“It’s nice to meet you, Mabel Hartley, the writer from Baltimore.” Then, he pulled her toward him and whispered in her ear. The heat of his breath against her skin made it tingle. Not even Artie had made her feel like this.
“Just so you know, I hadn’t forgotten your name. No need to share our secret rendezvous with this cloying bunch, though. I’d love to talk with you after dinner. Will you meet me on the porch?”
The words were quick and it seemed like he’d pulled away as soon as he’d gotten close. Perhaps he was as aware as she was that they had an audience. A captive one. Even without turning to the rest of the table, she could feel their attentive eyes. Erik continued to look at her, waiting for an answer. She nodded.
Then he turned again toward Mrs. Koehler. “Was I close enough, Auntie, that I earned a cookie anyway?”
She picked up the tray that had been set in front of her and slid it over to him. “You can have all you want.”
Conversations among all the guests began again, but they were far more trite than they’d been over dinner, and Mabel wondered if it had anything to do with their exchange. If there were any jealousies of her before, they could only be heightened by the display of attention given her by Mrs. Koehler’s apparently favorite nephew.
She focused instead on her ice cream, already softened by the delay and pooling around the edges of the bowl. She convinced herself that she was imagining things. Surely they could not be so concerned over such a simple conversation. When she dared to look up, nearly everyone had resumed their prior behaviors, most smiling and enjoying their ice cream as well. But two were chilly. Chillier than the dessert.
Marcia Koehler and Ernestina. They looked at Mabel and then at each other. Marcia shook her head and kept from speaking.
Ernestina, however, had no such reservations.
“Bernard,” she said, nearly shouting from the other end of the table. He looked over at her. “Silly me, the lights are out on my car and I wouldn’t want to drive home at night without them. Could you bring me back to my apartment when we’re finished?”
Mabel saw his jaw tighten as well as the grip on his spoon.
“But you live past King William.”
Mabel had no idea where King William was, but it must have been far enough that he didn’t want to drive there. Or maybe he didn’t want to drive Ernestina particularly.
Dare she hope? But that was wishful thinking. Ernestina was beautiful to the point of being glamorous. What man wouldn’t want to spend time alone with her?
She countered him with a pout that was so exaggerated it could have found a home in a comic strip. “You wouldn’t have me driving there without proper lights, would you? Be a sport?”
Mabel watched his shoulders slump.
“Sure.”
“Wonderful.” She stood up. “I’ll get my coat.”
“But—” he started, obviously surprised at her abrupt readiness to leave. Before he could continue, though, Marcia was at his side, cornering him about something to do with the brewery. A batch of yeast gone bad. All the guests began to push their chairs back and put on their jackets. Frieda entered from the kitchen and began picking up the plates.
Mabel took advantage of the many good-byes being bestowed on Mrs. Koehler to slip out of the dining room, taking as many plates with her as her arms could carry, and pouring the remainder of her drinks in a nearby planter. She grimaced at the waste when there were so many soldiers who would crave even a sip, but it had already been served and there was nothing to be done about it.
After such a long day on her feet cooking, she couldn’t believe that Frieda had all these dishes to do as well, and not one person had offered to help. Laden with eight plates balanced on her forearms and two goblets in each hand, Mabel turned around to place her back against the swinging door that led to the kitchen. When she looked up, she could see Erik watching her from across the room, a whole head taller than nearly everyone else. Marcia Koehler was still speaking to him, but he didn’t turn toward her. Instead, he had a look of disappointment in his eyes that matched what Mabel was feeling.
Then, a sad smile that seemed to tell her that their own conversation would have to happen another time.
She hoped it would be soon.
.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
MABEL FOUND A NOTE under her bedroom door on Monday morning, written in Helga’s precise script:
Mrs. Koehler is feeling unwell this morning. She requests that you postpone your work together until after lunch today.
It was a bit of a relief. Although she’d already bathed and dressed, she looked forward to a leisurely morning. Last night had been one of the most restless she’d experienced in a long time, her mind reviewing the memory of yesterday’s dinner like a gramophone needle stuck in a groove.
If she had been able to think on their first conversation by the pool and the jovial nature of it, she might have slept the sleep of a baby. Instead, too many questions challenged even the most arduous sheep counting. Why had he introduced himself as Erik? Why had he said he worked at the theater when it was clear that he worked at the brewery?
There were probably simple enough answers for those questions, but one image could not be erased no matter how tightly she shut her eyes: Ernestina cast a glare that could burn an ant through a magnifying glass, and Mabel had the distinct impression that she herself was the unfortunate prey. Though they gathered as family, Mrs. Kohler had indicated that Erik was the only relative to hail from her mother’s side, leaving Ernestina to be either from the Bentzen or the Koehler line; unrelated by blood, though connected by the matriarch herself.
But just because she’d felt the kind of flutters described in some of the old romance books Mama had kept at the back of the bookshelf, that didn’t mean that he felt them in return. Two conversations were hardly evidence of affection, especially since they’d happened in such an unplanned manner.
And the first time she’d let herself feel such things had led to heartbreak.
After slipping downstairs for a light breakfast, she returned to her bedroom. Only nine o’clock. Four long hours to fill.
She pulled out a sheet of stationary from a box left on the desk in her room. Helga had indicated upon the first introduction to the house that anything in the room was available for her use. This paper was a delicate pink so light in color as to almost be white and had embossed gold roses that adorned each of the corners. Mabel had only ever written on inexpensive pads bought at the Five and Dime, the kind you had to tear from its binding, leaving, more often than not, a jagged edge. She’d written many letters to Robert and Buck this way. Theirs, in turn, had arrived on tissue-thin Air Mail pages in tissue-thin envelopes.
Until none arrived at all.
A set of fine-tipped pens with black ink sat in a lace-covered box to the right of the stationary. She wrote to Ginger first, letting her know that she’d arrived safely in Texas and was pleased with her work and living arrangements. Quite dull stuff, but she didn’t dare make a mention of Erik, especially after she’d lost her head so irresponsibly over Artie and proven her friend right.
She pulled out a second sheet to write to her landlord, and put the end of the ink pen into her mouth absentmindedly, as if the white winter sky would give her exactly the right words. In the end, though, she felt uninspired, perhaps proof to herself that she was not the writer Mrs. Koehler had described her to be. She could eke out only perfunctory things, despite the depth of her emotions:
Dear Mrs. Molling, I have arrived in San Antonio safely. My address is that which I gave you before I left: 310 W. Ashby Place. Though it is cold, it is a good deal warmer than Baltimore and much of the rest of the world. Which only deepens my concern over the whereabouts of my father. I trust that you will alert me the moment you hear from either him or my brother, as you said you would, but I find myself feeling quite helpless and desiring to do the only thing I can do—write to you, as one who knows them both.
I hope y
ou have found excellent tenants for what was our apartment. Our family enjoyed a few happy years there, and many unhappy ones. But it is home, one of only two I’ve ever known. And though my surroundings at the moment are much more extravagant than anything I have ever seen, I find myself homesick for the oddest things: the dent in the wall behind the couch where Robert and Buck wrestled. The warp on the white counters from the time my mother spilled hot coffee on it. The stray cat that came to the back door and whom we named Chester until Chester had kittens. I know you’ve been aching to renovate some things—you seem quite fond of some of the new wallpapers available—so I will have to remember it as it was.
I am enclosing twenty dollars to cover a couple of nights in a boarding house for men should either my father or brother knock on your door looking for me. That will tide them over until I can return. I promise that at the first word from you about them, I will be on the next train.
And should the worse happen, buy yourself a new dress and coat with it and maybe some of the Swiss chocolates from Wockenfuss Candies that you like so much.
With gratitude,
Mabel Hartley
One o’clock arrived faster than she’d anticipated. She’d rested her head on the leather-topped desk after writing the letters and fell into a deep sleep. When she stopped in front of the mirror to brush her hair before heading downstairs, she noticed indentations on her face: a circle where she’d rested on her wristwatch, a rectangle from the ink pen.
Writing the letters had been just the remedy to set her mind elsewhere and she vowed to do so more often. And to keep them from being as bland as this batch, it was high time she explored more of her new city during her off hours. Ginger and Mrs. Molling deserved far more interesting correspondence than what she’d offered so far and she knew that both were eager to hear of what they’d referenced as her Adventure in Texas. Mrs. Molling had never left Maryland save for the wedding of a friend across the Pennsylvania border in Shrewsbury. Ginger had once taken a train into New York City to see a Broadway show with her mother, but when her pocketbook was stolen in Penn Station, Ginger was forbidden from ever going again. So the great unknown state far west of them held much hope for vicarious living.
Hungry after having missed the midday meal, Mabel nevertheless smoothed the wrinkles from her dress, pinched her cheeks, and headed down to the parlor.
Mrs. Koehler had already wheeled herself in, and from the vantage point of the stairs, Mabel could see faint swatches of baldness underneath the braided bun that adorned her employer’s head. It said something of her character that even at this age she had a degree of vanity.
“There you are,” she said as Mabel entered the room. “I hope you took in some fresh air this morning. Before I was bound to this thing for a majority of hours, I used to enjoy brisk walking around the area. Good for the blood flow.”
Mabel didn’t want to admit to such a lusterless use of her time, nor did she care to lie. “I had a good morning, thank you. Shall we get started?”
She settled into a Queen Anne chair that faced Mrs. Koehler’s current position on the Oriental rug.
“What did you think of my Bernard?” the old woman asked. Here eyes were piercing, despite a faint twinkle. At his name, though it was one less familiar to her than the one he’d introduced himself with, Mabel felt the beat of her heart even through her hands.
She steadied her voice. “He was very pleasant company. How disappointing for him that he had to miss all the excellent food that Frieda prepared.”
“It was excellent, but dear Frieda puts on a similar spread every single Sunday, so he has that to look forward to again in six days. And, unlike most of my family, he has come every Sunday for as long as he’s lived here. Far before it was known that the Grim Reaper would be paying me a visit sooner than later. That’s how I know he’s a good boy. He asks me for nothing.”
Mabel could hardly ask about the name Erik or about the Little Theater without giving away their previous acquaintance. She was tempted to try to steer the conversation back to the job at hand, but curiosity got the better of her.
“What does he do at the brewery?”
Mrs. Koehler smiled. She seemed to like that Mabel was asking about him.
“A little of everything, just like my Otto did. He started in bookkeeping and had a minor talent for it. Then he advanced to a position where he hired people for jobs throughout the brewery. But they weren’t the best fit for him. He’s far more active than deskbound positions allow and when we promoted him to be a floor manager, he was much happier. He was always going from container to container testing the samples, analyzing the water, checking the temperature, and even making repairs. He’s not one to sit on his hands.”
“Do many of your family members work at the brewery? Ernestina?”
As soon as she’d said it, Mabel flushed. She hadn’t meant for the woman’s name to escape from her head to her lips. There was no reason to bring her up other than the fact that she’s the only person whose name she remembered from last night, save for Otto A. and Marcia.
Mrs. Koehler’s eyes lit up at the name, but not with affection.
“So you noticed the tension between them? I had hoped it wasn’t so obvious. It’s a sore point within the family. Yes, Ernestina works there. She is a liaison between Pearl and the other breweries around San Antonio. And even beyond. She travels frequently to Austin, arguing for and against laws that would impact our industry. She’s a sharp one. And, as you could easily see, she imagines herself to have quite a territorial hold over my nephew.”
Mabel’s heart sunk. It would be impossible to stand out against one so elegant and accomplished. To speak regularly in the halls of government, especially as a woman! It was an impressive feat.
“I can see why he might be drawn to someone like her.”
Mrs. Koehler gave a wane smile, but shook her head. “Oh, you may be a bit too young to see what goes on beneath the exterior of good manners, but Bernard is most decidedly not drawn to her. Oh, there was once a kind of understanding between them and at the time, we thought there might be wedding bells. But Ernestina—well, her behavior was less than desirable, and I fully supported him in breaking things off.”
Mabel wondered if it was selfish to be happy that something had happened to separate the two of them.
“What about you, dear?” asked Mrs. Koehler. “Are you romantically attached? I should think not, if you came here, but is there a young man back in Maryland pining for your return?”
It did not hold the tone of casual conversation. Mrs. Koehler spoke with intention.
Mabel’s first thoughts went to Artie, having not yet broken the habit of thinking of him as her fiancé. So the old wound, not yet scabbed over and healed by happier days, reopened to fresh pain. She shook her head, and looked down at her fingernails. They needed polishing, though such frivolities were scarce during wartime.
It was a distraction to keep her from answering the questions, but perhaps addressing it would be the much-needed salve she needed.
“I was engaged to a soldier until recently,” she whispered. “But he fell in love with an English girl.”
It was still bitter to speak of. Though as she said it, she surprised herself with the realization that it was not Artie particularly that made her heart ache. It was what being engaged to him represented: the promise of family again. Children. A future.
And the possibility that she would never have these things.
She wanted to turn the discussion around to deflect it from herself. No sense complaining to a dying woman about her own woes. But Mrs. Koehler was determined.
“There is hope for you, Mabel. Maybe you can understand these things better than I thought, though I’m sorry that one so young as yourself has already had to experience betrayal. In the case of Bernard and Ernestina, she became involved with her counterpart at Behrend Brewery. We discovered that their trips to Austin had become about more than business.”
“Poor Be
rnard.” Mabel was careful to use the name that his aunt called him by. To call him Erik would give rise to questions she didn’t want to answer.
“Yes, he was devastated. But only briefly. When it was discovered that her lover was associated with the Auslands-Organisation, with her full knowledge, no less, Bernard told me that he was glad to have ended things. He has no tolerance for Nazi sympathizers.”
“Ernestina is a Nazi sympathizer?” Mabel felt slack-jawed. Though the war overseas affected nearly every aspect of the homeland, the photographs of some of the atrocities coming out of Germany were so abhorrent that she couldn’t imagine anyone here supporting it in any way. Certainly, she’d never met one.
Mrs. Koehler pursed her lips. “No, I would be stretching the truth to say so, and despite my feelings toward the girl, I will not besmirch her name unnecessarily. I think she was blinded by love for that troublemaker and chose to ignore—or at least minimize—his involvement. And I can’t really say to what extent he was vigorously loyal to Germany. But I do know that he received a recruitment letter to return to the motherland and join the Wehrmacht to fight against the Allies. He didn’t understand that our families owe a tremendous loyalty to this country that gave us a new start. We may have all the trappings of being German, but we are Americans first.”
Mrs. Koehler pulled a handkerchief from her long sleeve and swatted at a fly that had entered the room.
She continued. “But before he could respond to the recruiter, he was taken by the police to an internment camp at Fort Oglethorpe in Georgia. They’d found enough evidence of his persuasions to hold him. I don’t know what they will do with him when this unfortunate war ends. It hardly seems the thing to do to release him back into regular life in the United States. But it would also seem unwise to deport him and let him get into the kind of trouble there that could hurt our interests. No doubt the experience has embittered him even further.”
The First Emma Page 9