closed the door behind him, she disappeared into a room at the back of the gallery. He thought he heard a muffled sob as he stepped outside.
C HAPTER 22
This must be the first time we awarded the Round Gotland prize with flags flying at half-mast, Hans Rosensjöö thought.
The stage had been erected between the harbor office and the large dock. Hans stood next to Ingmar von Hahne, waiting for the ceremony to begin.
A large table with a blue velvet tablecloth bearing the club’s emblem held the prizes. Rows of silver trophies stood beside magnums of champagne and plaques for the second- and third-place winners. An enormous flower arrangement topped off the display.
Hans Rosensjöö, as chairman, would award the prizes. The race coordinator and Ingmar’s sweet daughter Emma would help him. It was always pleasant to have a female participate, especially since men dominated the competition by 90 percent.
But the atmosphere was not festive, given the circumstances. The Yacht Club’s restaurant was usually fully booked, but they’d received a stream of cancellations. This displeased the maître d’. They’d had to rearrange the tables to make the restaurant look less empty.
Hans Rosensjöö wished he could have stayed away, too. But since they’d decided that the race would continue, they had to go through the formalities: the awards ceremony, the exclusive dinner, the whole bit. They owed that much to the other participants who’d completed the race.
Hans glanced at his watch. Ten more minutes until the official gunshot went off, indicating the beginning of the awards ceremony.
Britta Rosensjöö was chatting with Isabelle von Hahne and a few others, and, as usual, Isabelle dominated the conversation. Britta sipped her champagne. Where does Isabelle get all her energy? How does she keep up with all these committees and volunteer organizations? The woman needs a real job.
But that wouldn’t have been acceptable in her upper-class family, Britta realized. Though she and Hans moved in high circles, Isabelle’s were even higher. In the fifties, her father had been one of the most important industrial giants in Sweden. Her family would never have allowed a beautiful daughter an education or a career. Instead Isabelle had married a nobleman to acquire even higher social status and a title.
Britta almost felt sorry for Isabelle. She’d met her father several times before his death and remembered him as stiff and tradition bound. He’d ruled his family with an iron fist.
Britta glanced at her husband over by the awards table. He looked tired and worn out. These past days had been difficult, and she was concerned. He would be sixty soon. No longer a young man. It was time to put his health before his duties. She’d never told him how glad she was that he was leaving the board. She was counting the days.
To tell the truth, she never liked Oscar that much. He was too full of himself. He’d already started to act like the RSYC chairman that summer, though Hans had not yet stepped down.
Britta found Oscar’s behavior presumptuous, although she didn’t discuss this with her husband.
She had always preferred Sylvia, a pleasant person who came from a better family than Oscar. But Sylvia often stayed behind in their summerhouse on Ingarö. She never seemed comfortable at these kinds of events, where Oscar’s ringing laughter and endless sailing stories dominated every conversation. And Oscar probably didn’t mind Sylvia staying home and letting him take center stage.
“Right, Britta?”
Britta shrugged vaguely at Isabelle’s question. She’d been lost in her own thoughts.
“I’m sorry, what were you saying?” she said. “I didn’t hear you. I’m so scatterbrained this week. The other day I lost my camera, and this morning I lost my sunglasses.”
Isabelle smiled at Britta.
“I was just saying I hope the awards ceremony doesn’t go on too long. It would be nice to get this evening over with as quickly
C HAPTER 22
This must be the first time we awarded the Round Gotland prize with flags flying at half-mast, Hans Rosensjöö thought.
The stage had been erected between the harbor office and the large dock. Hans stood next to Ingmar von Hahne, waiting for the ceremony to begin.
A large table with a blue velvet tablecloth bearing the club’s emblem held the prizes. Rows of silver trophies stood beside magnums of champagne and plaques for the second- and third-place winners. An enormous flower arrangement topped off the display.
Hans Rosensjöö, as chairman, would award the prizes. The race coordinator and Ingmar’s sweet daughter Emma would help him. It was always pleasant to have a female participate, especially since men dominated the competition by 90 percent.
But the atmosphere was not festive, given the circumstances. The Yacht Club’s restaurant was usually fully booked, but they’d received a stream of cancellations. This displeased the maître d’. They’d had to rearrange the tables to make the restaurant look less empty.
Hans Rosensjöö wished he could have stayed away, too. But since they’d decided that the race would continue, they had to go through the formalities: the awards ceremony, the exclusive dinner, the whole bit. They owed that much to the other participants who’d completed the race.
Hans glanced at his watch. Ten more minutes until the official gunshot went off, indicating the beginning of the awards ceremony.
Britta Rosensjöö was chatting with Isabelle von Hahne and a few others, and, as usual, Isabelle dominated the conversation. Britta sipped her champagne. Where does Isabelle get all her energy? How does she keep up with all these committees and volunteer organizations? The woman needs a real job.
But that wouldn’t have been acceptable in her upper-class family, Britta realized. Though she and Hans moved in high circles, Isabelle’s were even higher. In the fifties, her father had been one of the most important industrial giants in Sweden. Her family would never have allowed a beautiful daughter an education or a career. Instead Isabelle had married a nobleman to acquire even higher social status and a title.
Britta almost felt sorry for Isabelle. She’d met her father several times before his death and remembered him as stiff and tradition bound. He’d ruled his family with an iron fist.
Britta glanced at her husband over by the awards table. He looked tired and worn out. These past days had been difficult, and she was concerned. He would be sixty soon. No longer a young man. It was time to put his health before his duties. She’d never told him how glad she was that he was leaving the board. She was counting the days.
To tell the truth, she never liked Oscar that much. He was too full of himself. He’d already started to act like the RSYC chairman that summer, though Hans had not yet stepped down.
Britta found Oscar’s behavior presumptuous, although she didn’t discuss this with her husband.
She had always preferred Sylvia, a pleasant person who came from a better family than Oscar. But Sylvia often stayed behind in their summerhouse on Ingarö. She never seemed comfortable at these kinds of events, where Oscar’s ringing laughter and endless sailing stories dominated every conversation. And Oscar probably didn’t mind Sylvia staying home and letting him take center stage.
“Right, Britta?”
Britta shrugged vaguely at Isabelle’s question. She’d been lost in her own thoughts.
“I’m sorry, what were you saying?” she said. “I didn’t hear you. I’m so scatterbrained this week. The other day I lost my camera, and this morning I lost my sunglasses.”
Isabelle smiled at Britta.
“I was just saying I hope the awards ceremony doesn’t go on too long. It would be nice to get this evening over with as quickly
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