Kissed by the Rain

by Claudia Winter

  ALSO BY CLAUDIA WINTER

  Apricot Kisses

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2016 Claudia Winter

  Translation copyright © 2017 Maria Poglitsch Bauer

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Previously published as Glückssterne by Goldmann in Germany in 2016.

  Translated from German by Maria Poglitsch Bauer. First published in English by AmazonCrossing in 2017.

  Published by AmazonCrossing, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and AmazonCrossing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781503934962

  ISBN-10: 1503934969

  Cover design by Shasti O’Leary Soudant

  Contents

  Start Reading

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  Epilogue

  Notes About the Setting

  A Note of Thanks

  Recipes

  Charlie’s Cheesecake

  Finola’s Cullen Skink

  About the Author

  About the Translator

  “Man has control over everything

  Except his own heart.”

  —Friedrich Hebbel

  Prologue

  Frankfurt, September 1952

  She wasn’t afraid, not the tiniest bit—well, maybe just a little. You see, it was so dark inside the wardrobe that she couldn’t see her hands in front of her face. And there was this weird smell of old wood, dust, and mothballs. She pulled her legs up to her chest, rested her chin on her knees, and felt ashamed. Lucy, in her favourite book, The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, was much more courageous than she was. Lucy also hadn’t stupidly shut the door behind her. But according to Mama, Lucy was just imaginary, and the magical wardrobe she climbed through to reach the enchanted land of Narnia was made up, too, as was the man with goat legs, and the talking lion, Aslan.

  But she couldn’t completely give up believing. She stretched out one hand, touched the soft fabric there—Mama’s dresses, not worn since the baby went to live with the angels—and fumbled deeper among the rattling wire hangers. If she believed hard enough . . .

  She exhaled with disappointment as her hand touched the back of the wardrobe. There was no secret exit, only coarse wood that didn’t even budge when she cautiously pressed against it.

  She gave a start when the door was flung open and a small figure slipped in to join her. This time, the door stayed open, and in the dim light, dust particles danced in her hiding place.

  “Li! I’ve got it,” her sister said in an excited voice.

  Her stomach tensed up. She had hoped that the idea was only a joke. But she should have known better. Bri never joked around.

  “You aren’t scared, are you?”

  A frown played across her sister’s face, with its perfect doll’s mouth and huge marble-like eyes. Bri sat across from Li, mirroring her posture—her back against the wall of the wardrobe, arms wrapped around her knees. Even though they didn’t look alike at all, everyone always realised right away that they were twins. It was as if the good Lord had decided to have some fun and create two completely different figures out of the same piece of clay. Unfortunately, he had done a better job with Bri, and sometimes Li resented that.

  “N-no. Of course I’m not afraid.”

  She gritted her teeth and squinted. Sweaty fingers grabbed her arm, and she felt something hard and cold pressing against her skin.

  “Better open your eyes, then, to see where you’re cutting.”

  The door of the wardrobe was open. Li could still run away. She wouldn’t, of course. She never did.

  “Why don’t you go first?” she whispered.

  “I already did, you coward. Go ahead, do it, before I bleed all over Mama’s clothes.”

  Bri laughed her usual laugh, the one that meant Li was a stupid little goose, even though Li was older by twenty minutes. Bri had acted like the older sister and flaunted her unwillingness to do what was expected of her for as long as Li could remember.

  Li gripped the knife. Should she count to ten and press down very slowly? Or was it better to go fast? Would she faint? “Ow!”

  “Finally. Give me your finger. Press it against mine. Like that. And now”—Bri paused dramatically—“swear.”

  “Bri, I’m bleeding!”

  “That’s the idea, stupid. Come on, swear.”

  “I forgot what I’m supposed to say.”

  “Good grief, Li,” Bri complained. “You’ve had since yesterday to memorise it.”

  Now Li was in tears, ashamed that she couldn’t even remember a few lines. She sobbed because she was hungry and bleeding and stuck in this stupid wardrobe—and because she could never say no to Bri’s nutty ideas.

  “Don’t cry.” Bri’s voice was very gentle now.

  Li swallowed and sniffed even though Mama had told them not to do that since it could give you a stroke. She’d said that’s what happened to Uncle Walter.

  “I’ll go first. I, Brigitte Markwitz, swear by everything I hold dear”—Li opened her mouth to ask what that meant, but Bri raised a finger and continued—“that I will never abandon my sister Lieselotte.”

  “I, Lieselotte Markwitz, swear by everything I hold dear that I will never abandon my sister Brigitte,” Li responded.

  Bri smiled. Her smile was like an angel’s. That’s why Li wasn’t the only one who couldn’t say no to her.

  “This oath is valid for this and all future lives.”

  “Future lives?” Li swallowed. She loved her sister, but sometimes she was a little scary. She would ask Mama about that later, at dinner.

  “And may I drop dead if I break this oath.”

  “And may I drop dead if I break this oath,” repeated Li, even though it gave her the creeps. “Also, we’ll find two princes, two handsome princes, who are also brothers. All four of us will walk down the aisle together . . . or we shall never marry.”

  Li’s eyes grew wide. That part hadn’t been on the crumpled paper Bri had given her the day before. What had got into her?

  But Bri did not scold her. Instead, she just looked at her, first with an astonished expression and then with the admiration she usually reserved for their big sister, Adele.

  “Yes, all four of us will walk down the aisle together,” Bri quickly agreed, and took her twin’s hand.

  Li’s heart leapt with joy. She no longer cared that Bri was squeezing her hand too tight, or that her finger hurt pretty badly. At that moment, she was the happiest girl in the world—no, in all possible worlds in all of the books on the shelf over her bed. Starting today, she would never again feel lost in this strange house that belonged to Mama’s new husband, and which was supposed to be her new home. She had Bri, after all—forever.

  1

  Frankfurt, April 2016

  “It’s gone!”

  I closed my eyes. It couldn’t be. “What do you mean, gone?” I said calmly, hoping I had i
magined the note of panic in my mother’s voice.

  “I mean, gone! I have no clue what could have happened. I took it out of the safety-deposit box a few months ago and put it into our safe. And when I checked this morning . . .”

  She gesticulated with her brush as if trying to paint in the air what could not be described. I dodged a rust-coloured splash and it landed on the Victorian lampshade instead. Mama began to pace around the studio that used to be our greenhouse. I took a deep breath, a long gulp in, and then exhaled in three short puffs, the way I often did before a difficult client meeting. But this was not a client meeting. This was my own personal Armageddon.

  “Mama, a ring cannot simply vanish from a safe.”

  My mother came to an abrupt halt, her round face spattered with paint, and pouted. “So you don’t believe me.”

  I opened my mouth for an acerbic reply but thought better of it and walked weak-kneed to the safe in the living room.

  “It’s one-six-zero-three-eight-six,” Mama said behind me.

  “You used my birthday?”

  “So what? You know I’m not good with numbers.”

  “Jesus. You might just as well have left it open.”

  I bit my lip and entered the numbers. The green light that flashed on was accompanied by an elegant buzzing sound. A brief glance inside the safe confirmed the shattering truth—it was empty except for a few papers and a folder. The royal-blue velvet box was gone.

  “I’m sorry, Josefine,” my mother whispered.

  I should have consoled her. Instead, I walked to the French window and looked out into the garden, where my father was planting seedlings. Normally, it would have amused me to see him using a yardstick and Mama’s cooking twine to plant the seedlings in a perfectly straight row, but right now, I didn’t find the scene funny at all.

  “Did you ask Papa?” I mumbled. It was a rhetorical question. My mother replied with a derisive snort.

  My father was interested in climbing roses, carrots, and his compost heap. He probably didn’t even remember that the ring existed or what it meant to my mother’s family—and to me.

  “Have you seen any signs of a break-in? Did you call the police?”

  “Of course not!” Shocked, Mama dropped the brush. Mirabelle, who had just dared to venture out from under the sofa, yelped and scurried behind the walnut sideboard. I frowned, watching the whippet cower. Our pretty little house in Bad Homburg’s Hardtwald had offered asylum to many abused and abandoned greyhounds over the years, to the displeasure of our well-heeled neighbours. But this latest rescue’s behaviour was the strangest yet.

  “She’s not so bad,” said my mother. “She’s started letting us pet her. She only eats chicken and mashed potatoes, but . . .”

  “Mama, why haven’t you reported the theft?”

  I turned to her with crossed arms. After looking at me for a while, she lowered herself onto the couch. Mirabelle sneaked up and crouched at her feet. The dog’s ears, spotted and bat-like, were raised like radar antennae, ready to register everything that could possibly harm her.

  “Your grandmother’s going to be beside herself over this silly piece of metal,” Mama mumbled, petting the trembling bundle of fur.

  “That ‘silly piece of metal’ is worth a fortune! And it might mean the end of my wedding.”

  “Come on, Josefine, nobody still believes in that inane superstition.”

  “Grandmother does. When she finds out that I can’t wear the ring at my wedding . . .” I swallowed hard, but the lump in my throat did not budge.

  “She doesn’t have to find out!” Mama declared. “We could use another one, a lookalike.” The expression on her face wasn’t like her at all. “All right, forget I said that. But let’s look everywhere before we start confessing things to your grandmother.”

  She went to the sideboard next to the fireplace accompanied by a small, crouching shadow that pressed against her calves.

  My family’s fear of Grandmother’s rage never ceased to amaze me. But I was not exempt from such fear. I lifted the top of the desk next to me, determined to locate the ring.

  After rummaging through all of the drawers in the house, emptying cupboards, and peeking into two drainage pipes, I had returned to my office in downtown Frankfurt. I glanced at my wedding to-do list and then leaned back and looked out through the panorama window. The skyline was capped by a breathtaking blue sky streaked with candyfloss clouds. I usually felt tremendous satisfaction at the sight of the futuristic, gleaming skyscrapers of Frankfurt’s cityscape. Today, my stomach contracted as if I’d eaten something rotten. It felt like a nightmare.

  For nine years I had waited for the passionate scene that has inspired writers and filmmakers all over the world—someone bent down on one knee in front of me. But I knew from the start that Justus’s proposal would be less romantic than I had imagined as a little girl.

  In the end, he never even knelt down.

  My fiancé was . . . Well, he was a temperate man, reserved in matters of the heart. But he made up for it with his loyalty, constancy, and reliability—and I appreciated especially this last quality very much.

  Anyway, declarations of love plastered on skyscrapers and exploding hearts in the night sky are overrated. I had truly been delighted when, two months earlier, I found a dove-blue Post-it note in my signature folder with an engagement ring taped to it.

  “I’m going to make junior partner next quarter. Marry me!”

  The note was written in Justus’s little boy scrawl, which not even his secretary could decipher. Normally, he dictated even one-line memos. Yet this note he had written himself. Plus, dove-blue is my favourite colour. It was so—

  “Humiliating.”

  I jumped as my door flew open. There was no chance to escape—my uninvited guest had already crossed the room and planted herself squarely in front of my desk.

  “Frau Ziegelow, how nice to see you,” I lied nonchalantly, sliding the wedding list under a folder.

  “I’ve had it, Frau Sonnenthal.”

  With a sob that reminded me of a kicked cat, my client slumped her Rubenesque body into a visitor’s chair and began fanning herself with an official-looking piece of paper. I pushed over the box of Kleenex that sat ready for its usual Tuesday deployment. I sometimes wondered whether Frau Ziegelow mistook our meetings for therapy sessions.

  I waited until she had dabbed her eyes and energetically blown her nose before pointing to the wrinkled document in her hand. “May I?”

  She dropped the paper on the desk. My blood pressure rose when I saw the letterhead—Melwin & Co. Even though the divorce was long since finalised, my client’s ex-husband spared no expense in making her life difficult. When I read the subject line, I could feel my obliging smile evaporate.

  “This is a restraining order.”

  Frau Ziegelow wrinkled her nose. “I don’t care what it’s called. It can’t be legal. I am entitled to advertise my hair salon.”

  “On your ex-husband’s car?”

  She pursed her cherry-red lips.

  “It says here that you attached three posters to his Audi, advertising your salon and covering your husband’s salon’s logo.” I examined her sternly over the rim of my glasses. True, it was a serious legal matter, but the image of my client, all 265 pounds of her, scaling fences by moonlight and attacking her ex’s Audi TT with a roll of adhesive tape was not without an element of comedy.

  “Strictly speaking, it’s my car, so I can do with it whatever I want,” she answered.

  “Frau Ziegelow, our settlement gave him the Audi and you the convertible,” I reminded her as gently as I could. “You got the two penthouse apartments downtown and he got the house in Sachsenhausen. You got the Tausendschön beauty salon and he got Cuts and Curls. Worst case, your former husband could sue you not just for injury to the interests of his company, but for property damage, too.” I shook my head and pointed to the letter. “This stipulates that you may not come within 110 yards of your husba
nd’s salon. Considering all the things you’ve done these past few months, I would say that’s letting you off lightly.”

  “Come on, it was a few scraps of paper on his prehistoric display window!”

  “You mean a wall-sized poster, pasted on with special glue?”

  “So what?” My client angrily jingled her bracelets. “He owes me after stealing two of my workers. The second one’s probably warming the old perv’s bed, too—on my mattress, no matter what the settlement stuff says.”

  I looked at her without saying anything. For some reason, I liked this woman who seemed unable to let go of the love of her life. I had always liked her, ever since I had first started at the firm, fresh out of law school, when my assistant, Lara, had led the distraught woman into my office, declaring that I was the best family lawyer at the firm. That was true then and now, since I was the only lawyer dealing with family law at Maibach, Roeding & Partners to this day.

  Catching Lara watching through the glass, I silently cursed the architect who had come up with the fishbowl design of these offices.

  I got up with a sigh and signalled to Lara to bring two cups of coffee from the vending machine. Then I lowered the blinds. I was sure that one of my colleagues would tattle on me since, in these hallowed halls, transparency was key. The great Maibach simply could not understand that some clients needed a little privacy.

  Feeling uneasy, I turned back to my desk and saw Frau Ziegelow reading my wedding list.

  “That’s private and personal,” I said, annoyed at myself for sounding guilty.

  “You’re getting married?”

  She looked up at me with shining eyes and her frown turned into a warm smile that somehow did not fit into this room, permeated as it was by years of tears and hurt feelings.

  “Child, I’m so happy for you! Who’s the lucky guy? How long have you known each other? Where will the wedding be, and, most important”—the hairdresser eyed my ponytail—“when will you finally come to Tausendschön and let me take care of that hair of yours?”

  I adjusted my ponytail uncomfortably. There was another unwritten law in this office—lawyers were not to have any personal contact with their clients. This was a pity, since the Tausendschön was one of the city’s best salons.