The House by the Lake (2 page)

When Max answered, he sounded firm. “I know you’re interested in going, Anna. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned in this life, it’s that you should trust your instincts. Believe me, I’ve learned that the hard way. And you shouldn’t push things—opportunities—away. Not when every bone in your body tells you that you want to do them. Don’t let fear stop you from being happy.”

Anna stared at him again. What on earth was that about? This was not her Max! All she could do was shake her head.

Raised voices could be heard at the counter. A difficult customer was berating one of the staff. Anna stood up.

“Later,” she said to her grandfather. She leaned down and kissed him on the cheek.

Max was in his favorite armchair when Anna let herself into his flat that evening. She had forced herself to concentrate on work all afternoon, but her mind had been swirling the entire time.

Anna wanted the key to Max’s past. She had wanted to know about it for years. But how was she supposed to deal with the logistics of his request? Something hidden somewhere in his childhood home? What was he thinking?

She had tried to sneak a look on the Internet between busy periods at the café that afternoon. It had taken her only a few seconds to find some old pictures of the palace online, taken back when Max’s family owned it. She only just managed to tear herself away from the images of the beautiful old building when she had to return to work, but the black-and-white photographs had lingered in her mind long after she had shut down her computer.

The old photos were more than evocative. They were stunning, drawing her in and making her feel the mystery of her grandfather’s childhood more than ever before. Despite its opulent details—turrets and rows of dormer windows—it looked less like a palace than a home.

The only information that she could find online told her that Schloss Siegel had belonged to the Albrecht family until the Soviet occupation. There was nothing more. Not a scrap. Did anyone live there? Anna had done a search for hotels in the region. Nothing. Museums? It was not a museum either.

She kissed her grandfather on the top of his head and made her way through Max’s small living room, opening the paper bag that she had packed for his evening meal. She pulled out a container of lasagna, a salad, and a slice of the special caramel apple cake that she would warm for his dessert. She kept an eye on Max as she busied herself warming up his meal in his modern kitchen. He had the article about the apartment in Paris on the small glass coffee table in front of him, along with his map.

“Another busy day,” Anna said, sensing that this was not the moment to barrage him with questions. She placed the lasagna and the salad on one of Max’s new white plates and brought it over to him. Anna sat opposite him on the sofa that he had bought just a few years earlier when he had moved into this small, chic apartment. He always kept his surroundings meticulously up to date. He always threw out anything that was the tiniest bit old—relentlessly culling furniture, clothes, books, even selling the odd painting now and then, because, as he always said, Anna would not want any of his old rubbish when he was gone. That was why the sight of him with his childhood photographs had more than unsettled her.

“Best way to be, darling.” Max began eating. “Busy.”

It wasn’t until he had finished his food and wiped his still-elegant hands—aristocratic hands, Anna suddenly thought—with his napkin that he turned to face her.

“Are you happy, Anna?”

What sort of a question was this?

“No plans to change a thing,” she said.

“I would hate to see you—give up on love.”

“Oh, let’s stop going there. Honestly.” Anna started to tidy his plate, but he reached out his hand and tugged at her sleeve.

“Sit down again, my dear. I want to talk to you.”

He wanted to talk? The Max she knew would never have spoken like that.

“What is all this?” She kept her words gentle.

Max seemed to think for a while. “I have a regret.” His mouth was set. “It’s to do with that apartment in Paris.”

The apartment in Paris.

“You know, seeing these pictures, after all this time . . .” He pointed at the haunting photos. “Seeing these photographs has brought it all back. It seems as if it happened, oh, I don’t know, a month ago, perhaps. I can still see it. I don’t know. I think regret is the saddest thing we can have in this life. It’s what we miss out on, what we don’t do . . . that causes the worst sort of pain. Because you never will know what might have been. The chances we didn’t take. How different our lives may have turned out . . . if we had made different choices. We will never know if we don’t do them, if we don’t act.”

“Do you really have such strong regrets?”

He tugged at the map of Schloss Siegel, his hands shaking now.

Anna helped him to spread out the faded paper.

“Here”—his hand, blue with a tracery of veins, tracked its way across the top floor of the Schloss—“was my bedroom.”

His fingers lingered at the room to the right of the two large rooms directly above the music salon. Though slightly smaller than the two central rooms, it was still substantial compared with those bedrooms that housed the servants. The room next to Max’s was marked “nurse” in neat italics, the one after that, “governess.”

“I need you to search under the floorboards in my old room,” Max said. He sounded matter-of-fact, like he’d asked her to do something as simple as go into the next room to get his newspaper.

“The floorboards?”

“Yes.”

If he hadn’t looked so earnest, Anna would have said Max was unwell. Two bright spots of color bloomed on his pale cheeks, and he suddenly looked more animated than he had in years.

“You have to tell me. More. Please.”

Max leaned across to her and laid his hand over her own. “Anna,” he said.

Anna didn’t move. “Please.” It was whisper-soft now. She wanted to know what this had to do with that apartment in Paris. She wanted to know what he had left in his bedroom. And most of all, she wanted to know what ill-fated thing it was that he would always regret.

But his gaze was gauzy now. Max wasn’t with her. He wasn’t here. He was somewhere else. While she watched him, one thing became clear to Anna. Max may never have talked about it, but he had not left everything behind.

Paris, 1934

Isabelle de Florian’s grandmother Marthe was in her favorite spot by the window when Isabelle returned to the apartment on Rue Blanche.

Marthe had arranged to have her infamous chaise longue moved to her personal sitting room. From this elegant yet naughty piece of furniture she could keep track of every occurrence in the street below. Although the ninth arrondissement was nothing like it had once been, Isabelle knew that gazing at the theater across the road afforded her grandmother some amusement in her seventies. Today Marthe looked as if she was in need of attention.

“I’m not in the mood to talk, unfortunately.” Isabelle dropped the two small shopping bags from the department store Printemps down at Marthe’s feet.

“What a bore. Something nice, I hope?”

“Only a couple of scarves.”

There was a silence. Isabelle was aware that her grandmother was studying her, wanting to know what had transpired that afternoon, but she was still too upset to talk about it.

She moved across to her piano and picked out a few opening notes before becoming absorbed by the music as she always did. She allowed Satie’s notes to soothe her, to sweep her into another realm far beyond Paris. She was nineteen. Wasn’t that supposed to be exciting?

Isabelle finished the piece and rested her hands just above the keyboard for those crucial few seconds before she turned on the piano stool to face Marthe—and reality.

“It did not go well, then. Or it did not go as you hoped, which amounts to the same thing,” Marthe said, fixing her gaze on Isabelle.

Isabelle stood up. Her tea dress with the tiny flowers and gathers below the bust—which she had put on with such anticipation a few hours earlier—seemed dull now.

“Oh, it was fine.” It was easier to lie. It was no one’s fault. No one but society’s, Isabelle supposed. But it hadn’t been fine. Not at all.

The fact that Madame Fatouche, Isabelle’s latest beau’s maman, had chosen the tearoom in Printemps had been a hopeful sign. Decorated in the modernist style with geometric-patterned carpets and trendy tubular furniture, it was not an old-fashioned sort of place.

And it had seemed reasonable to hope that Madame Fatouche would be as modern in her outlook as she was in her choice of cafés—accepting of a girl who happened to be the granddaughter of the once-infamous courtesan Marthe de Florian.

This was the 1930s, for goodness’ sake. Everyone had been through the war. And the question of birthright had been blown apart by revolutions. Russia. Surely . . .

Madame had chosen a table opposite the entrance of the tearoom, from which she could observe Isabelle as she rushed in—late—having become distracted by some beautiful ribbons.

By the looks of it, Pierre Fatouche was chatting away with enthusiasm—even if a little fast. Isabelle pushed away the thought that her beau could be afflicted by a case of nerves. Surely he had no reason to be nervous.

Pierre’s mother appeared to be ignoring him. Her gaze was directed straight at Isabelle.

“Ah, here she is!” Pierre stood up, leaned forward, and kissed Isabelle on the cheek. She felt the appraising sweep of his pale eyes up and down her thin dress as he lit a cigarette.

Was the fabric see-through? Had she chosen an inappropriate outfit? But no. It was quite modern. Modern and fashionable were exactly right for Printemps. And Madame’s dress was similar in style to Isabelle’s, after all. The older woman’s up-to-the-minute snakeskin handbag perched on the table. Isabelle found herself envying the older woman’s sense of propriety and entitlement.

Madame held out a hand. She revealed her white teeth for a glimpse of a second, before she closed her perfectly lipsticked mouth and rested her hand back on the table.

“Maman . . . ,” Pierre began.

“My maman saw your grandmother act in a play during the nineties. In the Pigalle. Marthe de Florian was her stage name, as well as the name she used for . . . everything else, wasn’t it?” Madame drew the words out slowly and ignored her son.

Isabelle just smiled and smiled.

The afternoon was over before it had begun.

Marthe stayed quiet while Isabelle recounted her story. Isabelle ran her fingers over the piano keys.

“Stop that for a moment, darling,” Marthe said quietly. “I have been thinking.”

“There’s nothing anyone can do. No one’s fault.”

“Are you sure that it’s a man that you want, Isabelle? Because I can tell you, it is not the answer.”

Isabelle waited for a moment. “Is there something wrong with wanting love? You know, I have never understood that part of you, Grand-mère—” Isabelle stopped herself. What choice had her grandmother ever had?

Marthe pulled herself up out of the chaise longue, and Isabelle went to help her. She admired her grandmother’s upright carriage, her slim figure, that elusive quality in her deep brown eyes that had beguiled countless powerful men. Marthe had a collection of jewelry that would rival that of any duchess, and her apartment was filled with exotic gifts, furniture, and artworks that were the envy of everyone who entered her salon. Once, Isabelle’s grandmother had been the ultimate Parisian woman. Where she led, others followed.

And yet, like that of the few other courtesans who had made it, Marthe’s existence could never be openly acknowledged. Not in proper circles. Not in respectable society.

So where did that leave her granddaughter?

Isabelle sighed. There was no harm in listening to what her grandmother had to say. “What have you been thinking?”

“It’s Paris that’s the problem, not you.” Marthe moved across to the small walnut writing desk that some man or another—one of her benefactors, as she called them—had given her thirty years earlier. She shuffled some papers around, then handed a brochure to Isabelle.

“Lake Geneva?”

“For the summer.”

“Just you and I?”

“Just you and I.”

Isabelle studied the photographs in front of her—a fairy-tale hotel overlooking the most enticing blue water imaginable. A wide terrace adorned with bougainvillea and roses. Tables alight with tea candles and elegant people dancing in each other’s arms.

Bother Madame Fatouche and her fastidious ways. “Why ever not?” Isabelle said.

Marthe moved forward and hugged her.

CHAPTER TWO

Vineyards carpeted the hillside—water droplets lingered on vivid green leaves, glistening and sparkling in the afternoon sun. Isabelle leaned over the wrought iron balcony outside her sumptuous hotel room. After a few dreamy moments, she turned her attention to the yachts that bobbed about on the lake and to the mountains beyond.

Her gaze drifted from the natural beauty in the distance to the scene just beneath her window. Groups of elegant people sat on the terrace, indulging in a late afternoon tea of patisseries, Swiss chocolates, coffee, and champagne. The men’s pale hats shaded their faces as they chatted with beautifully dressed women who lounged gracefully in cream-colored dresses.

“Do go down and enjoy yourself,” Marthe said, appearing on the balcony, having finished supervising the unpacking in her own room. “I am going to rest for a while after all that travelling! We have a full summer ahead to enjoy. I do hope all this relaxation is not going to be too exhausting for me.”

Isabelle turned to her grandmother. “You’ve never taken a proper holiday, Grand-mère. Vacations were never part of your life, were they?”

“I grant you that.” Marthe sat down in a wicker chair. “Maybe I shall make a point of changing things. I have the perfect excuse now. You.”

“I don’t want you to feel you have to leave Paris on my account.” Isabelle picked up her hat, tucked it over her dark curls, and smiled. “But, it’s only taken me one day here to realize that even Paris is only a small drop in a vast sea. A pearl, no doubt—but not the entire oyster.”

“Stop philosophizing. Go and explore!” Marthe waved her away.

“I shan’t be long.”

“Take as long as you like. I’m not much company for you, I’m afraid.”

Isabelle gave her grandmother a kiss. “No one could ever accuse you of being dull, Grand-mère.”

“They never used to.”

Isabelle made her way down the hotel’s grand central staircase to the salon. Wooden ceiling fans flitted above the artfully arranged wicker tables on the black-and-white-tiled floor. Potted palms gave the room the feeling of a conservatory. She moved toward the French doors that led to the terrace.

Here, Isabelle hesitated. Everyone looked so at home. Young men smoked, their eyes narrowed as they gazed upon the women. Suddenly that all-too-familiar feeling of insecurity ran through her—she was an interloper and always would be. She didn’t belong in this sophisticated world. But if she was not part of all this, then where was she supposed to be?

Isabelle adored her grandmother, who raised her after she had been cast aside by her mother’s family when her father, Marthe’s son Henry, died. But the name Marthe de Florian preceded her wherever she went. Would she always linger on the outskirts? It was impossible to imagine anything else.

Isabelle walked onto the terrace and moved to the low, pale stone wall that overlooked the water. A row of wooden seats ran along it. She sat down, if only to obscure herself from the gaze of the other guests. But another young girl was there too—alone—a few feet down from her.

The girl looked a little older than Isabelle’s nineteen and had striking white-blond hair. To Isabelle’s surprise, her companion in solitude was staring right back at her. There was not a hint of shyness in her manner, but there was no friendliness either. Isabelle ventured a smile.

“It is a beautiful afternoon,” she said, in English.

“It certainly is.” The girl’s accent was not French. But her English seemed confident, assured.

“You are here for the summer?”

“Yes.”

Isabelle laid her hands in her lap. “I . . . am looking forward to finding my way around.”

“You are here with your family?”

“Just my grandmother. I’m Isabelle. Isabelle de Florian.”

The fair girl stood up. She was tall. Her elegant dress was made of pale oyster silk gathered below her breasts. The entire effect—her hair, her blue eyes, and the dress—was almost dazzling in the sunlight.

“I came here for some privacy. You will please excuse me.”

Isabelle felt herself flush.

But then, after a moment’s hesitation, the girl extended a gloved hand. “Nadja Albrecht.”

“Hello, Nadja.”

“No doubt we will see you about the hotel.” Nadja still sounded superior. “I wish you a peaceful stay.” There was an emphasis on the word peaceful.

“Thank you,” Isabelle said, just as Nadja turned to sashay her way back into the hotel. The girl was clearly not easily intimidated, but did she have no desire to be liked?

It seemed simpler not to discuss this interlude with Marthe.

Several hours later, Isabelle took extra care with her appearance as she prepared for dinner. Her toilette was both a distraction and a tonic for her soul. She could reflect when she was alone. She could face up to things and not have to pretend. Not have to act. Isabelle was relieved to be out of Paris—perhaps she was more hopeful than she had been for a long time. But she was still a little nervous. If she calculated the number of beaus’ families who had rejected her, she would resign herself to becoming a governess. What alternative did she have? She had to do something with her life, but it seemed that she had little control over any of it.

At eight o’clock, Isabelle followed Marthe and the maître d’hôtel past the tables on the terrace, which gleamed with silverware and crystal. Candles flickered in the warm air, filling the restaurant with dashes of sparkling light. Couples and small groups talked in hushed, intimate voices. The waiter stopped at a table for two, took Marthe’s cape, and pulled back their chairs.

Isabelle ran a hand over her silk dress.

“You look beautiful, my darling.” Marthe smiled.

“Well, thank you,” Isabelle said. But then she felt herself blanch as the German girl and a group of ethereal young blond people sat down at the table next to theirs.

Nadja was dressed in pale pink—silk too. Her fair hair was gathered at the nape of her neck. Isabelle could smell the delicate scent of the other girl’s perfume from where she sat.

A jazz band started to play.

Nadja had seen her—Isabelle was sure of it—but she hadn’t greeted her. Isabelle didn’t want to stare, but it was hard not to glance at the other table every now and then.

“What a charming place,” Marthe said.

“Yes.”

A young man sat next to Nadja. His blond hair was combed neatly off his face, highlighting his blue eyes. Two boys who looked no more than about sixteen sat next to him. A redheaded girl dressed in deep green completed the party.

When people began dancing on the terrace, Isabelle seized her opportunity. “You must be tired, Grand-mère. Shall we go back upstairs?”

“Certainly not.” Marthe began to sway her shoulders in time with the lilting jazz. “We are not a couple of spinsters, you know.”

The party at the table next to theirs stood up, and Isabelle breathed a sigh of relief as she watched them move to the dance floor. She had felt awkward while they were sitting close by.

“I want to stay and watch the dancing,” Marthe insisted.

Isabelle folded her napkin and put it on her plate. “I’m tired—”

“Spinster, Isabelle?”

“Not in the mood to dance.”

“How are you planning on meeting anyone?”

Isabelle stayed silent.

“I didn’t come all this way so that you could hide in a corner. You are full of contradictions. What is wrong with you?”

“There is nothing wrong with me. I just might like to spend the summer catching up on my reading. We can visit the local villages together. I could take up a hobby.” Why had she been mad enough to think that geography would make any difference in how they were perceived? No matter where she was, she did not fit in. And her grandmother was right. She was fighting contradictions. She knew what she wanted, but she couldn’t have it. So wasn’t it better to simply avoid the problem and do something else instead?

“A hobby?” Marthe pushed back her chair with such violence that two waiters appeared at her side. “Very well—I am fine,” she said, batting the men away.

Isabelle averted her gaze. Marthe seemed determined to cause a spectacle.

“If nobody asks you to dance, then you shall not have to dance,” Marthe said, her voice like steel wool on wood. “But if someone asks, for heaven’s sake go and enjoy yourself. Don’t shut yourself off just because of the way things were in Paris.”

“I will watch for a little while,” Isabelle said. “But only to please you.”

“Honestly, Isabelle. You make absolutely no sense to me at all.”

By the time they had made their way across the restaurant, most of the hotel guests were dancing by the lake. A waiter escorted them to a table on the edge of the dance floor and introduced them to two elderly women.

Marthe began a loud and irritating conversation about modern waiters in English with the two older women, and after a few minutes Isabelle found herself inclined to go for a walk.

The low wall where she had sat that afternoon was dotted with lamps tonight, and the moon cut an incandescent streak of light straight along the surface of the dark lake, widening where it met the hotel landing.

Isabelle traced her fingers along the top of the wall, allowing the warmth that the stone had absorbed during the day to linger on her fingers and then seep into her hand.

“I couldn’t help but notice you. Are you travelling alone with your grandmother?” asked a voice from behind her—a male one—in French.

Isabelle turned, slowly, deliberately so. She knew who was standing there.

“Nadja told me she met you.” The look in his eyes was warm. “Was she rude to you?”

“Of course not.”

“I also couldn’t help but notice that you were over here alone. Everyone at my table has someone to talk to. Mademoiselle de Florian, is it?”

His voice was gentle, deep.

“Isabelle.”

“I’m Max Albrecht,” the young man said. “Fortunately—or not—I’m Nadja’s brother.”

Isabelle extended her hand, and he held it for a moment.

“Every night has been like this, you know. Stunning.” He stared out at the lake. “I’d ask you to go for a walk with me, but I presume your grandmother would—”

“Throw me into your arms, most probably,” Isabelle finished.

“You don’t want to be thrown.”

It seemed necessary to explain. “I think she just wants me to enjoy myself. But fun is always so short-lived. I’m bored with it.” For some reason, Isabelle wanted to challenge this young man—but on the other hand, he seemed genuine. Friendly. She dug her teeth into her bottom lip.

“Perhaps now and again you could follow her advice?” Max’s voice was velvety, and he felt close, even though he stood a respectable distance away.

“I don’t see the point.”

He tilted his head to one side, watching her. “Tell you what. Are you by any chance free tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?”

“We’re going out for the day. For a boating party on the lake. Nothing formal. Nadja, her friend Sascha, and my younger twin brothers, Didi and Jo—and me.”

“Would they welcome a stranger?”

“But you’re not a stranger now, are you?”

Isabelle gazed at her grandmother. Marthe seemed to be engaged in an engrossing conversation with the other two women.

Isabelle turned back to the man standing before her. “Well,” she said. “It would probably please my grandmother.”

“Excellent. I’ll take that as a yes. We’re meeting at the landing at half past ten.”

Isabelle smiled and her gaze caught Max’s, just for a second. She could not decide which was more powerful—the desire to keep staring into his eyes, or the impulse to turn away.

San Francisco, 2010

Anna lugged her suitcase through her living room to the front door, eyeing things as she made her way through the house. The soft cushions on her dove-gray sofas were arranged just as she liked them, and she’d left her favorite books on the coffee table. If only she had the time to read. She had scrubbed the black-and-white tiles in the bathroom the night before, polished the round mirror, and dusted her white bedroom with its many built-in cupboards and double glass doors overlooking a small bougainvillea- and rose-lined courtyard.

Anna opened her front door just as Cass pulled up at the bottom of the short flight of steps that led to the house. Max was in the passenger seat, circling his arm in an adaptation of the royal wave. Cass tooted the horn.

“Oh, honestly.” Anna tugged open the back doors of the café van and flung her suitcase between the racks that normally held fresh bread. As if on automatic pilot, Anna’s mind leapt to what should be happening at the café—it was too early for afternoon bread deliveries, but the morning rounds would be complete. What was she doing leaving everything behind? What had she agreed to? And yet, she could not do anything other than give her beloved grandfather his wish.

She slammed the back door of the van, but her mind was still picking away like a hen at a patch of plain dirt.

Anna had done more research, but there was no listing in the local German phone book for the owners of Schloss Siegel. Her searches on Google maps revealed only that the Schloss was located on the edge of a small village, also called Siegel.