The House by the Lake (23 page)

Ingrid folded her arms and stared out at the park.

The sun brightened just then, throwing warmth onto the old terrace, sending light onto the lake. And Anna pictured parties, and boat rides, and parasols, and people—a family—having tea outside here in the sun, while children ran down through the old garden to the water. And aunts visited, and cousins played, and people from Amsterdam, or America, or from wherever the family had spread came here too, came at Christmas, and the house by the lake was alive once more.

That was her dream.

“You can do it. And I can do it with you,” Anna said.

“But who will live here?” Ingrid asked, her blue eyes hitting Anna’s with some indefinable emotion now. Was it the recognition that comes from family, or from love?

“I don’t know who’ll live here,” Anna said. “We have to take chances, restore things to what they are meant to be, and then who knows what will happen.”

Ingrid stared out at the water for a moment. A bird called a long, sharp note through the quiet.

And then the older woman’s shoulders dropped. And her face cleared. And she looked beautiful now.

“We would have a big job, you and I,” she said, still staring straight ahead. “And you have your life in San Francisco.”

“I could renovate a small apartment in the Schloss, stay here, supervise it all. I need a project. My business can take care of itself for a while.”

“We would have to work very carefully. It would have to be done with taste.”

“Yes.”

“Then,” Ingrid said, “I think we had better get to work.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

Anna stretched
on the bed in the hotel room. Automatically, she reached for her phone. It was the first thing she did each morning, checking if there was anything from the café. But this morning, there was a different sort of message.

A message from Ingrid. Having returned to Ingrid’s office in the van with the disappointed businessmen, she and her cousin had stayed talking in Ingrid’s office like a couple of schoolgirls until late. Making plans, looking at maps of Siegel.

But now, Anna frowned and put the phone on speaker. Ingrid’s voice rang through the room. “I can’t believe I forgot to tell you. I am sorry, Anna. But the thing is, it’s my lawyer. He seemed to be . . . on your side.”

Anna sat up in bed. All her senses were on full alert. “You see, the last time we met, Wil Jager arrived with all these letters. From the villagers at Siegel. He had been back there, spoken to them all, and had convinced them to write to me, telling me why their village should be saved. Why I should save the Schloss. Why I should trust you to handle it all for me.”

Anna felt her lips twitch into a smile. A warmth ran through her body.

“I thought I should let you know. You might want to thank him. It did . . . have a bearing on my decision yesterday.”

Anna hung up the phone, swept her knees over the side of her bed, and stood up. She walked to the bathroom, but she felt as if she were gliding or flying there instead.

What did that mean? It was typical of Wil, of course it was, to do something like that and not tell her, not take any credit.

She stood under the shower, letting the hot water run over her shoulders and down her back. Dressed, sprayed on some perfume, did her makeup. Went down to breakfast. Once she had eaten and was back in her room, she picked up her phone. Then put it down.

Instead, she opened her bag and pulled out the thing, the thing that she had wanted all along and that she finally had. And she walked out of the room.

It was still so, so early. Surely Wil wouldn’t have gone to work just yet. Anna had woken before dawn after only a few hours of dashed, harried sleep. She was too excited to rest at all.

She took a taxi straight to his house. It was only just seven. Surely he would be there.

The newspaper was still on his front lawn, wet with dewdrops that lingered on its clear plastic wrap. Anna picked it up for him.

And rang the bell.

Footsteps sounded inside. Wil opened the door, dressed in his suit trousers and a shirt with the top button undone. “Anna!” he said. “My God. Okay. Of course you’re here on my doorstep. Good to see you!” He leaned forward and enveloped her in a hug, but then stood back a little awkwardly.

“Can I come in, just for a moment?” Anna smiled.

“Sure, sure,” he said. “Early—Anna.”

“I know,” Anna said. She followed him through to the kitchen.

“Coffee?” he asked.

“Thank you.”

He turned to the machine.

“Shall I get the cups?” Anna asked, suddenly wanting to not just stand there, useless.

“Great,” he said. “That cupboard.”

Anna moved across to the cupboard, which was high above the bench. She opened it and heard him moving closer toward her. He was standing behind her, his voice soft in her ear. “Those ones,” he said, reaching behind her, his hands touching hers, as he showed her which to use.

“Okay,” she said, turning. But he hadn’t moved, was still there.

He looked down at her, and something kindled in his green eyes. She had seen that before. It relaxed her and excited her and she could hardly breathe. Could she think?

“Why are you back?” he asked, his voice suddenly quiet.

“To say thank you.” She smiled, but her voice was only a whisper.

He reached out to stroke her hair.

She reached in her pocket, took the key to the old palace out, and held it between them. “It was what I came to ask you for, but now I want to give it to you instead, because you are welcome to visit me there anytime,” she said, her eyes locked with his. She didn’t want to turn away. “Ingrid and I, we have come to an agreement, if you can believe it.”

Wil looked down at the old key and gently took it out of Anna’s hand. He returned his eyes to hers. “I know. Ingrid called me last night. I had to deal with a bevy of disappointed businessmen. It was up to me to entertain them last night.”

“Oh.” Anna felt herself giggling.

“This key is going to open up all sorts of possibilities,” Wil said, bringing her hand up to his lips. “You know, Anna, you’ve helped me realize that there is something that is more important than everything else in this life.”

Anna smiled up at him. She was ready. It was time. He leaned down toward her, his lips touching hers with a first featherlike kiss. She closed her eyes, but she didn’t have to dream anymore.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

This book was inspired by two true stories that are woven together to form this fictional story surrounding Isabelle and Max, and Anna and Wil.

As many readers will know, an apartment was abandoned in Paris for seventy years after the owner, a Mme de Florian, fled on the eve of the Nazi invasion. While there was nothing unusual about the fact that the owner left her home in Paris, the legacy she left behind was an extraordinary find and has captivated the world since its discovery in 2010.

Mme de Florian’s apartment was a treasure trove. The apartment turned out to have belonged to Mme de Florian’s grandmother, the famous 1890s Belle Époque actress and courtesan Marthe de Florian. Marthe had entertained an astonishing list of gentlemen clients in the apartment, including prime ministers of France, powerful businessmen, and members of the English aristocracy.

All of this was revealed in love letters that were found in the apartment by the executors of her estate, one of whom described the experience of walking into Marthe’s locked-up apartment as like entering Sleeping Beauty’s castle.

The story—along with several haunting images of the rooms—was picked up by international newspapers and bloggers alike, and it went viral.

But perhaps what was most extraordinary was that a painting found on the wall of the apartment turned out to be the work of the most famous portrait painter of Paris’s Belle Époque—the Italian artist Giovanni Boldini. The portrait of Marthe sold at auction for a record 2.1 million euros, with several bidders all wanting to pay the price for love.

Apart from these few things that we know about Marthe, all the characters and the story contained in
Paris Time Capsule
and
The House by the Lake
are fictional and entirely a product of my own imagination.

Schloss Siegel is also inspired by a true story. I have a friend who has a photograph on her wall. Every time I walk into her house, I am drawn to it and stand there, drinking in the details of what was clearly a beautiful old palace. But the more I looked at the photograph, the more I noticed that something was not quite right; the walls were pockmarked and the garden was in a state of despair, but there was also beauty—inherent, aching beauty. A mystery, then?

So I read my friend’s mother’s memoir,
I Close My Eyes and Dream
, in which Isa Mitchell describes with great clarity her childhood memories of growing up in her family Schloss just outside Berlin during the 1930s, before the family was forced to leave their home right before the Soviets came through.

But again, I have to emphasize that the characters in the Berlin part of the story are entirely of my own invention and bear no resemblance to anyone, living or dead. Max’s struggles with Nazism were inspired by my own travels to Berlin and have nothing to do with any of the family that lived in Isa’s real Schloss until they had to flee in 1946.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I am incredibly fortunate to have wonderful people around me, and without them, this book would not exist. Thanks to Jodi Warshaw, my editor at Lake Union Publishing—I have been lucky to work with you. We share the same creative vision and I appreciate your calm and thoughtful approach—the process is seamless. Thanks to my editor Christina Henry de Tessan. I adore working with you. I was thrilled that you were able to work with me again on
The House by the Lake
. Thanks to Gabriella Dumpit, my wonderful, always-there author relations manager, to my marketing manager, Tyler Stoops for all your support, and to Brent Fattore, my production manager for coordinating the entire process.

My appreciation to Shasti O’Leary-Soudant for designing a beautiful cover that reflects this grand old Schloss to perfection, to Amanda Gibson for such thorough, careful copyediting, and to Ramona Gault for proofreading the novel.

To my agent, Peter Giagni—you are a great mentor, with an innate understanding of story that I admire and respect. To my marketing manager, Tracy Balsz—I benefit enormously from having you around—you have, quite simply, the best ideas. Thank you to Nas Dean for your ongoing virtual assistance and for organizing things for me.

Thanks to my friend Denita Mitchell for allowing me to read the memoir of her late mother, Isa Mitchell, about her childhood in Germany during the 1930s. Denita, your mother’s story resonated with me so very much—and as for the images of your old family Schloss, they move me every time I see them. I simply had to write this book.

I cannot thank several of my closest friends enough for their support over the past year, and I cannot say how much it means to have had you around—Kelli Jones, Melanie Milburne, and Fiona Calvert. Thanks to my friend Miriam Connor for reading my work before it is sent off—I appreciate you so much. Thank you to all my other friends—you know who you are. Particular thanks to Alison Imbriotis, Jo Carnaby, and Tracey Walls for helping out with my children when I have needed to travel for my work.

Thank you to Harry and Val Stanton for all your support during the past year. Thanks to Jasmin Emerson and Craig Keane—you both go way above and beyond for me. And thank you to Frances di Giovanni for your excellent advice.

Thanks to the bloggers who have reviewed
Paris Time Capsule
, to the lovely readers, each and every one of you, with particular thanks to the lovely Helen Sibritt. Thanks in particular to those readers who have contacted me, often telling me their own personal stories. I read all your messages, even if it takes me a while to reply. I love hearing all your thoughts.

Thank you to Margie Lawson. Catching up with you was a treat. I look forward to working with you again in the future.

To my sister, Jane—you are an inspiration. Thank you.

Most importantly, huge thanks to Ben and Sophie, for allowing me the time and space to write—it’s all for you. It always will be.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Photo
©
2014 Alexandra Grimshaw

Ella Carey is a writer and Francophile who claims Paris as her second home. Her first book is
Paris Time Capsule
, and her work has been published in the
Review of Australian Fiction
. She lives in Australia with her two children and two Italian greyhounds.