Kissed by the Rain

by Claudia Winter

  Lara’s appearance with coffee and cookies saved me from having to invent a polite excuse to avoid Frau Ziegelow’s invitation. I watched Lara totter across the deep-pile rug, set down the tray in slow motion, and beam at me for approval. I suppressed a tart comment. She didn’t act that way on purpose. She simply lived in the same dreamland as my great-aunt Li, who spent all day buried in her books.

  “Thank you, Lara.”

  I took a chocolate cookie and turned away from her to show that her duty was done. But my assistant stood as if nailed to the floor.

  “You can go,” my client took over, pointing to the door. Only then did Lara leave.

  I gazed at my wedding list while the chocolate melted between my fingers.

  “You’ve got to toughen up, child,” Frau Ziegelow said. “Or your employees will walk all over you.”

  “Is everything all right in here, Frau Sonnenthal?”

  The blinds flew up with a snap. Reacting without thinking, I pushed the cookie into my mouth and stared at Justus, who was standing in the doorway, frowning. My client was visibly irritated, but all I managed was an awkward grin while chewing like I had a huge spoonful of peanut butter in my mouth.

  “Everything’s just fine, thanks.” Frau Ziegelow quickly took a cookie. “Frau Sonnenthal is a wonderful lawyer. She always knows exactly what her clients need.”

  My fiancé’s iron-grey eyes lost their look of disapproval, and his posture relaxed. I took off my glasses. Justus always said their frames covered too much of my face.

  “It’s good to hear that, madam. We at Maibach, Roeding & Partners always strive to make our clients feel well taken care of until the very end,” he said in the tone he used for children and dogs. I had often told him to not to talk like that. And his final words made it sound as if my client were headed for the guillotine.

  “Until the very end?” echoed my client with a smile. “I hope not, Herr—”

  “Grüning. Dr. Justus Grüning. I’m a colleague of Frau Sonnenthal,” he answered without missing a beat.

  My hands were trembling as I set my cup down, splashing coffee into the saucer.

  “I see—a colleague.” Frau Ziegelow appraised me.

  Justus bowed elegantly and closed the door with a polite “It’s been a pleasure” to Frau Ziegelow and a warning “Keep the blinds open, Frau Sonnenthal” to me.

  We sat in silence for a few long moments. Then my client spoke.

  “Please tell me that wasn’t your intended but just a lover.”

  “A what?” I almost choked on my coffee.

  “I was afraid of that.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “You’re flustered by him, and not in a good way.” I was going to protest, but Frau Ziegelow continued. “Besides, he addresses you so formally.”

  “We like to keep our personal and professional lives separate,” I replied, which sounded lame even to me.

  “Utter nonsense.”

  “With all due respect, I don’t believe that my relationship is the topic of this consultation—ouch!”

  A be-ringed hand had darted across the table and now grasped my wrist.

  “Never make the mistake of getting married with half a heart, especially not to a man who obviously doesn’t have one at all,” my client whispered in the tone of a psychic who has seen terrible things in her crystal ball.

  I tried to pull my hand away, but she wasn’t finished.

  “Frau Sonnenthal, I like you. You’re a young lady who knows what she’s talking about, most of the time. But now it’s my turn to give you some advice.”

  I glanced at the clock on the wall. My next client was due in ten minutes.

  “We choose men for three reasons—because our heart tells us something, or our brain, or our sexual organs. The latter is exciting, but doesn’t last long. Our intellect has the most persistent voice and is apt to overpower everything else, especially the tender and mostly timid stirrings of the heart.”

  “Frau Ziegelow, I’ve known Herr Dr. Grüning for nine years. Believe me, I’ve heard all kinds of voices by now.”

  “But have you listened to them? Nothing happens without a reason, and fate whispers to our heart so quietly that we don’t always hear it.” Frau Ziegelow’s dark-brown eyes were focused so intently on mine that it was difficult to look away. “But you have no idea what I’m talking about, huh?” she asked, finally letting go of my hand.

  I shook my head and tried desperately not to think about my grandmother’s ring disappearing just before the wedding.

  “Well, it’s none of my business. I’m meddling, as usual.” Frau Ziegelow blinked and then pointed to the Melwin & Co. letterhead with studied casualness. “I want my ex-husband to stop poaching my employees. And to stop bad-mouthing me to my customers—though I know it might be difficult to prove he’s doing that. Maybe we could formulate our own restraining order. Could you do that?”

  “If you stop taking the law into your own hands, I definitely can. Could you do that?” I answered, still a little rattled by her crystal ball lecture.

  Frau Ziegelow nodded.

  “Good. I’ll notify your husband’s lawyer. I’m sure my colleague will talk some sense into his client. And you must promise me in return to obey fair-practice rules and regulations from now on.” I smoothed out the document and filed it in her folder, which was already bulging and had to be secured with a rubber band. “I guess that’s it for today.”

  She firmly shook my hand, holding on a little longer than necessary.

  “Was it worth it?”

  I immediately regretted my question. Already on her way to the door, Frau Ziegelow paused.

  “What I mean . . . you and . . . your husband, er, ex-husband . . . all of that,” I stammered, blushing, and gestured towards the overflowing folder.

  She gazed at the recorded proof of her broken marriage before turning away. “I wouldn’t give up one minute with the bastard.”

  Frau Ziegelow’s sad eyes stayed with me all the way to our home, a sky-blue town house in Frankfurt’s West End. They faded away as I fumbled for my vibrating mobile phone in the hallway next to the mailboxes. I opened Mama’s text message with trepidation.

  Grandmother wants to see us. Tonight, 7:00 p.m. Kisses.

  The hallway light cycled off with a low clicking sound. In the dimness, I leaned against the wall and listened to my breathing. The text gave me forty-five minutes to get to my grandmother’s house if I didn’t want to incur her displeasure, as she considered being late a mortal sin. I opened the mailbox with a sigh. There was the Wochenblatt, a flyer with ads for summer tyres, and a few official-looking documents addressed to Justus. I also found a birthday card from my cousin—three weeks late as usual, and opening with an apology. I didn’t even try to decipher the rest of Charlie’s scrawl, and just stuffed everything in my briefcase before hurrying up to the fourth floor.

  I was dumbfounded to find our wheeled suitcase standing by the open door. Clattering noises emerged from inside the apartment and I almost tripped over Justus’s duffel bag.

  “Sweetie?”

  The tension in my stomach grew worse as I set my briefcase down and hung my coat in the closet. I jumped when my fiancé suddenly appeared next to me.

  “What in the world are you doing?”

  I didn’t know whether to be shocked or amused. He was standing in front of me in camouflage fatigues, like a soldier on furlough—well, except for the Panama hat.

  Justus looked at me smugly. “Do you know where my Jack Wolfskin jacket is, Finchen?”

  “You donated it to charity last year when they collected old clothes,” I replied, trying to remember when Justus had decided to enlist.

  He frowned and began to rifle through the closet.

  “Would you please tell me what you’re up to?” I said to his back.

  “Combat survival training” was the hollow-voiced reply. My coat fell from its hanger. Justus pulled his winter coat fr
om the farthest depths of the closet with a satisfied look on his face. “I told you about it.” He brushed a bit of lint off the tweed and grimaced.

  “Did you?” I was confused.

  “Maibach wants me to prove I’m a tough guy before signing the partnership agreement.”

  “Really. So he’s sending you off to—where, the Congo?—three weeks before our wedding?”

  “Actually to the Westerwald—campfires, tents, the complete macho programme,” Justus smirked. “They’re picking me up soon. Get this—they’ll blindfold us, so we don’t know where we’re—”

  “But you hate camping!” I interrupted. “Besides, we’re supposed to choose the wedding cake, and I have to go over the guest list with you before we order place cards.”

  “It’s just for five days, Finchen.” I really hated that particular diminutive of my name. “Your crazy aunts will be delighted to taste their way through all the cake shops in town. You girls don’t need me.”

  “But—”

  “There’s no but. There are things a man simply has to do,” he said, emphasising each syllable. “Especially if a pay rise of tens of thousands of euros is involved. I am sure you agree with me there, Josefine.”

  I said nothing. When Justus used my full first name, any further discussion was futile. It had been like that since we were students, and was one of the things I had learned to accept. He gave me a peck on the forehead and stuffed his coat into the duffel bag.

  “There’s still time for us to sit and have coffee,” I said, trying another approach. “I have something important I need to tell you.”

  “Is it about that horrid Frau Ziegelow? I’m sure it can wait till next week. I don’t understand why she constantly wastes your time—and why you let her! Dump that clown on one of the peons.”

  I contemplated his chiselled face, shimmering grey eyes, and long lashes. Justus had a slight squint, which sometimes gave the impression that he wasn’t looking straight at you, but at something behind you. I had always considered it strangely attractive. Now, however, it underscored my impression that, mentally, he had already left the apartment.

  “Okay, fine, it can wait,” I forced myself to say, and was relieved to see his disapproving expression disappear.

  We had always disagreed on how to interact with clients. He preferred to deal with them in writing only. But poor Frau Ziegelow wasn’t even what I’d wanted to discuss. I had wanted to tell him about the missing ring, though, on reflection, it was probably better if I dealt with that on my own. I was quite sure he wouldn’t understand my grandmother’s superstitions about the heirloom.

  “I’ll call you. Wait, actually . . .” He reached for his Blackberry and handed it to me with a sigh. “No mobile phones allowed. I’d better leave it here.”

  “Well, whoop-de-doo!” I cried. I couldn’t help it. “How am I supposed to talk with you about the cake?”

  “Come on, Finchen.” He pulled me abruptly and forcefully against him. “I don’t care if it’s chocolate cream or that awful buttercream your granny goes gaga over. I’ll still say yes when the priest asks. So don’t worry about the silly cake.”

  My body finally relaxed. Justus always had this wonderful, clean scent of shirts fresh from the cleaners and of mouthwash. Since his tight embrace made it hard to breathe, I could only whisper, “Super.”

  He held me out at arm’s length and pulled the elastic band out of my hair. “I like this turquoise blouse on you, but you should wear your hair down.” He gave me a wink, shouldered the duffel bag, and left.

  I stood motionless in front of the closed door for a while. Then I looked at the clock. I had less than ten minutes to get to my grandmother’s house, so the shower I craved was out of the question. I grabbed my trench coat and sighed. Now that I thought about it, I’d prefer running around the Westerwald in fatigues to putting myself in the matriarch’s line of fire. But as it turned out, there also were things a woman simply had to do.

  2

  As a child, the house of my grandmother, Adele von Meeseberg, had always seemed like an enchanted castle in a fairy tale—but I was never sure whether a good or an evil queen lived there.

  Even at thirty years of age, a strange feeling of awe and enchantment still overcame me whenever I passed through the wrought-iron gates, from which two stone lions gazed down on me. I parked my car next to Mama’s Audi under the old cherry tree in full April bloom. Out of habit, I leaned my head back and looked up at the white façade with its transom windows. There was one dormer window that stood out from the rest—oval shaped and bordered with carved stone flowers, the only aberration in the baroque architecture of Villa Meeseberg.

  “Are you planning to grow roots there or will you honour us with your presence sometime today?” said a gruff, raspy voice. My great-aunt was leaning against one of the red stone pillars of the entrance, smoking.

  “Aunt Bri! I thought you’d quit.”

  She looked at her hand and opened her eyes wide. “Oops! Where did this come from?” She hastily took one more puff, stomped out her cigarette, and gingerly picked up the butt.

  I knew of no other woman her age who could kneel down so elegantly, and none who wore dresses that revealed their knees.

  Bri straightened up and tossed the butt into Grandmother’s cherished rose border. “Believe me, the drama inside is way more harmful than a little nicotine. Smart decision, by the way, to come late.”

  “It wasn’t intentional. Traffic—”

  “Josefine, I beg you, don’t destroy my hope that, for once in your life, you might do something inappropriate.”

  Bri adjusted her hat, which resembled an upturned, eggshell-coloured mixing bowl. She always wore atrocities on her head, inviting endless teasing. But my great-aunt had always done what she wanted, and my cousin Charlie seemed to take after her.

  Aunt Bri linked her arm with mine and led me inside.

  “The entire clan is assembled.” She motioned with her chin to the drawing room and rolled her eyes. “And, as usual, the indignation of our first-born son is enough to shake the chandeliers.”

  My heart sped up. Uncle Carl and Aunt Silvia were here, too? Was my grandmother so upset about the missing ring that she’d convened the entire family council?

  “How bad is it?” I whispered to Bri on our way to the massive double doors.

  “Bad? According to Carl, your cousin has been abducted by human traffickers and sold to Russian drug lords. But if you subtract the lurid details he invented, it’s actually just a girl in love who eloped with her beau.” She shrugged. “Happens in the best of families. My hysterical nephew, of course, thinks we should call the feds because Charlotte isn’t returning his calls.”

  I spun to look at Bri, nearly bumping into the armour of my ancestor Philipp. “Hold on. We’re here because of Charlie?”

  Bri had to tilt her head to inspect me from under her hat. “What other reason does my sister have to round us up like cattle in the middle of the week? And at this hour.” She made a face. “We don’t even get cake!”

  I followed Bri into the drawing room, my hands clammy. The first person I spotted was my mother. She was perched on the Biedermeier sofa next to a distraught Aunt Silvia. Charlie’s mother always cried easily, and red eyes below her dyed-blonde bangs was not an unusual sight.

  “Twenty-five thousand euros in tuition. For nothing! Does the girl think that money grows on trees?” roared Uncle Carl, commanding the room as he paced in front of the fireplace.

  I snuck over to join Papa, who was leaning against the window and studying the lilies on the wallpaper. His warm smile made me feel better immediately. Bri steered towards the bar, but paused to nudge her sister Li, who had dozed off despite the noisy discussion.

  “Charlotte is twenty-four now. Twenty-four! You’d think my daughter would be old enough to realise that life isn’t a damn computer game she can just pause in order to take off for Scotland with some bum.”

  “Watch your language, son,�
�� Grandmother said in a biting tone.

  Uncle Carl stopped abruptly and pointed at his wife. “Charlotte should have gone to boarding school, like I always told you.”

  Silvia convulsed with sobs and Mama tried to soothe her in the same tone she used on dogs in distress. When I tried to catch her eye, Mama looked down guiltily, confirming my suspicion that she had yet to mention our own problem. Charlie had once again managed to send the entire family into a fit. And she had done it without even being present.

  “Scotland is enchanting, and so romantic. Rich green meadows with all those sheep and craggy cliffs . . . as long as you have good, warm clothes and don’t catch a cold. I read that it rains quite a bit,” Aunt Li piped up. Bri almost choked on her Scotch.

  I suppressed a grin. Li was so adorably naïve.

  Carl took a deep breath that made his smoker’s lungs whistle and strained his shirt buttons. He had gained at least ten pounds since I’d last seen him.

  “With all due respect, Lieselotte, I can do without your travel advice.”

  “Sit down, son. And you, Silvia, pull yourself together.”

  My grandmother was not a tall woman, but after she raised herself from her armchair, I wasn’t the only one who forgot to breathe for a moment. Even Papa, who was not easily cowed, seemed ready to salute. Adele von Meeseberg was in her late eighties. Despite her stooped posture, she had lost none of the grace and pride common to women who could look back on an upper-class life and were used to telling others what to do.

  “Could we approach the matter objectively?” she said into the silence.

  “Cocktail, anyone?” Bri jingled the ice in her glass.

  I was tempted to raise my hand, but somehow didn’t dare.

  “I have to drive,” grunted Carl, though everyone knew that this didn’t normally stop him.

  Aunt Li glumly pointed to her floral teacup on the side table, and everyone else said no, pretending, more or less convincingly, that they weren’t used to drinking. I really would have liked to know what Grandmother was thinking—I couldn’t help but notice the hint of a smile on her lips.