction of the dock-that he would be more talkative and tell her about his hopes and plans for the future, but he had only gazed at her with loving eyes. That night they had made love as before, intensely and furiously.

She loved his hands, his chest, and the tender words he whispered when he was excited. Afterward they had finally talked. He did want to try again. He had longed for her but had tried to build his own life. I thought I was a loner, he said. Someone who can no longer handle close contact with another, with a woman. He paused, but Lindell had urged him on. He told her that the renewed contact with his boys had weakened these convictions. He wanted to live with her. The boys had awakened his desire to share his life with someone, and Ann was that someone.

"There is no one else," he had told her. "I knew that two years ago. That's why I called."

"I'm glad that you did," Lindell had murmured, moved by his declaration.

As she lay on the rock, surrounded by the most seductive scents of Graso Island, her resolve grew even stronger. The intoxicating lovemaking could be an illusion, but she knew now that it was Edvard and no one else. They would pull it off. Maybe she could move out to the island. Violent Crimes was her life, but there had to be other work opportunities that would bring her closer. Any job on the outskirts of Uppland would be a step down, she knew that. It would curtail her career possibilities, but that wasn't what worried her. She could handle that. She didn't really have the ambition to climb that ladder. But she would miss the collaboration with her coworkers. And Ottosson. Uppsala was a fast-paced district in the hands of bunglers, but all the activity in their building, the interactions with her colleagues, and the encounters with the people of the city stimulated her, kept her going.

She tried to imagine working in Tierp or sthammar, but she knew too little about northern Uppland to imagine what it would be like. She would have a life with Edvard, but what about the rest? She would have the bay, the pastures, and the chicken coop, but would she be able to stand the peace and quiet? Edvard did. He was raised in a small village. She had fled deshog for the big city.

She lay on the rock for over an hour. It wasn't nausea but hunger pangs that made her rise. As predicted, the black-backed gulls had come. They were sitting on the skerry, screeching and quarreling as usual.

Somewhere in the distance, a motorboat started up. Lindell walked slowly back to the house. The water clucked against the stone-filled dock. A gull sat at the very end of it, grooming itself. She thought of the small plaque with the names of Edvard, Victor, and the boys, and how important it was.

In some way she wished that the guests of last night's celebrations had put their name on a similar plaque, hung somewhere. The cousins, wonderful Gerd with her temper and her dry sense of humor, the increasingly frail Viola and her Victor, Edvard and herself. This collection, connection-that's what it's all about, she thought. To live your life with the hope that love can forge a connection to other people. In her work she had seen what the absence of this could lead to.

She stayed until Sunday night. Victor had returned, out of a concern for Viola, it seemed to Lindell. When Lindell was staying, Viola was a third wheel. They'd had lunch and dinner together the day after Midsummer, and he had also come by on Sunday with several freshly caught perch that Viola had fried up with plenty of cream.

Ann and Edvard had gone on long walks, talking carefully of how the winter and spring had been. They were testing each other and themselves. This must be love, she said to herself.

They agreed to be in touch later in the week. Maybe Lindell would spend a week or two of her vacation out on the island. Maybe they would travel somewhere together. Perhaps they would go to deshog together. Nothing was decided, but both of them knew it would be a good summer. Then they would have to see. Summer was easy. It was in September that the true test would come.

Fifteen.

Ove Lundin sat in the Avid editing room, putting the finishing touches on a segment about the Akademiska hospital. He thought he had seen the images before, the politician who said the same thing that all the other county officials had said before.

He heard someone on the stairs and then Anna's voice. She was the studio host and was escorting Ann-Britt Zimen from the Liberal People's Party, who was scheduled to appear in the studio later. Anna turned on the television in the small s.p.a.ce outside the control room. He heard Anna explain when they were going to go in.

Lundin left the editing room, greeting them both. Zimen appeared nervous. He joined the rest of his colleagues in the control room. There was Melin, the audio tech, the image editor, Rosvall, and the editor for the evening, Charlie Nikoforos. The writer, a new girl Ove had hardly even spoken a word to, was sorting out the exact spelling of Zimen's name. She typed it in and was then done with her work. She was in charge of all of the times and the names.

In the studio there were two cameramen and Anders Moss, who was going to lead the conversation in the studio. The newscaster had not come down yet. They had a quarter of an hour to go. They would start at 18:10.

There was no shocking news to deliver. Beside some health care issues, there was a segment about genetic research, a quick report on a situation regarding the detention facilities in Enkoping, and one about the Pharmacia board meeting. The LPP politician was the "headliner" who was going to try to bring county politics to life for the audience. Ove Lundin was not expecting her to cause a sensation. She had looked almost frightened.

Birgitta Nilsson, who would be reading the news this evening, arrived in the studio and commented on the new backdrop on the wall. For the nth time, Lundin noted with exasperation.

She sat down, glanced down at the computer screen built into the desk, and exchanged a few words with Moss.