“We have no proof of any of this.” Still, hope flickered in Sylvie.
Meg released Sylvie’s hands. “It’s only a hunch, but I think we have as much reason to think she’s still in town as reason to think she isn’t.”
Sylvie hoped she was right. But even if Rose was still in Chicago, there was no way to guess for how long.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 1, 1893
“For you.” Kristof held out a box of Van Houten chocolates he’d picked up at the Fair before returning to his apartment building. “It’s my turn to bring the treats, wouldn’t you say?”
Anna Hoffman’s laughter was a merry tune to his ears and a balm to his spirit after the day he’d had. Right in the doorway, she wrapped her soft arms around him in an embrace that smelled of warm yeast and sugar.
Standing back, she regarded him with a twinkle in her crinkling blue eyes. “Such a good boy, you are.”
Suddenly he felt like a child who had delighted his mother with the smallest gesture, though he was a bachelor of forty-four. He didn’t mind. Once he’d given his mother a bouquet of flowers carefully chosen for their bright yellow color. He’d thought it would please her, which was what he’d most wanted in the world. Instead, she’d told him that he’d picked common weeds and that his father would not like to see dirt beneath his fingernails when he played violin. Kristof had watched her cast the weeds out a rear window where they would be trampled in the alley below.
Absently, Kristof checked his fingernails. They were clean.
“Come in, come in!” Karl called from the kitchen. He folded a newspaper and set it beneath his chair. “Nate’s here, too. You must partake with us whatever you’ve brought. It’s only right.”
“Oh, yes, you must!” Anna pulled him inside and shut the door behind him.
Nate rose and shook Kristof’s hand before sitting again. “I see I picked the right time to drop by. We don’t have to tell the other ladies about this, do we?” His lips slanted in a mischievous grin. “Meg is downstairs with Sylvie. I figured they needed some sister time. Our youngest is home with our oldest.”
“Ja, this is good,” Karl said, clapping Nate on the shoulder. “I’d say you figured right.”
Adding his own agreement, Kristof set the box of chocolates on the table, opening the lid to reveal the smooth, shining treasures inside. “The man who sold them to me said they’re filled with different things. Raspberry, caramel, hazelnut mousse, and a few are solid chocolate. There’s a key written inside the lid so you know what you’re getting before blindly taking a bite.” He tugged his trousers up at the knees and sat across from Nate.
Anna set four small plates around the table before sitting. They were white, painted with pale blue flowers and grey-green vines twining around the edge. The one in front of Kristof had a small chip on the rim.
“What a shame,” he murmured. The pattern looked old-fashioned and German. Not something they’d picked up at Marshall Field’s. “I don’t suppose you’re able to replace this with a new one, are you?”
“Replace it?” Anna’s tone implied she’d never considered it. “Oh, because of that tiny notch. No, dear, there’s no need. It’s not sharp enough to hurt anyone, and I’ve grown rather fond of that chip, to tell you the truth.”
Intriguing. “Tell me more.” The chocolate that melted on Kristof’s tongue was creamy, the raspberry center cool and sharp.
While Karl helped himself to a chocolate, Anna leaned back in her chair. “These plates are some of the only things Karl and I saved from the Great Fire of 1871. They were my mother’s back in Germany. That little chip on the rim is a reminder of what the plates have been through. They’ve crossed an ocean, carrying memories of generations past, and they’ve survived a fire, too. We bundled them together in such haste that night, packing them in a trunk with precious little else. Karl was able to load them onto a train that rolled out of town before the fire destroyed this neighborhood. That we have them back at all is such a blessing, I don’t mind the flaw.”
Nate turned solemn. “I’m sure the plates are more precious to you now than they ever were. In terms of material possessions, I lost everything that night except the clothes on my back and a few mementos of my parents. But thank God I didn’t lose what was most important: people.”
“Meg,” Kristoff prompted, thinking of her burned hands. It could have been so much worse.
“Yes, Meg, and Sylvie, and their father. My stepsiblings were never in harm’s way, thank goodness.” He took a chocolate and popped it in his mouth.
In 1871, Kristof had been twenty-two years old and trying to keep Gregor in check at school in Vienna so that both of them could graduate. “I can’t fathom what you all have been through. I’ve never had to run for my life. I’ve never lost all my worldly goods. I can’t begin to understand what it was like for Meg to learn to paint again.” Instinctively, he flexed his hands beneath the table. If they were disfigured, what kind of music could he ever hope to play?
“She had to set a different standard for herself, that’s for certain,” said Nate. “She had to stop thinking in terms of perfect and imperfect and see things in a new way. There is room, in art, for all kinds of interpretation, as the French impressionists are proving. It’s subjective. A matter of perspective.”
Perspective. That was certainly something Kristof was trying to learn.
Anna dabbed a napkin to her mouth. “I hear you practicing so much, Kristof. But I rarely hear your brother.”
“Rarely see him about either.” Karl took another chocolate. “I begin to think he is a ghost!”
Kristof tried to smile. “You may see him even less, actually.” He didn’t want to think about Gregor just now, nor of the row they’d had at the rehearsal yesterday morning. But it had been more than just an argument. It was a Rubicon. There was no going back.
As Kristof had suspected, Gregor hadn’t been able to pay his full share of the rent today, so Kristof had covered the rest. Gregor paid a small portion of it and promised to get the rest to him within a week. Kristof had agreed to the grace period against his better judgment. But after that, if Gregor failed to pay, he’d have to move out, and that was that.
“Trouble?” Nate folded his arms across the table. “I don’t mean to pry, but if you need to talk, I hear I’m pretty good at listening.”
“It may do you good to unburden yourself.” Anna squeezed Kristof’s hand. “We won’t break your confidences.”
Kristof ran a hand over his stubbled jaw. “I suddenly find myself unwilling to continue compensating for Gregor’s mistakes.” He brushed his fingertip along the chip in the china again. “It’s time for him to change his ways. If he doesn’t come up with the rest of his share of the rent by Friday, he’ll no longer be sharing my apartment.” He deflated, shoulders slumping as if he’d just confessed his own sin.
Nate removed his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. “That’s tough. Really tough.” He exhaled. “But it’s the right decision. I had to come to a similar breaking point with my stepbrother, Andrew, many years ago. I used to think it was my fault, but I’ve come to realize we all own our choices. He’s made his, over and over, not to reconcile with me. I regret it, but I don’t lose sleep at night over it anymore. We are grown men, all of us. There comes a time when we have to say, ‘I am not my brother’s keeper.’”
“That’s exactly what I’ve been, though,” Kristof blurted before he could consider his words. “Since I was a child and my parents realized he had more musical talent than I did, my job was to keep him in line, protect him from his own bad choices so his music could flourish.”
“Your parents said that to you?” Karl muttered an oath in German, perhaps forgetting that Kristof understood.
“Oh no,” Anna said, “I’m sure they loved you dearly.” Concern filled the cadence of her words.
“If they did, it was kept secret.” Kristof’s laugh came out hollow and bitter. But that was no
t who he wanted to be. “I never lacked food, shelter, or education. For that, I’ll always be grateful. And Gregor and I had our moments. Good ones,” he clarified. “Since our parents died, he’s all the family I have left. That’s why I’ve waited so long to hold him accountable, I suppose. Deep down, I knew that meant we’d have to part ways. And what do I have, if not family?”
Anna clasped Kristof’s hand between both of hers. “Oh, my boy.”
The endearment went straight to the dry place in Kristof’s spirit, the desert that had never been watered with motherly affection before he’d met Anna Hoffman. He allowed himself to soak it in.
She patted his hand. “The psalmist wrote, ‘God setteth the solitary in families.’ And it’s true. Having you and Sylvie, Meg, and Nate in our lives has made the two of us feel like we have family again. Imagine, at our old age! We left many kin in Germany when we came to America to build a better life for our children. Children that never came. I wonder if you understand that you’ve become like a son to us. Blood has nothing to do with it.”
“No.” Kristof swallowed the wedge in his throat. “No, I don’t suppose it does.” He lifted her hand and kissed it. Color infused her cheeks.
“Ja.” Karl spread his arms, squeezing Kristof’s shoulder and Nate’s. “We have two good boys here, don’t we, Anna? And they take good care of our girls, too. Don’t you?”
The question was clearly directed at Kristof. “As far as she’ll let me, yes. With all that I am.”
Nate replaced his spectacles and leaned forward, hands folded on the table. “You have to understand something about Sylvie. She’s a romantic deep down, but she fights it because she got her heart broken by the first man she loved.”
“If you’re unsure, son, do not toy with her.” Karl’s voice was gruff, but Kristof detected no anger in it. “She is precious beyond all measure.”
“However”—Anna laid a hand on her husband’s shoulder—“if you’re earnest in your suit, be patient. Don’t give up on her. You are precious, too. Both of you deserve to be cherished.” Releasing Karl, she took Kristof’s hand again. “But, dear, you must realize that you already are. By us, but more importantly, by your heavenly Father, who sings over you with rejoicing.”
Kristof considered this picture of God so unlike his own father. It seemed impossible, and yet his spirit reached toward it like a willow bending to water.
Gathering himself again, he looked from one face to another, taking in all three surrounding him at the table. Rather than feeling as though he were being interrogated, he could almost believe he was part of a team. No, a family. That was what this was. He met each steady gaze, understanding that Nate stood in for Sylvie’s brother, and Karl and Anna for her parents.
Kristof was no expert in romance, but he was learning a lot about love.
Ever since Meg and Sylvie had adopted Oliver Twist, the buff tabby cat they’d found in the rubble after the Great Fire, a cat’s presence had always had a soothing effect on Sylvie. The silky fur between her fingers and soft vibration of purring had set her more at ease. Somehow, stroking a cat that enjoyed the attention seemed to promote contentment.
Not today.
“I don’t understand.” Meg sat on the parlor sofa beside Sylvie, a tray of tea service still untouched on the table. “He just magically showed up? Out of nowhere?”
Sylvie’s hand rested on Tiny Tim, who was curled into a ball on her lap. Her pulse throbbed. “That’s certainly what it seemed like. When I arrived home today, he just walked right up to greet me as if he’d never been gone at all. He was hungry, but other than that, he seems no worse for wear. Not like he’d been scraping by on the streets, fending for himself these last few weeks.”
Meg frowned. “And the door was locked when you got here.”
“It was. Whoever brought him back to me had a key, and Rose is the only other person who has one, besides you. When Lottie comes to work, I let her into the apartments with my own keys, and she locks up on her way out. If I had come home earlier from the Fair, I could have been here. I could have seen Rose, talked to her. . . .” Her voice cracked with regret.
“Don’t torture yourself over this.” Meg sat up straighter, adjusting her skirts over her knees. “Rose could have given her key to someone else to use, too. Jozefa hired Jenny to impersonate her, so she would not have been above this. Or, what about Lottie? She has forgotten to lock the door before. She could have left it open, then remembered later and come back to fix her mistake. Someone could have brought Tiny Tim back while your door was unlocked. He’s wearing a tag on his collar saying this address is his home.”
Sylvie rubbed beneath the little cat’s chin. “Lottie wasn’t here when I arrived home after work. If I’d seen her, I’d have asked about the door. But I don’t need to. It was Rose. Or someone acting on her instructions. The family picture from her baptism is gone, too.” Sylvie still kept the image of Rose on her seventeenth birthday in her reticule or chatelaine bag.
Meg inhaled sharply. The clock ticked on the mantel while the tea cooled, untouched.
“She hasn’t left Chicago yet,” Sylvie guessed, “but this can only mean she’s leaving soon. Perhaps she wanted something to remember us by, since we were all in that photograph with her. Tiny Tim would not have been able to make a transcontinental trip.”
“But no note?” Meg asked.
“Nothing. I searched before you got here.”
Quiet dropped in the room like a curtain and hung there limp for an unbearable stretch of time. Sylvie was at war with her own thoughts, first refusing to believe Rose would willingly leave like this, then forcing herself to recognize that her daughter was of age now and could decide these things for herself. She’d chosen Jozefa. She’d chosen Poland. She had chosen to leave Sylvie without saying good-bye.
But then, why on earth would she have wanted that picture? If Rose wanted a clean break from her life in America and hadn’t even seen fit to pen a word of explanation, Sylvie was hard-pressed to imagine that she could harbor any sentiment for the photo.
Shadows stretched long outside, reaching for that which was just beyond their grasp. Tiny Tim yawned and walked away, leaping onto the windowsill and scaring a pair of pigeons off their roost.
At last Meg stretched her hands, then stood and carefully poured the tea. “Drink,” she said as she handed Sylvie the cup and saucer, as if this were medicine that could heal. But it wasn’t. It couldn’t.
Sylvie stared at the amber liquid, now lukewarm in a cup that had never touched her mother’s hands. Since no cups or saucers had survived the Great Fire, she’d purchased these at a discount from Marshall Field’s. They meant nothing to her. She did not crave material possessions for their own sake. But just now, she longed to draw comfort from a teacup that had brought comfort to her mother, since she could not have her mother back to do the solacing herself.
Sylvie had so few connections to her past, and even fewer now that Rose had taken the photo and all her own things away. She could imagine herself like a character in the middle of a book, with the first half of the chapters wiped out, and the rest of the chapters yet unwritten. It was disorienting, being so untethered to either past or future.
This wouldn’t do. She felt herself spiraling downward. She reached out and touched Meg’s knee, the simple touch anchoring her to the present and to the only close family member she had. Meg had been part of her past, but Sylvie had no claim on her sister’s future. That belonged to Nate and to their children.
“Remember what Mother used to say,” Meg said. “‘I am not afraid of storms, for the One who made the sea is in my boat with me.’” She paused to take a drink. “That’s the marvelous thing about God, isn’t it? He is with me in my grief, He is with you in yours, and wherever Rose is, I am convinced He is with her, too.”
“Yes.” Sylvie’s finger curled through the handle of her teacup, and she chided herself for not feeling more at ease with this truth. But feelings, especially hers, were n
ot to be trusted.
From the second floor, a violin melody began. She knew this song. It was a waltz, slow and haunting, that Rose used to play, only it had never sounded quite this polished. Sylvie cocked her head, listening.
That wasn’t just Rose’s piece. That was her violin.
For one irrational moment, Sylvie’s mind leapt over the fact that Kristof had purchased it at a pawnshop, and conjured an image of Rose upstairs, having a lesson with her instructor as if nothing uncommon had ever happened.
Then she blinked, and found Meg looking up at her, eyes wide. Sylvie hadn’t recalled standing, but there she was, her teacup rolling to a stop against the rug’s edge, its contents puddling on the floor.
Meg set her cup on the tray, dropped a couple of napkins atop the spilled tea, and touched Sylvie’s elbow. “What is it?”
“That song,” she said. “Why must he play that song with Rose’s instrument? He has his own! What is he doing?”
She fled her apartment and bounded up the stairs. The music grew louder, then halted just before she banged on Kristof’s door.
It took him too long to open it. When he appeared, Sylvie could barely maintain her composure.
“Please,” she said, “for pity’s sake, must you play that song? And you were using Rose’s violin, too, weren’t you? I’d so much rather you didn’t.”
His hair looked rumpled, as if he’d just run his hands through it. “Sylvie. You’d better come in. You too, Meg. Please.”
Sylvie hadn’t even noticed her sister had followed. They both stepped inside, and Kristof shut the door.
“Nate’s still upstairs.” Kristof rubbed the back of his neck. Rose’s violin lay beside its case on the kitchen table.
“And your brother?” Meg asked.
“Out.” He waved a hand dismissively. “I was thinking about how odd it was to find Rose’s violin. I opened the case to look at it again, and I couldn’t help but play it. I’m sorry if hearing it upset you, Sylvie. But I just noticed something.” He ran his finger along the velvet lining, pausing where it sagged away from the inside of the case. “This is loose.” He slid two fingers inside.
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