Sun Storm by Åsa Larsson

blue. But she couldn’t zip up the skirt. Finally she settled on a long knitted cardigan that made her look thinner and disguised her hips and bottom. But looking at Karin and Maja, she felt like a mess. A sweaty mess.
    “Where’s Vesa?” whispered Maja, before she’d even managed to sit down.
    Friendly smile. Dangerous eyes.
    “Ill,” she replied. “Flu.”
    She could see they didn’t believe her. Maja closed her mouth and breathed in through her nose.
    They were right. Her whole body was telling her that she didn’t want to sit there, but she sank down on the chair next to Maja.
    Thomas had finished the prayer with the choir and was walking over to them.
    So I shall have to answer to him as well, she thought.
    She felt a pang as Thomas placed his hand on Maja’s arm and greeted her with a quick, warm smile. Then he asked about Vesa. Astrid replied again: ill; flu. He gazed at her sympathetically.
    Poor me, having such a weak husband, she thought.
    “If you’re worried about him, go home,” said Thomas.
    She shook her head obediently.
    “Worried.” She tried out the word.
    No, she should have been worried several years ago. But at the time she’d been fully occupied with the children and the house being built. And by the time she discovered that she had reason to worry, it was already too late and time to begin grieving. To get over the grief of being abandoned in her marriage. Learn to live with the shame of not being good enough for Vesa.
    It was the shame. That was what made her sit next to Maja, although she didn’t want to. Made her stand in front of the freezer with the door open, stuffing herself with frozen cakes when the children were at school.
    They did still sleep with each other, although it was rare. But it happened in the dark. In silence.
    And this morning. The kids had gone off to school. Vesa had been sleeping in the studio. When she brought in the coffee he was sitting on the edge of the bed in his flannel pajamas. Unshaven, eyes tired. Deep lines around the corners of his mouth. His long, fine artist’s hands resting on his knees. The floor around the bed littered with books. Expensive, beautifully bound art books with thick shiny pages. Several about icons. Thin paperbacks from their own publishing firm. In the beginning Vesa had designed the covers. Then he’d suddenly decided he didn’t have the time.
    She had put the tray of coffee and sandwiches down on the floor. Then she had crept up behind him, kneeling on the bed. His hips between her thighs. She had let her dressing gown fall open and pressed her breasts and her cheek against his back while her hands caressed his firm shoulders.
    “Astrid” was all he said.
    Troubled and suffering. Filled her name with apologies and feelings of guilt.
    She had fled to the kitchen. Switched on the radio and the dishwasher. Picked up Baloo and wept into the dog’s fur.
    Thomas Söderberg leaned down toward the three women and lowered his voice.
    “Have you heard anything about Sanna?” he asked.
    Astrid, Karin and Maja shook their heads.
    “Ask Curt Bäckström,” said Astrid. “He’s forever trailing around after her.”
    The pastors’ wives turned their heads like periscopes. It was Maja who first caught sight of Curt. She waved and pointed until he reluctantly got up and shambled over to them.
    Karin looked at him. He always seemed so anxious. Walked a bit hesitantly. Almost sidling along. As if it might appear too aggressive to approach head-on. Looked at them out of the corner of his eyes, but always glanced away if you tried to meet his gaze.
    “Do you know where Sanna is staying?” asked Thomas Söderberg.
    Curt shook his head. Answered as well, just to be on the safe side:
    “No.”
    He was obviously lying. There was fear in his eyes. At the same time, they were resolute. He didn’t intend to reveal his secret.
    Like a dog that’s found a bone in the woods, thought Karin.
    Curt looked furtively at them. Almost crouching.