by Jane Porter
My hands still hover above the keyboard. I want to do it. I want to go. But I don’t do things like this. Andrew was the impulsive one. Not me.
I can’t remember the last time I just did something crazy. For the hell of it. My life is planned. Organized. Directed. Those lists I make . . . those endless to-dos are my calls to action . . .
Abruptly, I close my laptop, put it back in my purse and get busy with the next arrangement.
My hands are busy but my mind isn’t free. It keeps returning to Germany, Edie’s world. It must have been terrifying and yet fascinating working at the American embassy in Berlin in December 1941. Edie was part of history in the making. She was history in the making.
I snip and shape and arrange even as I try to picture the American staff and journalists being put on trains and sent to the Grand Hotel in Bad Nauheim. I wish I could see the hotel. I wonder if the hotel still exists.
Finishing the arrangement I pull my computer back out, and do a quick search for the Grand but can only find historical references. I try my favorite travel site, searching Bad Nauheim and there are plenty of luxury properties, but nothing named the Grand.
I’m still debating the merits of a trip when the announcer on the NPR classical music station that Diana always streams at Bloom returns to tell us we’ve just been listening to Mozart, who is undoubtedly one of the greatest musicians to have ever lived, with Bach universally agreed to be the greatest.
He goes on to talk about his great works and masterpieces, and how Bach, who wrote in the baroque period, is as romantic as anything by Beethoven, Schumann, or Wagner.
The great German composers.
Edie’s studies at Hoch.
Her passion for music.
And then as the piece begins, Bach’s Double Violin Concerto in D minor, my eyes burn. In the violins I hear love and longing.
I hear Edie, and her love for Franz.
And suddenly I know I must go. Not for her. But for me.
I glance at my watch. It’s almost noon now. Helene could swing by my house and grab my passport on her lunch break. She has a key. She’s house sitting for me while I’m gone. That’s all that’s keeping me from actually going.
I text Helene, asking if she’s taken her lunch yet.
She answers almost immediately. No, but she’s just about to go.
I call her and explain that I need a favor. Can she please pass by my house on her lunch, get my passport from the important documents folder at the back of the bottom drawer in my bedroom desk, and send it by overnight mail to me?
“Are you going somewhere fun?” she asks.
“Berlin,” I answer.
“Berlin?”
I can practically see her wrinkle her nose in distaste. “You don’t think that sounds fun, Helene?”
“Um, no. Not unless I’m going to that big Oktoberfest thing where I’d drink beer, sing songs, and get drunk. Oh. Is that what you’re doing?”
“No. That’s in the autumn, and I think you’re thinking of Munich.”
“Right.” She pauses. “So why are you going?”
“I want to go see Edie’s Berlin.”
“Who is Edie?”
The violin concerto plays on in the background putting a lump in my throat. It takes me a second to answer. “This rather crotchety ninety-four-year-old at my dad’s retirement home.”
“I don’t get it.”
I’m glad she can’t see my face. “That’s okay. I don’t, either.”
• • •
By the time Diana returns at one, I’ve booked my trip, I’ve mentally organized my packing list, and my passport is with FedEx, being rushed to my attention at Bloom, no signature required, arriving by ten tomorrow morning. It only cost a small fortune to guarantee its delivery, but it’s worth it. I can’t leave the country without it.
I’m leaving the country. I’m going to Germany. Berlin. Until I met Edie I’d never ever given Berlin a second thought.
This is crazy.
But I’m excited. And a little freaked out. This spontaneous decision making is so not me.
I wonder what Dad will say. And I can’t wait to tell Edie. Not sure how she’ll react, either. After all, Berlin is her city. The diaries are her stories. The memories are of a time before I was born.
And just like that, I’m filled with misgivings. Should I not be doing this?
Is it ridiculous?
But no, can’t go there. Too late for second thoughts. It’s a non-refundable, non-transferable ticket. I’m too careful with money to waste $1,500 so I’m going.
On Sunday.
I think I’m having a nervous breakdown.
Diana and I put the miniature lemons on florist wire and we tuck the lemons into the twenty-four arrangements before loading the flat boxes into the deliveryman’s new air-conditioned van. Thank goodness for his new van. He can finally be reliable again.
As we head back into the shop, Diana tells me about the interviews this morning. Two of the three people she interviewed were possibilities, but one was an absolute standout, and she’s already asked Carolyn to come in tomorrow to work a half day and see how she does. Carolyn has a design background but no experience as a florist, however Diana was impressed with her energy and attitude, and thinks she could be a great fit at Bloom.
“I’ll have to train her,” Diana says as she closes the door behind us. “But that’s not a big deal. I had to train you.”
“This is true.”
“So how much longer do I have you for?”
“I wanted to talk to you about that.”
“You’re not leaving soon are you?”
“Well . . .”
“Not before Saturday?”
“No. Not before the DeMoss wedding. That’s a promise.”
“Whew. Okay. So when do I lose you?”
“Sunday.”
Diana’s expression falls. “This Sunday?”
“Yeah.”
“Wow.” Her shoulders slump. “That’s terrible.”
“It’s not that terrible. I’m not that good.”
“No, you’re not. But I like you. And just having you around has been so inspirational.”
I straighten, brighten. “Has it?”
“Yeah. You’re this daily reminder to brush at least twice a day and to keep flossing my teeth.”
I laugh, hard, so hard that tears fill my eyes and Diana’s laughing, too. I give her a hug. “Thank goodness you’re a Huskie, or I wouldn’t like you at all.”
• • •
I leave Bloom at five and am walking to my car when a black pickup truck slows next to me. I glance at the truck. A brown and white bulldog hangs out the passenger window, tongue lolling, smiling.
Bruiser.
“Hey,” I shout at Craig.
He pulls to the curb. I walk over and pet Bruiser who is absolutely thrilled to see me, although I’d be willing to bet he has no memory of me. But that’s the great thing about bulldogs. They like everybody.
“How is it going?” I ask Craig, giving Bruiser’s ear another scratch. Bruiser thanks me with slobber all over my wrist.
“Good. And you?”
“Great.”
“You look happy.”
“I am.” I feel the bubble of anticipation rise, and warm me. I’m dying to tell him about Berlin. I want him to be excited for me. But he might not understand. He might not know I don’t do things like this. I don’t travel and jet around having adventures. If I travel, it’s to a conference. I sit in meeting rooms and look at PowerPoint presentations and take copious notes. “Your aunt Edie has inspired me.”
“Has she? How?”
“I’m going to go to Germany.” I hesitate. “This Sunday.”
“That’s fantastic.”
“I know.” I smile shyly. “It’s just for six days. I fly back in Saturday so I can spend Father’s Day with my dad before returning to work Monday in Scottsdale.”
There’s a flicker in his eyes, an expr
ession I can’t quite read. It’s only there a moment and then it’s gone. “I guess we’re just going to miss each other. I head to Italy Wednesday for a wine and food expo in Tuscany, but I won’t be back until after you’re in Scottsdale.”
I’m disappointed, and I don’t even know why. We hardly know each other. We’ve just had dinner once and talked a half-dozen times. “You’re going over on your own?”
“No, Chad will be there, too, along with his girlfriend. He’s planning on getting married after the expo. He was trying to keep the wedding a secret but he had to tell a few people to make sure they’d be there. Like her kids. And family. Sounds like they’re all going now, and I’m happy for them.”
“You like her?”
“Love Meg. She’s amazing. She used to work for us. I already think of her as family.”
“She’s not the one . . .” My voice drifts off. I don’t finish the sentence, not sure how to ask if she’s the one he’d had the affair with.
But Craig knows what I’m asking and he nods. “She is.”
“And it worked out?”
“True love wins.”
True love wins. I used to believe that. I don’t anymore.
My heart does a funny little flip and my breath suddenly catches. “I’m happy for them,” I say, a catch in my voice because I’m jealous, and a little bit angry. I wanted the happy ending. Deep down, I still do. “It all sounds so romantic.”
“So what’s taking you to Germany?”
Nothing nearly as romantic as a wine expo or a Tuscany wedding. “Just have an itch to travel.” Bruiser nudges my hand with his face, demanding more attention. I rub beneath his chin, and then around his fat jowls. He’s practically panting with pleasure. “It seemed like a good time to do something new and adventurous before I’m back to being Dr. McAdams, scary dentist lady, again.”
He grins. “You’re far from scary.”
“I’ll tell my patients that.”
“So Sunday . . . you’re gone.”
“Yeah.”
“Can I take you to dinner before you go?”
“Um . . .” I look past Buster’s big wrinkly face with the jutting canines and feel my insides wobble. Craig is so appealing in so many ways. If I lived here instead of Arizona . . . if I hadn’t lost Andrew . . . if Andrew and I’d broken up instead of him taking his life . . .
“Your aunt Edie wouldn’t approve,” I say, stumbling onto the first excuse I can think of.
“Aunt Edie isn’t the one asking you to dinner.”
“I know, but . . . but . . .” I can’t find the right words. I don’t know how to tell him how desperately afraid I am of him, of men, of me, of life, of love.
I trusted Andrew. I trusted him to love me and protect me, just the way I loved him, and protected him.
And he broke that trust. And in the process, he broke me.
My mouth opens, closes. I shrug. “I like you,” I say simply.
“Good. I like you. So dinner tomorrow night.”
“Tomorrow night is Friday. It’s bingo night. I’d hate to miss it.”
His blue gaze searches my face intently. I’m not sure what he’s looking for but after a moment his expression eases, and the corner of his lips lift. “In that case, I won’t try to persuade you to join me for dinner, as I’d hate for you to miss something you enjoy so much.”
He’s letting me off the hook gently, teasing me, and I’m grateful. He’s a kind man. A really good man.
But Andrew was, too.
And Andrew still hurt me. Badly.
• • •
At home, I change into shorts and a T-shirt and my shoes and go for a run.
I run and run, feeling as if wolves and monsters are at my heels. But there are no wolves or monsters on my heels. It’s just my heart crashing about my chest, thumping wildly. I’m scared.
I’m scared if I reach forward I’ll lose what’s behind me.
I’m scared if I stop being angry with Andrew I’ll stop loving him.
I’m scared that everything will change and I’ll forget who I was with him and become someone new. Someone different.
I won’t be Andrew’s Ali anymore. I won’t be his girl. I’d become someone else’s girl and I’m not ready for that. Because Andrew needs me. His ghost needs me. I’m all he has left.
NINETEEN
Edie
Today was bridge. Bill is my partner again, and I’m glad, not just because we usually win, but because I want to talk to him about Alison.
I want her to come over tonight. I need to talk to her. I need to make her understand that Franz was a good man. I’m not sure she believes me. I’m not sure she knows the risks he took, and the things he did.
Bill promises to send her a text. He says she’s good about responding to texts and he’ll tell her to come see me tonight, or in the morning.
I tell him I want her to come tonight, if possible. I’m not sure I’ll be able to sleep, worrying.
He asks me if I’m feeling okay. He says I seem agitated.
I am agitated.
She must come see me tonight. I insist.
TWENTY
Ali
After my run, I shower, dress, and grab something from the fridge that I can eat at my computer. There are so many things I want to look up, so many things I want to learn before I go on Sunday.
I check the weather.
I check the distance from the airport to the hotel.
I check the currency (euros) and exchange rate. (Doesn’t favor us.)
I read about the city and top attractions and I’m not surprised that nearly all have something to do with World War II.
The Third Reich Walking Tour.
Hitler’s Berlin.
The Holocaust Memorial.
But there are also other tours and museums. The Potsdam palace tour. The DDR Museum. Checkpoint Charlie Museum.
It’s going to be interesting. I need to get some travel guidebooks. Make a list of everything I want to see. Make proper notes so I remember the important things.
I do so love my lists and notes.
I’m online researching Edie’s Berlin, wanting to find her husband Franz, and if he was a member of the German Resistance, he should be here. It ought to be easy to find him. I search for Franz Stephens but there is none. Maybe his last name isn’t Stephens. I should ask her. I’ll ask tomorrow.
I continue reading, and the names of Edie’s friends pop up. Adam and Claus and Peter and so many others, but still, no mention of anyone who sounds like her Franz, at least, not among the notable German Resistance.
There is a Fritz, numerous Hanses, Wilhelms, and Heinrichs, Dietrichs, Axels, Rudolfs, Eugens . . .
A Roland, Theodor, Ulrich . . .
What I need is her Franz’s full legal name, and his birth date. It’d help to know about his family, where he was born, where he’s buried.
Tomorrow when I see her, I’m going to take my notebook, my computer, and find out everything.
• • •
I arrive at Edie’s apartment just before nine the next morning, but she’s not happy with me. I’m not sure what’s wrong but she won’t even let me inside her apartment. She stands in the doorway, blocking my entrance, shaking her head at me, her lips moving silently, as if forming words, but I can’t hear what she’s saying. I don’t know what’s happening.
“Are you upset with me?” I ask.
Her eyes are pink. Deep circles form purple smudges beneath her eyes. She looks at me as if I’m an utter disappointment.
“Edie.”
• • •
I waited for you,” she says. She’s trembling slightly. “You were supposed to come. And I waited for you.”
“When?”
“Last night. Your father said he’d text you. He said you would come and I was sure you’d come, too.”
“I didn’t get a message.”
She lifts a hand, flaps it at me. “So go away. I don’t want to talk now. It’s too la
te—”
“Why is it too late? Did something happen?”
“I’m too upset now.”
I’ve seen her stiff and angry and frosty. I’ve heard her be sharp. But I’ve never seen her like this. She looks frail and faded, as if she’s aged ten years overnight. “I honestly didn’t get a message, Edie, or I would have come. I promise I would have. You know how much I like you—”
“Don’t make up stories. You don’t like me.”
“Oh, but I do, Edie.” I give her a faint smile. “I’m not sure how it happened, but you’ve grown on me.”
Her pink-rimmed eyes water. The tip of her tongue appears and touches her upper lip. “I stayed up late.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I thought something happened to you.”
Oh, Edie. I move forward to hug her but she steps back, putting distance between us.
“I’m not a child,” she says sharply. “I don’t need to be placated.”
“I wasn’t trying to placate you.”
“Why are you here?”
“I wanted to talk to you about Berlin. And Franz.”
Her expression is impassive.
“I’ve booked a trip,” I add. “I’m flying to Germany on Sunday, going to Berlin, and I want to visit all the places you wrote about in your diaries and I thought you could help me. You know Berlin so well and I thought maybe you could tell me where I should go, and what I should do—”
“My Berlin is gone,” she interrupts. “It was destroyed in the war.”
“Not everything was destroyed,” I say. “And a lot of new building is happening, lots of redevelopment since the reunification of Germany in 1990.”
“There’s a hundred places you could go. Why Berlin?”
I look into her face, her expression guarded. She’s suspicious, but also curious. But at least she’s listening to what I’m saying.
“I don’t know how to explain it, and I’m not sure anyone will understand it, especially as I don’t really understand it, but you’ve made me want to see Berlin. You’ve made me want to know about Franz and your friends.”
“But they’re gone. They’re all dead.”
“I know. But when you talk to me about him . . . about them . . . they seem so real. They seem alive. Your stories make them live again.”