Romantic Road

by Blair McDowell

  At noon, Lacy positioned herself under the great clock in the Rathaus square. She stood for fifteen minutes, growing increasingly fidgety. Where was Inga Graff? Then she felt someone brush her in passing. Startled she looked to see a small, slender woman wearing a dark raincoat with its collar pulled up, striding through the archway. The woman briefly glanced her way, their eyes momentarily locking.

  Lacy strolled along behind her, keeping some distance between them, careful not to lose sight of her among the throngs of tourists. She followed the woman out of the walled town through the Gallows Gate. The crowds became sparse and then dwindled to nothing. Lacy saw they were in an area of private homes, considerably smaller than those in the Old Town. The woman stopped before a wrought-iron gate, glanced around the empty street, and nodded at Lacy. She went into the house, leaving the door ajar. Lacy followed her, closing the door behind her.

  She found herself face to face with a woman who appeared to be in her late thirties. Her honey-colored hair was pulled back at the nape of her neck with tendrils curling softly around her face. Her sapphire blue eyes were traced in eye liner, the only makeup she wore. She had the delicate peaches and cream complexion of one who doesn’t spend much time out of doors. The looks, Lacy decided, of a Dresden doll. Beautiful but fragile.

  “Inga Graff,” she said, holding out her hand to shake Lacy’s in a strong, almost masculine grip that belied her delicate appearance. “And you, I presume, are the woman Igor married. I never thought he would, you know. Marry, that is.”

  Before Lacy could answer, Inga turned abruptly and strode down the hallway toward the back of the house. “Come into my studio. I’ll make us a coffee.”

  Lacy followed and entered a large rather messy room furnished sparsely with a small table and two chairs, a desk and a single bed that seemed to double as a sofa. One corner of the room held a waist high refrigerator and a small stove.

  She saw an easel set up near a wide window and paintings all over the room, stacked against the walls and on every available surface. “You’re an artist?”

  “You didn’t know? No. I guess Igor wouldn’t have said much to you about his past women. We were legion.” She gestured around the room. “Yes, as you can see, I paint. I have a one-woman show coming up in a gallery in Frankfurt next month. It’s important to me. I wouldn’t have interrupted my work for anyone but Igor.”

  Inga busied herself with a small, hourglass-shaped metal coffee pot on the two-burner stove. The aroma of the strong dark coffee soon filled the room.

  As Inga fussed with the coffee, Lacy walked slowly around the room, examining the paintings, large and small. Most were of gardens and flowers. They were vaguely Monet in style, but they were not simply nouveau Monet. There was a quite startling originality about them. They reminded her of something…

  ”It was you,” Lacy said, realization dawning. “You’re the artist who painted the Irises hanging over our fireplace. Igor loved that painting.”

  “So he kept it. I’m pleased. Cream? Sugar?”

  Lacy nodded yes to both. It was better to dilute the coffee in Germany. Fortunately, the cups were minuscule compared to American coffee mugs.

  The coffee served, they sat facing each other at the small table. There was no small talk. Lacy was increasingly uncomfortable as Inga stared at her, studying her with undisguised curiosity.

  Finally, Inga broke the silence. “You’re very much younger than I thought you’d be. Just how old are you?”

  Lacy shifted in her chair. She felt a bit as if she’d been called into the principal’s office. “Twenty-seven. I was twenty-two when I married Igor. He was fifty. Is that a problem for you?”

  “No. But the difference in age turns out to have been a problem for you. He died.” Then Inga seemed to regret her brutal comment. “Did you love him?” Inga held up her hand. “No, don’t bother to answer. Of course you loved him. We all did. It was impossible not to fall in love with Igor Telchev once he set his sights on you.”

  “How did you meet him?” Lacy asked, not so much out of curiosity as in a desire to get the focus off herself and to know more about Igor and the years before she met him. A window, perhaps, into his mind. She’d loved him deeply, but she never quite felt she knew him.

  Inga sat back in her chair and a smile played on her lips. “It was in the spring of 2001, at a show in Wurzburg. I was one of five young artists featured and I was afraid none of my paintings would sell. I thought the gallery owner had placed far too high prices on them. I was sure the critics wouldn’t bother to come, or if they came they wouldn’t like my work. I was a bundle of nerves. I stood near my paintings trying to eavesdrop on comments people were making. One man kept returning to a particular painting.”

  Lacy smiled. “Irises.”

  “Exactly. The gallery owner had for some reason put the highest price in the gallery on Irises. Two thousand euros. I was sure it would never sell.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Igor told the gallery owner he wanted to meet the artist. Of course she brought him over to me. I looked up into those green eyes…”

  Lacy knew the effect of those mesmerizing eyes. She remembered her reaction at the lecture the first time she’d seen Igor. “And then?”

  “He told me mine were the best paintings in the show and that Irises was by far the best thing I’d done. He said he was contemplating buying the painting but…” Inga laughed. “He felt he needed to get to know the artist better.

  “We left the gallery together that night. He had the painting under his arm and the artist in his pocket!”

  Lacy joined in the laughter. “It was impossible to refuse him, wasn’t it? His was an overpowering presence. He simply swept up everyone and everything in his path.”

  The two women sat silent for a moment, remembering the man they’d both loved.

  Inga continued. “We became lovers that same night, and we lived together for six months. I was madly in love with him.” Inga brushed her hand over her eyes. “Then one day it was over. He told me he would always care for me, always remember me, but he had to move on. I believe my successor was an actress.”

  “I’m sorry,” Lacy said. “It must have been hard for you to lose him that way.”

  “I never really had him, Lacy. He was a wonderful lover, affectionate and kind, and he believed in me as an artist. But he didn’t love me. He never once said he loved me. I knew he’d leave one day, and he did.”

  “But you remained friends?” Lacy asked.

  “He gave me the gift of faith in myself as an artist. I don’t believe I’d have the successful career I have today if it hadn’t been for Igor. So, yes, we remained friends. When he came to me a year ago asking for my help…”

  “Did he tell you it might be dangerous?”

  “He did. That’s why I was so careful about the way I met you.”

  Taking a deep breath and coming back to the present Inga said, “Now, about you. What on earth are you doing in those outlandish clothes and that obviously dyed red hair? It’s hardly unobtrusive.”

  Lacy laughed. “Not my choice of either hair color or clothing. Igor left me three passports in case I needed to change identities. A redhead, a mousy brown with glasses, and a one with black hair. My natural hair color is a pale blond.”

  “Three passports? I thought he was a writer. What was he into that he could arrange three false passports?”

  “I’m not sure, Inga. It’s one of the things I’m here to find out.”

  “And the clothes?”

  “My luggage was stolen the first day I was in Germany. Max Petersen, the man I’ve been traveling with, found these for me.”

  “A man?”

  “He just a friend, helping me out. I thought I was being pursued in Frankfurt Airport. Max got me away from them.”

  “I can’t say I care much for his taste in women’s apparel.” Inga studied Lacy. “Unfortunately, none of my clothes will fit you. You’re a good five inches taller than
I. But I can lend you a raincoat that will at least cover up your costume. My brother forgot it the last time he visited.”

  The raincoat was a trifle long, but it would make her less noticeable. It was hard to blend into a crowd when one looked like Julie Andrews.

  “I don’t know how I can thank you.”

  “It’s been my pleasure.” Inga smiled. “I didn’t expect to like the woman Igor chose to marry instead of me. But I do. And it’s comforting somehow to meet someone else who loved him.”

  “He was amazing, wasn’t he?” Lacy thought back to her early, heady days with Igor, and then to unhappiness of the last two years of their life together. “Was he much changed when you saw him last summer?”

  “Very much so. He was a different man. It was as if some inner light had gone out. He was obsessed with whatever it was he was doing, and he seemed to be… I’m not exactly sure…fearful of something or someone. He asked me to keep a small package for you and to tell no one about it.” Inga sighed. “And he said if you came for it, it would mean he was dead. I dreaded your phone call.”

  “What’s in the package?”

  “I don’t know. It’s just a small parcel wrapped in brown paper, and now I’m afraid it’s your problem.” Inga reached into the cupboard above the kitchen sink. “I think you should hide it in your clothing. There’s an inside pocket in the raincoat. Igor impressed on me the need for caution and for secrecy.”

  There seemed to be nothing more to say.

  “Thank you for seeing me.” Impulsively, Lacy hugged the other woman. She had expected to dislike any woman who’d been in Igor’s life before her. To feel at least some jealousy for the years they’d spent with the man who later became her husband. But she liked Inga Graff. She felt a kinship with her. A sense almost of sisterhood.

  Inga smiled and echoed Lacy’s unspoken feelings. “I must say I was prepared to hate the woman Igor chose instead of me, but I can see why he loved you. Do be careful.”

  “Oh. I almost forgot.” Inga went to a small desk and rummaged through the drawer. “Igor left a name and phone number.” She handed Lacy a piece of folded paper. “He didn’t say what you were to do with it.”

  Lacy opened it. “Riana Rolf. The name sounds vaguely familiar.”

  Inga took the slip of paper from her and read it. “It should. She’s one of the leading sopranos at the Vienna State Opera. I wonder how Igor came to know her.”

  The two women looked at each other and burst out laughing.

  “I should have remembered the name. We have some of her recordings in our New York apartment. Do you suppose she and Igor…”

  “It seems likely,” Inga said, completing Lacy’s thought.

  Lacy studied the phone number, memorizing it. “I won’t carry this with me,” she said, handing the note back to Inga. “Burn it.”

  They walked together down the hall to the door.

  “Good-bye, Inga. I won’t forget you.”

  “Nor I, you. Let me know how things turn out.”

  “I will.”

  ****

  Then Lacy was out on the sidewalk. She had gone only a few steps when a hand grasped her arm. She whirled around in fear.

  His mouth came down on hers, insistent, demanding, his arms holding her as if he’d never let her go.

  She pushed him back in shock. “Richard! What on earth are you doing here?”

  He pulled her into his arms again, and kissed her deeply, his tongue forcing its way into her reluctant mouth. When he came up for air he said, “I’ve been waiting for weeks to do that, and for hours for you to come out of that house. I’ve missed you so much, Lacy.”

  Lacy disentangled herself, her mind in turmoil. What was Richard doing here? “How did you find me?” she managed when she caught her breath.

  “I tried again and again to reach you at the Auberge du Lac. You never answered your phone or returned my calls. When I finally got through to Jean-Paul he had some reason you couldn’t come to the phone. So I went there, only to discover you weren’t there at all. I was desperately worried about you. Finally, Claudette broke down and gave me this address. Inga Graff, they said. Someone Igor knew.”

  Lacy shook her head in disbelief. “They gave you Inga’s name?”

  He nodded appearing not to notice her incredulity. “I’ve been watching this house, hoping to catch you.”

  Lacy took a deep breath and pushed him away. “Richard, it’s very sweet of you to be concerned, but you shouldn’t have come. You mustn’t follow me. This is something I’m doing for Igor, and I want to do it alone.” Hypocrite, her conscience whispered. You’re not doing this alone. You have Max. And you don’t want Richard.

  Richard put his arms around her again and pulled her close. “I’m not concerned, Lacy, I’m way beyond concerned. I love you. I don’t want anything bad to happen to you. Please let me help you with whatever it is you’re doing. Igor would have wanted me to look after you.”

  No, he wouldn’t have, Lacy thought. Igor had instructed her to trust no one. Lacy stepped back. “We can’t stand here in the street and discuss this, Richard. Let’s at least go find a coffee shop.”

  “Can’t we just go back to your hotel?”

  Her hotel? Where Max was waiting for her? “No we can’t,” Lacy answered. How could she ever explain Max to Richard?

  “Mine then. I think we need privacy to talk.”

  “As you wish.” She owed him some sort of explanation. After all he’d followed her halfway around the globe. She couldn’t just send him away, could she?

  ****

  In a shadowed alleyway across the street Max Petersen observed the scene unfold. He winced at their embrace, at the prolonged kiss. Who was that man? His eyes narrowed as he saw them stroll off arm in arm. He followed at a distance, temper seething with something he refused to admit was jealousy.

  ****

  Richard was staying in the Herrnschloschen, the most expensive hostelry in town. It figured, Lacy thought. Nothing but the best for Richard. They went through the building to the beautifully manicured walled gardens in the back and settled into comfortable chairs.

  “Okay, Lacy. Now what’s this all about?”

  “I can’t tell you that, Richard. There’s something Igor asked me to do, and I’m doing it. That’s all you need to know.” Lacy tried to soften her tone. “I’m flattered you care enough to trace me here. And I appreciate your offer of help. But I don’t want or need it, Richard.”

  “But I love you, Lacy. And I know you care for me. How can you send me away?”

  It was true, she did care for him, but… “Richard, you’re a dear friend, one of my closest friends. But I told you before I left New York, I’m not ready for a new relationship. And even if I were, I’m afraid I just don’t love you. Not in the way you mean.”

  Lacy hated saying the words, but they were true. She didn’t love Richard. Nothing good could come of softening the message.

  “I don’t believe you, Lacy. You don’t know what you’re saying. Give us a chance.”

  Lacy sighed. “Listen to me, please. We’re friends. Close friends. But that’s all we can ever be. If I ever inadvertently encouraged you to think otherwise, I’m sorry.”

  Richard looked stricken. “Look, even if you think you can’t learn to love me the way I love you, marriages can work between friends. Don’t throw away the possibility of a lifetime of devotion. And if you consider me a friend, let me help you with whatever it is you’re doing here.”

  “No, Richard. I’m fond of you, but I don’t love you. I’m not going to marry you, and I don’t want to give you false hope. And as for accepting your help, I can’t. This is something I must do for myself.”

  “At least tell me where you’re going. It’s not safe for you to be wandering all over Europe with no one knowing where you are.”

  Lacy relented. “I’ll let you know from time to time where I am. I think I should be home again in a few weeks. Please don’t worry.”

&nbs
p; “Of course I’ll worry,” he said. “But you don’t leave me any alternative.”

  “I must be going. Please, Richard, go home. Go back to New York. I know what I’m doing.” Lacy stood to leave.

  Richard stood also and reached to kiss her. She turned her head so his kiss landed her on her cheek rather than on her mouth as he’d intended.

  “Good-bye, Richard. Please don’t follow me.”

  He stood defeated, arms at his side, shoulders slumped. Lacy could feel his eyes boring into her back as she walked away from him.

  As she left the hotel and turned in the direction of the Meistertrunk, she began to question her own behavior. Why was she so sure she couldn’t love Richard? He was handsome, he was wealthy, and he adored her. He had followed her across the ocean just to make sure she was safe. Why couldn’t she summon up the normal feelings for him any sensible woman would have?

  Max. The answer came as a shock. Max had kissed her twice. Each time it had been in order to keep her from being caught by pursuers. And each time it had made her toes curl. She wasn’t at all sure what she felt for Max was love. It might be lust, pure and simple. She’d been without a man in her bed for a long time. Whatever it was, she knew it was a necessary ingredient to any lasting relationship for her. When Richard kissed her, she felt nothing except a desire for the kiss to be over. It wasn’t a promising beginning.

  Chapter Seven

  Out of the corner of her eye, Inga Graf noticed the man as he stepped back into the shadows and ground out his cigarette. She hurried her steps down the walkway and, balancing her handbag and a small bag of groceries, she tried to extract her house key and enter the house quickly. He was too fast for her. He pushed his way into the house behind her.

  “What do you want?” Inga turned to face him, not afraid, simply annoyed. “I told you I don’t know any Lacy whatever-her-name was. Please get out of my house and leave me alone.”

  “I don’t think so.” The man’s smile was somehow more frightening than anger would have been as he loomed over her. He spoke softly. “You know her. I watched her leave here only a few hours ago. Shall we go into your studio and talk about this?”