“Of course I’ve planned a party!”
Anxiety clenches my chest. “But my birthday’s not for another week.”
“I wouldn’t have been able to surprise you next week.”
My legs feel wobbly. She probably would have still surprised me, but not like this.
“I know you’re not big on surprises,” Brie says, apologizing in one sense, but not relenting. Not big on surprises is stating it quite mildly.
“I’ll be fine,” I say, but the quaking has traveled into my voice as I eye the door. Exactly how many people are waiting on the other side?
Charlotte reaches for my arm, this time steadying me. “Everyone needs a surprise party once in her life.”
Jenna steps to the porch and gives me a hug. “Happy birthday.”
“Thank you.”
Brie plants both fists on her hips. “You were supposed to park around the back.”
“Oh no.” Jenna’s smile falls. “Have we ruined it?”
“No,” I assure her. “I’m still going to act surprised.”
Jenna nods to her husband, and he slides a large white box from the back of the van. “The bakery was running behind.”
“Still go around back,” Brie says, shooing Jenna off the porch. “The kids have been practicing all day how they are going to surprise their aunt.”
Yet another reason that I’m grateful for the preparation.
Once Jenna is gone, Brie reopens the door, and with Charlotte at my side, I tentatively step over the threshold, my arms wrapped across my chest to brace myself.
Owen springs out of the crawl space under the wide stairs. “Surprise!”
The word echoes off the wood paneling, followed by a chorus of voices, the shouts reverberating around the foyer and out the door still open behind me. While I’m not really intending to run, I’m glad I left it open. Unlike my sister, I’m not enamored of being in the center of anything, at least not without a book in my hand.
People seem to step right out of the paneling, like ghosts of all sizes in the hours after dark. I, on the other hand, wish I could fold myself back into the wall so they aren’t all staring at me.
And they are staring, waiting for me to say something brilliant, I suppose. My mouth hangs instead. Catching flies, my father used to say when I couldn’t find words. Oh, for a book to supply them for me.
Both my nephews race toward me, elbowing each other in the process. In seconds Owen is beside me, clinging to my leg. And Oscar—he’s yanking on my hand, pulling me toward the kitchen. “Come on, Aunt Callie.”
I glance back at Charlotte as the sea of people parts, and she’s smiling at me.
The sea follows us into the kitchen, filling the shared living and dining space. Jenna is beside the counter with her husband, both of them frantically lighting the last of thirty candles on the expanse of cake, like Piglet and Tigger lighting so many candles that Pooh loses sight of the cake.
“Would you care for a piece of my oh-what-a-surprise birthday cake?”
Like the candlelight, Pooh’s words flicker in my brain.
Some of the guests circled around us are from church and my college years; others are my story-time kids with their parents. I don’t see Devon or his father in the crowd, and at first, I’m relieved they haven’t come, but the guilt quickly follows. I should be thrilled to see Devon here even if he’s with his father. I should be thrilled to see everyone.
I suspect I’ll be feeling guilty a lot tonight.
Jenna rushes around the counter and gives me another hug as if she didn’t see me on the porch. “Come blow out your candles before we start the house on fire.”
“It might take all night,” someone quips from the back.
I glare in their direction. “Very funny.”
Jenna props up the flickering cake, the white icing framing a photograph of me in my Story Girl attire. The edges of the cake are frosted with books that look like bricks, the whole display reminding me of a fireplace glowing with flames.
Charlotte begins singing from the back of the room, her beautiful alto inviting the others to join her in the familiar song. As they sing, I read the words written in red icing to match my story-time attire.
Happy 30th, Callie
Our Favorite Story Girl
“Blow them out!” Owen shouts when the song ends, and everyone laughs.
I take a deep breath, but Brie stops me. “You have to make a wish first.”
My eyes close, but I can’t think of a single thing I’d wish for—it seems I have everything I could ever need here in this room. Then I wish for the only thing that comes to mind in that blur of a moment, that I could have my own family one day. A wish I’ll tell no one because I don’t want anyone in search of a man for me.
If only I could have a family without the heartache.
With a deep breath, I blow out every last candle, and the room erupts in applause. Then one by one, as if they’re teasing me, the flames reignite. In seconds, the entire cake is glowing again.
I groan. The children laugh. And I hear a few adults snicker as well.
When I look around the room this time, I’m smiling along with everyone else. “Who’s going to blow these out now?”
“Someone get a bowl of water,” Jenna shouts, but Brie already has a bowl ready. The kids slowly realize I’m serious—I am not blowing out thirty candles a second time—and a horde of them jump in to help me, blowing and then drowning the germ-infested wicks in the bowl before licking off the icing and strawberry cake clinging to the wax.
“Wait until you turn thirty,” I threaten my sister, but she just laughs and takes a photograph.
So I dive in. Not into the cake, but into Brie’s party. Charlotte is sitting on a chair in the living room, gleaming as if someone is celebrating the birth of her own daughter, and her pride strengthens me.
“Can I have a piece of cake?” It’s Michael, the boy who educated everyone in the store about his new underpants. His mother nods to signal her consent.
“I believe there’s a piece of cake just for you,” I say, ruffling his hair.
“Cake for everyone,” Brie announces like it’s a story-time snack, and the kids around us cheer. I’m thankful that the spotlight has turned and the cake is right smack in the center.
A red paper plate in hand, I scoop up a corner piece and lower it to Michael with much pomp and circumstance. Then Brie slices, I serve the cake along with a scoop of ice cream for each plate, and everyone seems happy. My sister is right in her element, entertaining this crowd in her home.
Charlotte steps up to the counter and serves herself two scoops of chocolate ice cream, no cake. “Surprise,” she says, kissing my cheek. “The best in your life is yet to come.”
If she weren’t holding a plate of ice cream, I’d hug her. “I think I’ve already had the best, thanks to you and Brie.”
“Thanks to the Lord. It’s hard to imagine, but He loves you even more than I ever could.” She takes a bite of the ice cream and nods toward the small group circled around Brie. “I think having a sister who loves you must be one of the greatest blessings of all.”
“She’s certainly a blessing to me.”
Around nine, the guests begin to fade away like clams claimed by the sea, the tide calling them home. Charlotte kisses my cheek again before driving her Prius away on her own, and Ethan wrangles each twin upstairs for bed.
Once everyone is gone, Brie slides down to the crumb-covered floor, leaning her head back against the wall. “That was a disaster.”
I shove a plate out of the way with my toe before sitting beside her. Instead of flowing away with the tide, I want to dig myself deep into the sand. “It was fabulous.”
“Are you certain?”
“I loved it. Truly.”
She sighs. “That’s the important thing.”
“And I love that you did this for me. Award for best sister ever goes to you.”
“I wish we had more family here who could ce
lebrate with you.”
“Our family would have only caused chaos.”
I’ve never had any contact with my mother’s relatives, and no one on our father’s side of the family seemed to care much about us—or him, for that matter, while he was alive. When he died, Brie reached out to his family with the news that Arthur Randall was gone, his arteries clogged by smoke. She courageously reached out, but no one in the family reached back in. I figured they were afraid Arthur’s daughters would ask them for money.
Ethan has a large extended family who bicker among themselves and debate about everything from who should win the Super Bowl to what sort of sauce belongs on ravioli. Ultimately, they love each other to pieces, no holds barred. For Brie, joining the Goretti family was like finding her way home. She slipped easily into their chaos, contributing quite well to it all.
“I wanted to give you something special for your birthday,” Brie says.
“You outdid yourself.”
“This was a party, not a gift.”
I lean my head back against a cabinet. “You don’t need to give me a gift.”
“That’s good because you already have the Bambi book I bought for you. Or at least, the professor has it.”
“He’s going to bring it back.”
Ethan slips into the kitchen, standing beside his wife. When Brie glances up at him, a look passes between them. Love in the deepest of forms, grounded in crumbs and kids and complete exhaustion.
I’m envious of their relationship, but also insanely happy that my sister found a man who clearly adores her, a man who has given her what she desired most in life. And he’s given her plenty of other good things along with a family—a beautiful home, security, a love that will undoubtedly last a lifetime.
She wants the same for me, but I’ve told her repeatedly that I don’t thrive on noise, that I’m plenty satisfied with the blessing of my small family—a sister in Brie, my amazing nephews, an aunt in Charlotte.
Brie looks back at me, a tentative smile crossing her lips. “Ethan and I have one more thing for you.”
I wave my hands in front of me, shaking my head. “You’ve already given me too much.”
Ethan hands Brie an envelope, and she tosses it over to me. “Before you open it,” she says, “we are absolutely, positively sure that we want to give this to you.”
Anxiety begins to bubble inside me again, and I want to dig myself deeper into my hole. Or have the salty tide sweep me out of my home in the sand, into the vast hiding places of the sea.
But my sister won’t let me hide. She and Ethan both watch as I open the envelope, waiting for my reaction. I’m sure it will be about as good as when everyone yelled “surprise” a few hours earlier.
Inside is a birthday card with a woman on the cover lounging on a hot-pink chaise, engrossed in a novel. The front reads, Some people live by the book.
Looking up, I glance at the two of them, at the expectation on their faces. There’s no turning back now. I open the card.
Others write their own story.
Under the words is a hand-drawn picture of a stick woman wearing a pair of green boots, a brownish structure that resembles the Eiffel Tower looming behind her. Oscar, I assume, drew it in crayon for me. He likes to draw and wants me to read Henri’s Walk to Paris almost every night I’m here.
Underneath is a note from Brie. Happy birthday, Sis. It’s time for you to write a chapter or two of your own.
I shake my head, eyeing her, then my brother-in-law. “I don’t understand.”
Ethan steps forward, handing me a slip of folded paper. “We want you to go away.”
“Go away?” My words fall out in a violent rush. It feels as if I’ve been slapped.
Brie laughs. “Not for good or anything.”
Relieved, I take a breath. “I still don’t understand.”
“You were so full of life when we were kids, Callie, always talking about the places you were going to explore when you grew up. I wanted to be just like you one day.”
“And now?”
Brie exchanges a glance with Ethan before continuing. “It’s like you’ve climbed up on the edge of the pool in the past two years, and I—we—want you to dive into life again. Fly to Paris or go swim in the Caribbean or take a Hawaiian cruise like Ethan and I did last year.”
The next words pour out before I can censor them. “Except I don’t have anyone to go with me.”
When I see Brie’s face, I feel rotten. Guilty, once again, for making my sister feel bad.
“Nor will you,” she insists, “if you don’t try to meet some new friends . . .”
Who aren’t married—I know what she’s thinking, but the thought dangles out there. My high school, college, and church friends have either moved or married by now. Most of them have children of their own, which isn’t very conducive to flying away for a week or two, at least not with an old friend. And even if Brie didn’t have kids, she couldn’t vacate with me. One of us needs to stay at the store.
Opening the check, I gasp at the number. “That’s too much.”
The smile returns to Brie’s face. “The money we find in our used books adds up.”
“We haven’t found three thousand dollars!”
“Charlotte contributed some to your travel fund, and Ethan and I threw in a little extra as well.” She shrugs. “Consider it payment for the many hours you’ve helped in the store.”
“I already get paid.” Not to mention my apartment . . .
“Please take it,” Ethan says in a way that deflects any argument. “And spend a few weeks traveling this summer.”
“Perhaps Charlotte would want to see Paris.”
Brie shook her head. “This is an adventure she wants you to have on your own.”
When I was a child, I wanted to explore the places I read about in my books, but I don’t want to go away anymore, at least not by myself. But the two of them look so happy about their gift that I can’t possibly refuse. “I appreciate it.”
“No, you don’t.” Brie laughs. “But you can thank me when you return.”
Hours later, after falling onto my bed, I think about what it would be like to visit the islands of Hawaii, but I’m terrified to go someplace like that alone.
Before I turn off my lamp, I make one more wish.
I wish I had someone special to share a trip like this with me.
CHAPTER 14
MAX
VIENNA, AUSTRIA
JULY 1938
“It won’t be long until it’s over.”
His back pressed against the papered wall of the hallway, Max heard his father’s declaration in the salon. Instead of shouting this morning, Wilhelm Dornbach’s voice was hushed, but like so many secrets, his words drifted away, clinging to the smoke from his Woodbine cigarette.
Max peeked around the corner and saw both parents—his mother sitting quite properly on a stiff-backed chair, hands folded in her lap, his father pacing across the rug nearby, the Woodbine shaking in his hand.
Neither of them had discovered that he’d left two weeks ago to visit the lake. They, like most everyone in Vienna, were distracted by all the new mandates that the Nazi Party brought with them.
“It’s like you’re talking in code,” Klara replied. “It won’t be long until what’s over?”
“The transformation of our city. Our entire country. In a matter of months, we’ll be rid of them.”
“Rid of whom?”
“Don’t be absurd, Klara.” His father tapped his cigarette on the ashtray, embers raining down inside the green glass.
His mother knew exactly whom this city was striving to rid itself of. Windows in shops across Vienna displayed signs that their Jewish customers were no longer welcome, and the Gestapo were raiding Jewish businesses across the city, examining their cash books, warning Gentile customers to find another place to shop, another coffeehouse to sip their café au lait, another doctor to see.
And Luzi—how he had missed her sinc
e their dance in May. Frau Weiss was furious when she discovered what happened, and his parents had been angry as well, lecturing him in the hours after they left the ball about his indiscretion, as if dancing with Luzi had blemished them all. As if they hadn’t been friends with the Weiss family since long before Max and Luzi were born.
Rubbish. That’s what he thought about this madness. A dance with Luzi Weiss was something to be prized, not regretted. He was a lucky man that she’d agreed to a dance with him at all, and when the people of Vienna returned to their senses, most of them would agree. They’d fling open the doors to their shops and restaurants and hotels, welcome the Jewish people back as their neighbors.
The grandfather clock in the sitting room chimed four times.
“Why is everyone so obsessed with the Jews?” his mother asked, exasperated.
“It’s not an obsession. It’s vindication. They’ve plundered our city for long enough now.”
Anger blasted through Max as he stepped away from the wall, his fist grinding into his palm. Luzi and her family were hardly plundering Vienna, contributing music and medical care to their city instead. This new mantra about vindication had been passed down from on high, a ghastly song everyone was supposed to sing whether or not they agreed with the lyrics.
Was his father angry at someone in particular? Some of his top customers at the bank were Jewish, and some of his colleagues in the Viennese banking world as well. The Rothschilds, for heaven’s sake, were Jewish. At one time, they’d been the biggest banking family in Vienna.
His father had always been jealous of the Rothschilds’ success, but even if he weren’t, how could he—how could anyone—speak about the Jewish population as if they were dirt needing to be scrubbed off Vienna’s elegant walls?
“Hitler will do here what he’s done in Germany,” his father said.
His mother shifted on the chair. “Require the Jews to leave?”
“Prompt them to go.”
“Not everyone wants to leave,” his mother said.
“They will.”
“And if they don’t listen to Hitler’s men?”
“There are ways to convince them.”
“You have to stay out of this,” his mother begged. “Let others fight the war this time if they must, but not you.”
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