The House by the Lake (15 page)

“Schloss Siegel.” A dead certainty had arrived in her head.

“That is correct.” The woman’s accent was crisp.

Anna nodded. Her mind raced ahead. She was having trouble making it stop.

“My name is Ingrid Hermann.” The woman held out a perfectly manicured hand. Her fingers were covered with serious rings.

Anna held out her own bare fingers in return. “Anna Young,” she said.

“I know.”

“Can I offer you a cup of coffee?” Anna asked.

Ingrid shook her head. “I have already had your excellent coffee,” she said. “I just have one thing I want to say. Then I will leave.”

“Come into the living room,” Anna said, moving out of the hallway, hoping Ingrid would follow.

Ingrid clasped her small patent leather handbag tight in her hands and stayed where she was.

“I must go,” Ingrid said from behind Anna. “But I have a reason to be here. I am your cousin. But that is not all. I am also the owner of Schloss Siegel. Please do not go there again.”

Anna spun around. The woman standing in her hallway stared straight at her. Her eyes were not warm.

Anna, most unusually, was speechless.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Paris, 1936

Marthe was pacing in her bedroom—albeit slowly. Her knees were bothering her, and she’d started using a cane in the last few months. While Marthe’s declining strength was worrisome, at the moment Isabelle felt more concerned about the way she was waving the cane in the air like a conductor’s baton.

“This,” Marthe said, “is what bothers me, Isabelle. You have the opportunity to be taken out by a decent young man and yet you sit here, your head in the veritable ether most of the time, thinking about heaven knows what. This fine gentleman turns up at our very
doorstep
to profess his feelings for you—which is just the sort of romantic overture I thought you’d always wanted—and you refuse him! I do not understand.”

Isabelle sank onto Marthe’s four-poster bed. She grabbed one of the deep red cushions and held it close to her chest. She stared at the portrait of Marthe on the wall opposite the bed. Surely as a young woman Marthe had understood how important it was to make one’s own choices. So why was Marthe bullying her now?

The last thing Isabelle wanted to do was go out with the vapid young man on whom Marthe seemed so keen. He was just another swain—no interesting conversation, and no ability to see anything in her beyond the way she looked.

Isabelle knew exactly what she wanted: a family, love, and stability. Just not with someone she did not care a jot for. She was over that. She had known something better.

“I don’t understand you,” Marthe went on. “Virginia is out at this very moment with a charming young man.”

“She means nothing by it,” Isabelle said. “She is only stringing him along.”

“That may be the case.” Marthe’s hand flew up to her forehead. “But couldn’t you possibly do some stringing yourself? Wouldn’t it be better than sitting here moping? You might surprise yourself. I am not suggesting that you fall in love. But I am suggesting that you try to enjoy yourself, properly, instead of simply pretending to do so—I can see you are not happy. You must have a life. Take control of yourself, Isabelle.”

“I am not moping,” Isabelle began. She hadn’t told Marthe about the extent of her feelings for Max. A part of her worried that if she did so, Marthe would, in turn, worry about Isabelle moving to Germany, which would make it difficult for Marthe to see Isabelle at all. Maybe ever. Marthe had made clear her opinion about Hitler’s occupation of the Rhineland and the fact that France was not marching into battle.

In the same way, Isabelle had put off telling Max, and potentially his family, about Marthe’s past and who she really was.

She was juggling two separate lives, and their eventual collision could wreck her chances of acceptance with the Albrechts, or leave Marthe alone in her old age. How much longer could she keep the two people whom she loved most in the world apart?

Isabelle had a telegram from Max tucked into the pocket of her dress.

Marthe stopped in the doorway. Isabelle met her grandmother’s hard stare with a tentative smile. Marthe raised her cane again, shook her head, and walked out.

“Camille!” Isabelle heard her grandmother call. “For goodness’ sake, it is time for my luncheon.”

A few hours later, Isabelle stepped into the garden of the Hotel Ritz. She had changed outfits several times before finally deciding on a pale blue tea dress that Camille assured her brought out the color in her olive skin. Isabelle had imagined this moment countless times. She was about to see Max. He had come to Paris during his two-day break to see her. Why did something feel wrong?

A waiter led her to a wicker chair. Plants on pedestals vied for position with the statues that were dotted about the garden. Waiters slipped in and out of the French doors that opened out onto the gorgeous scenery.

“You fit in perfectly in these surroundings.” Max’s voice came from behind her chair. He rested a hand on her shoulder for a moment, and she brought her hand up to rest in his before he sat down.

But when he sat down, he glanced around the place like a nervous cat.

“I don’t think anyone’s going to attack us here,” Isabelle laughed.

“I have to tell you something,” he said. “I’m going to be . . . travelling for some time and I may not be able to contact you much, if at all, for a while.”

Isabelle sipped at her coffee and eyed the patisseries that were arranged on the table between them. Suddenly, she felt that she could not eat a thing.

“And I have something to take care of this afternoon, here in Paris,” he said, still looking around, but with one hand resting in hers.

“You have things to take care of in Paris?” Isabelle almost whispered the words.

He nodded and again looked around the room.

Isabelle almost did the same thing, because her heart was pounding in her chest. Nazi business? In Paris? Isabelle knew enough to realize that he wasn’t talking about buying his mother jewelry at Van Cleef & Arpels.

Isabelle knew that Hitler had emphasized his desire for a friendship with France—but Max’s nervousness worried her more than she cared to admit to herself. He could have something completely different on his mind—his family, the villagers. It might not be Nazism. Isabelle was not going to allow herself to panic, no matter how well she knew him, no matter how much she cared.

“Shall we meet tonight, say at nine?” Max asked suddenly. “How about La Coupole? Can you catch a taxi and meet me? I might be tied up until then.”

“Of course I can,” Isabelle said. “Shall I bring Virginia?”

“Of course.” He stood up, waited for her, but his eyes roamed toward the exit.

“Very well,” Isabelle said, putting on her white gloves. She adjusted the angle of her hat.

Max seemed anxious to leave. He waited for her to walk out first, but when she stole a glance back to look at him, his gaze was once again darting around the room.

La Coupole didn’t help. Virginia had brought along a party of friends, and as the evening was warm, they all sat outside on the crowded terrace. Every now and then, a couple from their table would stand up to go dance inside.

“Isn’t this fabulous,” Isabelle said. “I adore Paris in the summer.” She tried to catch Max’s eye.

“Fabulous.” Max seemed fascinated by everything but her.

His hand still rested in hers, but he seemed so distracted that Isabelle didn’t know what to think.

“Max—” she started, keeping her voice low.

Virginia was out of earshot, chatting with a young Frenchman she had met earlier in the day.

“Don’t worry, please,” Max said. But he didn’t meet her eye.

Virginia appeared at the table then. Her face was flushed as she sat down, fanning herself with a napkin. “Oh, it’s just gorgeous out there. Such fun.” Virginia grabbed hold of Isabelle’s arm. “You have to come and dance.”

“Max,” Isabelle said, her head tilted to one side, “are you going to ask me to dance, or will I have to ask you?”

“Go and dance with Virginia, darling,” he said. “I’ll stay here.”

Virginia was up again in a trifle, taking Isabelle’s arm, pulling her toward the curved white staircase past the crowds. Cigarette smoke hovered in the air, sending a haze over the entire place.

Isabelle stopped at the top of the stairs, stood on the balcony, and took a look back down over the room. La Coupole was an unmissable part of any night out in Paris. Anyone who was anyone was here. Max couldn’t be bored with the place. And he didn’t seem entirely cold to her, just distracted. What on earth did it mean?

Virginia pulled Isabelle toward the dance floor on the upper floor and began doing the shimmy. Isabelle was starting to think like a young girl in a panic. She would not overanalyze his behavior and think the worst. The band was all female. Isabelle concentrated on the dance.

“Who needs men?” Virginia called into Isabelle’s ear.

In spite of it all, Isabelle smiled. Virginia could always be relied upon to say the right thing. She would not think about politics, not for a few minutes. Instead, she began moving to the chirpy sounds of jazz.

Max stood up when they arrived back at the table. “I have to go,” he said, leaning in close to Isabelle’s ear.

She felt a small stab in her stomach. “So soon?” she asked, looking him straight in the eye.

“Sorry,” he said. “It’s not something to bother you with.”

He had one hand around her waist, and as he leaned down, his lips brushed her forehead for a moment. Then he pulled back.

“Goodbye,” he said.

His tone was still odd. He nodded at her and left.

“Everything all right?” Virginia appeared at her side the moment Max had gone.

Isabelle watched his retreating back. He hadn’t said anything about seeing her again.

“You know, I’m just not sure if it is,” she said. “I don’t know.”

“Oh, darling.” Virginia linked her arm through Isabelle’s. “For goodness’ sake come and dance again. It does you no end of good.”

But Isabelle shook her head and sat down. Where was Max going? What could he be doing? Had he said one kind word to her all day? Did she want to ignore what this might mean? Or not?

The incessant singing and the noise and the smoke all mingled together into a haze of sound and smell and light. But Isabelle didn’t want to get up and dance again. Confusion swamped her and she felt naïve all of a sudden and out of place. She tried to push away the sense that she was dealing with a force far greater than anything she could control. She only hoped it was not controlling Max.

San Francisco, 2010

Anna stood in Max’s empty apartment. She had packed everything up over the last month, and his home was about to be sold. The furniture had gone to auction, but she had kept anything precious that she wanted to save. There had been nothing left of Max’s past. None of the clues that she was so desperate to find—about his relationship with the owner of the abandoned apartment in Paris, or about what had happened to the rest of his family.

After Ingrid had left—rushing out right after her dramatic announcement—Anna had been completely confused. Ingrid was only in San Francisco for business. Did not want any further discussion. Had repeated several times that all she wanted was for Anna to keep well away from the Schloss. The past was the past. Ingrid had everything under control.

Well, no, she certainly did not.

For the first few days after the funeral, Anna had been in a zombielike state—unable to sleep much, yet exhausted, not wanting to eat, yet forcing herself to get something down. She went into work but was unable to focus on a thing. During her free time she sorted out Max’s affairs—but she was on autopilot.

And now, there was nothing for it but to go back to her old life and simply get on with her work. It would be the sensible thing to do.

She tried just going into work as she always used to and coming home at night—although the gap that existed where she used to visit Max every evening loomed larger and larger each day. She hadn’t realized what an anchor her visits to him had been. She had thought the visits were for his sake, but now she realized that she had truly been going for her own. Now, going home to a silent house on her own only caused her mind to wander straight back to Germany.

So she tried keeping busy in the evening—tidying, rearranging things, going to the movies with her girlfriends. Cass threw a dinner party one night—supplying a veritable fleet of eligible men. But nothing worked. Anna was simply distracted and at sea.

She tried to relax, but whenever she stood in the shower, lay in her bed, turned on the television, or opened a book, she was lost.

It was as if she were haunted. The Schloss, Max’s past, her family—dare she admit it, Wil—all spun around in her head.

Anna’s life was here in San Francisco. Thinking of Wil was ridiculous. She had met him only a few times. Why was her mind drawn to him? She was meant to be grieving! This was supposed to be entirely about Max, not Wil. What was wrong with her?

Germany was bouncing around in her head like a pinball. The blindingly obvious thing to do was to call Wil and tell him that she had met Ingrid. She could not simply leave it alone. No matter what Ingrid said. No matter how unlikely it was that Wil would help her. No matter, even, that Max was gone.

Wil would be loyal to his client—of course he would. But still, her mind wouldn’t leave it alone.

She turned on her bedside lamp and picked up her phone. She looked at it, wondered if she were going completely insane, and decided to make the call. It was eleven o’clock in the morning in Berlin.

Wil answered on the first ring.

“Anna,” he said, “what are you doing awake?”

“Hello.”

“Hi. I hope you are doing all right.”

Anna was a pro at answering that. She got up and paced out into the hallway. “Oh, you know. Everything’s done.”

“Yes, but how are you?”

“Okay.” Anna picked up the photo of Max. Bad move. She frowned and padded off to the kitchen.

“Take it easy for a while.” He sounded kind.

Anna was getting sick of kind. She sighed.

“You sound a bit . . . ,” he started.

“Fine. No. I’m fine.” Anna paced toward the fridge. Opened it. It had become a comfort thing. She would check that she had enough food in the fridge. She always did, but nevertheless.