The House by the Lake (14 page)

He had always been able to do that—read her. “No, no,” she said, standing up and walking over to the room’s funky modern desk. She opened her laptop. “I’m just keen to have a look around—that’s all. It’s an interesting place.”

There was a silence. She doubted she had convinced Max. “Well,” he said, finally. “Perhaps you’ve met someone, darling—”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Anna said. She opened her search engine. “Perfectly happy as I am, thank you.”

“Oh dear, darling . . .” Max’s voice trailed off. He did sound tired. It had been the right thing not to bother him yet with her plans.

She would do whatever she could on her own. Only when she had some real hope would she involve Max.

CHAPTER TEN

Paris, 1936

Paris was always a good distraction. Tonight’s entertainment was a private affair at the home of Elsa Maxwell, an American gossip columnist who put on regular parties for her guests. As Isabelle slipped on her long gloves and smoothed down her silky evening dress, she convinced herself for the thousandth time that everything was fine. Isabelle’s trumpet sleeves floated behind her as she walked toward the salon. Marthe had done it. Artifice. Pretending. Isabelle could do it too.

It was easy enough being an automaton. Isabelle chatted with people at the ball as if there was no ache in her soul at all. She hid what she felt in her heart with the finesse of a seasoned expert. No one at the party had any idea that she hadn’t heard from Max in months. She posed for Man Ray with Virginia while reporters from
Excelsior Modes
and
Harper’s Bazaar
spun around the room like ballerinas.

The past few months had taught her that love was a double-edged sword.

When the evening finally ended, Isabelle chatted away with Virginia in the car as if she were any other carefree young girl out in Paris. She had danced with several young men; she had pretended to be interested in their talk, while saying almost nothing at all.

Back in the apartment, she said good night to Marthe, who had sat up late to wait, and then went to bed with a sense of relief. Virginia was already stuck into one of her American novels. Isabelle went to reach for a book, anything with which she could escape. But when she saw the envelope that had been placed by her bed, her heart skipped. The handwriting was Max’s. The letter was postmarked Berlin.

Berlin, 2010

Anna walked around Berlin for hours the morning after her conversation with Max. Around every corner, on every street, grim reminders of the Nazi and Communist eras remained—Checkpoint Charlie, the Brandenburg Gate, the remains of the bombed-out Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church, the old sites where the Nazis had held power. Up until now, Anna had not realized that the history of this country was so much a part of her. It was as if something she hadn’t known she possessed had opened up within her—a well of feelings, of movement. An abandoned apartment in Paris had sparked it all. What if it had never been found?

Anna wrapped herself tightly in her coat as she wandered through Potsdamer Platz, stopping at a café in the square to buy coffee in a paper cup. As she looked at the fragments of the old wall that were on display, she tried not to picture Max and his family escaping Siegel, their faces surely masking the fear that must have shaken them to their core.

And Max had never taken his mask off. Why not?

While she wanted to learn more about the family’s sudden departure from Siegel, about what had happened to Max’s other relatives, and about this great love that Max had left behind in Paris, Anna knew that she had to focus on the present too. People were suffering because of Siegel’s abandonment—and there was nothing she could do about the past.

It was hard to imagine the villagers opening up to her. They had not seemed pleased to see a member of the Albrecht family back in their midst. Were there family archives somewhere? Anna knew that she couldn’t do this on her own, but the problem was that every road led back to Wil. He was the only person who could help. And he was the only person whom she did not want to ask.

Anna paused, throwing her empty coffee cup in the bin. As she walked back to her hotel, her phone rang.

The American caller sounded at once startlingly close and miles away. The hospital in San Francisco.

The voice did not beat around any bushes.

Max was dead.

Anna stopped on the pavement.

People swarmed past her. She was next to the Jewish Memorial. She was aware of people out of the corner of her eye, shady figures moving between the sculptures that were some of the most poignant tributes to the dead that she had ever seen. The sounds of children calling and playing in the memorial resonated in the Berlin air—the future dancing on the shadows of the past.

The faceless voice on the phone told her that Max had died peacefully. He had eaten his breakfast, and then, when the nursing staff had gone back in to collect his breakfast tray, he was gone. He had seemed calm—even content—during his last few hours.

Anna felt for the tiny faded box that was safe in her coat pocket. Her fingers clasped the threadbare velvet, rubbing at the stuff as if it held some sort of answer. She thanked the nurse, hung up the phone, and sat on a bench.

When the phone rang again, she answered it on the first ring and immediately wished she hadn’t.

But the person on the end of the phone was Wil.

“Anna.” He sounded matter-of-fact.

Anna’s hand seemed to have taken on a life of its own—a shaky one. It was doing its own thing and she couldn’t seem to make it stop.

“Anna?” Wil’s voice was sharp on the phone. “Is the line bad?”

“No,” she said. She felt a choke rising in her throat. Took in a breath.

“I’ve been thinking . . .”

“Mm.” It came out like a grunt, but Anna nodded.

“I don’t want to see someone else get hurt by our history. Not you,” Wil said. Anna heard the telltale sound of footsteps on a hard floor. She pictured him pacing in his office.

Another picture came into focus—Max’s body being covered, sent to the mortuary. Anna closed her eyes.

“Does that make sense?” Wil asked.

Anna breathed, hard.

More footsteps. “But I’m also only too happy to hear what you’ve got to say. Would that help?”

“I don’t know what to say right now.” Anna stood up, then slumped back down on the bench.

“Look,” Wil said. A pause. “How about I pick you up from your hotel at eight? If you’re going to do this, and I suspect you are, then . . .”

“Max just died,” Anna said. She had to stand up. She had to move. So she began to walk. Walking was good. “The hospital called a minute ago.”

“Where are you?” Wil’s voice suddenly sounded close, urgent.

“Brandenburg Gate,” she managed, looking up at it. “But I’m fine. You must have loads of work to catch up on.”

“Stay there,” he said. “Don’t move.”

“You don’t have to—you must be busy.”

“It can wait. I’m walking out of the building now.” There was the sound of a door closing.

“I can go back to the hotel.” She should have been with Max when he died. He had been alone. How awful.

Wil’s voice was even. “We need to get you on a flight home. I’m on my way. I’ll be there as soon as I can. And don’t hang up.”

Anna looked at the phone as if it had taken on a life of its own.

A young family appeared at the base of the Brandenburg Gate. The woman had a guidebook in her hand, and her two children were listening to her, pointing and asking questions. They both wore orange hats. There was a father too. They all looked . . . happy, functional. Was it real? Did anyone have that sort of a life? Probably. But would she have changed anything about hers?

Pictures of Max came to mind. She wouldn’t swap what he had meant to her for anything—he had been both father and mother to her since she was twelve.

Wil was suddenly striding toward her. He wore a dark overcoat. He looked serious. “Come on. You must be freezing. Let’s get you moving.”

“Okay.” Anna nodded.

She let Wil tuck her arm into his. “Let’s go,” he said.

Yes, Anna thought. Where to now?

Wil guided her to the beautiful Tiergarten, Berlin’s most famous park. As they passed secluded benches, tucked away from the paths among the trees and early spring flowers, Anna didn’t know whether she wanted to sit down, keep walking, collapse, be stoic, or simply stare into space. It was so unlike her—she always had a game plan, total control over whatever came her way.

If it hadn’t been for Wil’s ability to keep the conversation flowing when she wanted to talk and to stay quiet when it was all too much, then she didn’t know how she would have held things together.

“There’s a café overlooking the lake, if you’d like to sit down,” he said, after about half an hour. “Perhaps you could do with a coffee?”

“Coffee would be good, thanks.” Anna felt a ghostlike smile form on her lips—in spite of everything. The park was soothing. It was the perfect place to be. The history of the place seemed to wrap itself around her in some sort of protective embrace. This was Max’s home. His parting gift to her had been to kindle her connection to his past—and in doing so, to her own. He had given her a hint of what she needed to know, and it was clear to her now that she needed to know everything.

Anna managed to eat some of the cake that Wil ordered for her. After that, she was able to walk back to the hotel and pack, while Wil booked her on a flight home. It wasn’t until she was on the plane, having accepted Wil’s offer of a lift to the airport, having shaken his hand and said goodbye, that she sat back, closed her eyes, and allowed the full effect of what had happened to sink into her.

Three days later, Anna stood at Max’s grave in San Francisco. A sea of people surrounded the coffin, and yet somehow Anna felt cocooned in her own grief—safe somehow, firmly convinced that Max would always be with her, no matter what. Her father, Peter, stood by her side. His new family—three children and a young wife—provided something of a distraction.

And then there were the flowers. Anna’s house was resplendent with them. Max had been well liked. He had had a long life and people wanted to pay tribute. But none of them really knew him. No one had an inkling about his past except Anna. Somehow she wanted to protect that, not for herself, but for him.

Once the final rites were read, and those who were closest to Max had each placed a rose on his coffin, many of the guests came back to Anna’s house.

People chatted, laughed even, while Anna moved about in slow motion, helping her staff from the Italian Café as they served all the guests. Although she talked to various people who had known Max, she was only going through the motions. She felt apart from it all, as if she were talking about someone else, not the Max she knew.

And she continued to think about Schloss Siegel. She had to do something. She could not allow it to rot. She knew Max wouldn’t want it to be left as it was. It was clear now—the discovery of the apartment in Paris had reignited all the broken dreams that he had pushed aside for decades. He had seemed so focused on finding his ring right before he died, and Anna suspected that this was only the first step in a longer journey that he had wanted to take. So now her work on Schloss Siegel was for him. It was up to her to continue the journey for Max.

Once the guests had departed, Anna decided it was time for a well-earned rest. As she turned down the hallway toward her bedroom, she found a woman standing there.

She had her back to Anna, but Anna could see what she held in her hand: Anna’s favorite photo of Max. The woman stood still. She was a little shorter than Anna. Her hair was secured in a neat French knot, and she wore a navy suit with a green silk scarf around her neck. When she turned, Anna caught her breath, though she did not understand why.

“Hello,” the woman said.

It was a perfectly reasonable thing to say.

“You’ve caught me.” The woman had to be in her sixties. Her eyes were blue, and a few stray locks of her still-fair hair framed her face. Anna hadn’t noticed the woman earlier in the day—or at the funeral. But then there had been over three hundred people at the service, and a hundred had crowded into Anna’s house, so this was hardly a surprise.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

The woman put the photo back down on Anna’s hall table. The click of the frame on the wood seemed to punctuate the older woman’s precise movements. Not for the first time that day, Anna wished that Max were around.

The woman ran a hand through her hair. “Okay,” she said. “Very well.”

Anna felt a jolt of shock run through her.

The accent. German.

“Wil Jager told me Max had died,” the woman said.

“Wil?” Anna knew her voice sounded odd.

“He has told me about your interest in . . .”