“How lovely that you find my declaration of love so amusing,” Justus said, sounding peeved.
A little boy stopped on the path, tugged on his mother’s sleeve, and, chuckling, pointed at Aidan, who doffed his hat and waddled in my direction, Charlie Chaplin style. The boy shook with laughter until his mother pulled him away.
Pull yourself together, Josefine.
“See you soon, Justus. I just have to take care of something first.”
I hung up and dropped the phone back into my bag. A foolish, totally inappropriate pain swept through my chest.
Aidan hopped into the driver’s seat. The odour of fried food triggered a nausea in me that couldn’t be smiled away, no matter how hard I tried. Aidan noticed this and put the food in the back seat. He inhaled deeply and steadily, the way I always did when I was trying to stay in control. Then he started the truck.
“Where are we going?” he asked calmly. His serious eyes told me that he already knew what I didn’t dare to say.
That was the moment I realised how much Aidan meant to me. That was the moment my heart broke.
“The Grand Duchesse hotel,” I said in a flat voice, my hands clenched in my lap, staring at the dashboard. Nothing more needed to be said.
The Grand Duchesse was, without doubt, one of the most impressive hotels in Edinburgh. It fit Justus to a tee—luxurious and over the top, a hypermodern glass palace behind a historical church façade, an old jewel in a new setting of glass and steel.
A week ago, I might have rolled my eyes at such excess, but now it really bothered me. I was annoyed that my fiancé wanted to be “rescued” from a place far beyond the reach of ordinary mortals—crummy Wi-Fi or not.
Aidan, on the other hand, was clearly unimpressed. He scrutinised the liveried bellboy, who had positioned himself at my door with an umbrella, with an expression of disgust that could also have been pity. Then he took his hands off the steering wheel and turned off the engine.
I fought the temptation to stare at the dashboard again. Every button had imprinted itself on my brain on the drive here, but I still had no idea what to say to Aidan.
“So . . .” I said, and unfastened my seat belt awkwardly.
“So,” Aidan echoed. “Should I tell your aunts that—”
“Yes. Please tell them that I’ll call . . . and to mail my luggage. There’s nothing in my suitcase that I need right away.”
“What about Charlie?”
I blinked. Charlie. I’d totally forgotten her.
“I’ll give her your regards.” Aidan rubbed his chin. “You two will work things out eventually. Don’t worry. The lass is in good hands with us.”
“I know that. Thank you,” I said softly, folding my hands in my lap.
The bellboy bounced impatiently and switched the umbrella to his other hand. Aidan grinned.
“You shouldn’t make the fellow wait too long, otherwise you won’t be able to afford the tip.”
“Yeah,” I replied with a forced smile, trying to ignore the fluttering in my stomach.
“Goodbye, Mrs. Stone. Take good care of yourself,” he said quietly, and bent over to me.
I held my breath, but his lips merely brushed my cheek.
“Goodbye, Mr. Murray.”
There was no reason to stay any longer. The ring was lost, but I had given it my best shot. I would write a note to Li right away so she wouldn’t worry. And Charlie was free to do as she pleased. What was important now was that Justus was here because of me. He was set on bringing his bride home. What could be more romantic—especially coming from someone so disinclined to romance?
So, then, why the hell did I feel that the world would end if I got out of Aidan’s truck? I exhaled, slowly and deliberately. Control. I had to regain control of my brain, and of my emotions—heck, I had to regain control of my entire life.
I lowered my head and got out of the truck. The young bellhop, no older than twenty, had blemished skin and a gap between his front teeth large enough to accommodate an extra tooth.
The feeling that more needed to be said came unexpectedly while I stared into the boy’s green eyes that were similar to Aidan’s. There were a hundred things I wanted to tell Aidan, or at least one thing . . . I took a step back, out from under the umbrella and into the rain, and turned around. The truck was gone.
“How can I help you, ma’am?”
The receptionist’s short blonde hair was slicked back, giving her face a strange sternness.
“I’m here to see Dr. Grüning.” I pointed to her name tag—Mercedes Delafonte. “Wow, I’d kill for a name like that!”
She looked up with a surprised smile, but quickly reverted to faux friendliness, making it clear that there was no bridging the desk between us.
Embarrassed, I turned around. I was uneasy in this place, where even the cleaning lady in her blue smock was better dressed than I. To make matters worse, the entire foyer had mirrored walls to show me that I looked worse than Cinderella.
I had washed up in the lobby of a five-star hotel in rubber boots and a baggy Border collie jumper that hung to my thighs. My face was red, and the only accessory that gave any indication of the old me was my Louis Vuitton purse. It must have looked like I’d stolen it.
Sighing, I concentrated on Mercedes’s chiselled face. She seemed to be waiting for something. I hoped she didn’t think I was a homeless person, or a criminal.
“Sorry?” I asked.
“Is Mr. Grüning a guest in our establishment?” Mercedes repeated.
“Since he’s a so-so cook and has no idea about tools or cleaning, I’d say that he indeed is a guest.”
She granted me a brief smile and began to type on her computer. “Are you expected, Mrs. . . . ?”
“Josefine,” I answered quietly. “Josefine Sonnenthal.”
Mercedes nodded and continued typing. I brushed a strand of hair behind my ear.
“I’ve had a hard couple of days. Normally, I’m . . .” Different?
It was the truth. I usually was different, but I wasn’t sure I wanted my normal self back, especially since Mercedes now looked at me with a smile that seemed genuine and even somewhat empathetic.
“There’s a note saying he’s expecting you. Room four-two-eight, fourth floor.”
I thanked her and turned towards the lift.
“Mrs. Sonnenthal,” Mercedes called after me.
I stopped, my heart pounding. She was probably going to ask me to use the staff staircase.
“Thank you. I think your name is very pretty, too.”
A few minutes later, I was standing in front of Justus’s door, a news anchor’s professionally agitated voice blaring behind it. The sound dropped away when I knocked. As footsteps approached, I eyed the lit “Exit” sign at the end of the hall.
What would happen if I bolted? Just thinking about it was wrong and childish. But imagining the expression on Justus’s face was priceless. The door opened.
“Hello, Justus,” I said, forcing myself to look at him.
He looked fabulous.
“Good god, Finchen. You look horrible.”
“And you sound like my mother.” I grimaced to take the edge off my sharp response, but he had already pulled me into his arms.
“I’m so glad you’re here.”
“So am I,” I said, and I really meant it. It felt good to snuggle up against his strong body, my face against his smooth cheek. He smelled crisp and clean, like the pile of fresh towels our cleaning lady put in our bathroom cabinet every Friday.
Justus hugged me so tight it almost hurt. Then he pushed me away a little and looked me up and down, lingering on my silly rubber boots. His square jaw twitched and I knew he wanted to make a derogatory remark. But he controlled himself and instead looked up and down the hallway.
“Did you leave your luggage in the lobby?”
“That’s a long story,” I said cautiously, checking his reaction.
Should I tell him everything, or skip the . . . in
consequential details? Aidan’s haunting green eyes appeared in front of me. Since I didn’t respond to his questioning look, Justus stepped aside.
“Well, come in. You look tired.”
He went ahead into the room—a suite, actually, with a living room and a work space behind a glass partition. The screen saver on his laptop showed a beach on Martinique, where we had spent our winter vacation five years ago. A wildly gesticulating BBC reporter was on the flat-screen TV, reporting mutely from the London stock exchange.
I sat down on the Cubist leather sofa and was surprised at how deep I sank. Justus stood next to me while I pretended to study the financial ticker on the TV and remembered the last time I had tried my luck with lip-reading. I really should call my mother and confront her.
The silence was growing uncomfortable. I briefly considered asking about the office, but thought better of it. The great Maibach and his cigar-stained fingers would get hold of me again soon enough.
“Something to drink?”
Justus strolled to the minibar, took out a bottle of Chablis, and got two glasses from a sideboard.
“Maybe a beer—dark, if there is one.”
“Since when do you like beer?”
I didn’t know how to answer.
With a shrug, he took out a bottle. It was the same brand Aidan had ordered for me in Gavin’s pub. Something tightened in me again. Justus sat down in the chair opposite me and watched me take a sip, visibly irritated that I didn’t use a glass.
“You look like you’ve been through hell.”
Funny. I hadn’t expected a remark like that. Relieved by his surprising empathy, I finally relaxed, ready to tell him everything. But he spoke first.
“Let’s get you into the shower first and wash off some of this mess. In the meantime, I’ll have them bring up something pretty to wear and some shoes from the boutique downstairs. You’ll feel like a new person afterwards, you’ll see. Tomorrow we can go shopping on the Royal Mile and buy some more appropriate things.”
I closed my mouth and looked down at myself, at the jumper that was already frayed at the sleeves. I suddenly realised I had grown fond of this scratchy, loyal companion that had braved the elements and kept me from catching a cold.
“A shower sounds wonderful, darling.” I smiled weakly. “And it would be nice of you to arrange for some clothes for me. I wear—”
“Finchen.” Justus shook his head, grinning. “I’m your future husband. I know your social security number and the phone number of your gynaecologist. I know you love Debussy, what lottery numbers you play, and that you’re crazy for Kimoto’s sushi. Of course I know your dress size.”
He got up and went to the bar again to uncork the wine bottle. He poured a glass for himself, glanced at his laptop, and then looked at the TV.
I scrutinised him silently, this tall, Hugo Boss-clad man with tanned, long, pianist fingers, elegantly swirling the wine in his glass. He turned to me and I saw a gentleness and affection that somehow reminded me of my father.
“Everything all right?” he asked in his confident way that never left room for an answer other than yes.
I felt a wave of warmth in my body. This man was more than just my safe haven. Even looked at objectively, Justus Grüning was perfect—and he loved me.
“Everything’s fine,” I said, pushing aside everything that had turned my heart inside out these past few days. Ring or not, Grandmother or not—even if the entire family was against this wedding, it no longer mattered. It was me, after all, who was starting a family with this perfect specimen of a man—another flawless star on my to-do list, and the sooner I checked it off, the better.
“If you don’t mind, I’d rather do without the shopping tour and fly back to Frankfurt as soon as possible—tonight, even,” I said rather louder than necessary, as if trying to shout over my stupid heart, which kicked against my ribs like an unruly kid, shouting “Aidan” again and again.
This time, I was not going to be confused by mood swings and flights of fancy. I’d had it with this constant balancing act of external cold and internal heat. It would be best to return as soon as possible to the moderate climes of everyday life with Justus.
Justus turned back to the TV and became lost in the world of stock market winners and losers. “No problem. I’ll take care of it,” he mumbled. “We’ll be out of here by tomorrow morning at the latest.”
The kiss I blew fell unseen to the floor. All right, I still had to work on getting him to pay attention to me, but that was a minor detail.
I slipped off the rubber boots and headed to the bathroom. Taking a shower wasn’t just a great idea—it was brilliant.
“Did you ever find your crazy cousin?” Justus called after me.
I felt a stabbing pain near my chest. Images appeared, staccato and in quick succession, like in the Super 8 films Papa used to shoot at Christmas. The reels showed Ian and Charlie, communicating without words, holding hands. I saw Charlie’s face in close-up, exhausted and ill, but beaming with happiness—someone who had found her place in life. There was nothing of the old, angry Charlie in this woman, and it was beautiful. I was deeply sorry I wouldn’t have a chance to tell her that any time soon.
I slowly turned back. “No, I didn’t find her.”
Justus snorted. “That’s what I thought. Good. This way, she won’t wreak havoc at the wedding.”
Shaking his head, he turned up the TV, indicating that he had already filed away Charlotte von Meeseberg as a hopeless case, despite clear legal precedents.
16
Frankfurt, May 2016
“Well, I’ll be damned,” a smoky voice shouted across the salon. “Frau Sonnenthal! Is it really you?”
She was right to be surprised. I was doing something I’d always sworn I would never do—I had entered a client’s shop for my own purposes. She was a previous client, to be precise, which made matters more acceptable—if only slightly.
I looked over my shoulder. Bri frowned, while Li seemed a little anxious, which I fully understood. Frau Ziegelow was intimidating, the way she rushed towards us on dizzyingly high stilettos, her bracelets jingling. In the blink of an eye, I was swept up in her soft, perfumed embrace, and knew I had been right to come here.
Frau Ziegelow then held me at arm’s length away and looked at me closely, missing neither my red eyes nor the shadows below them that even a thick layer of concealer couldn’t hide. Then she looked at my hair and gasped.
“Goodness gracious. I hope you are suing the person who committed this crime.”
She gave me no time to answer, but grabbed my arm and guided me, like an emergency room patient, towards a hairdressing chair that had just opened up.
“I actually just came in to make an appointment. I’m sure you’re very busy today,” I protested weakly while glancing to the chic grey-and-pink waiting area.
Salon Tausendschön was bursting with customers on this Saturday afternoon. I could feel the disgruntled looks of the waiting clients who realised right away that I’d jumped the queue.
“Bah, nonsense! These fine ladies can wait—the Armageddon on your head can’t. Besides, a little waiting helps them sufficiently appreciate what they’re wasting their money on,” Frau Ziegelow whispered in my ear, regally raising a hand when the receptionist, dressed in a skin-tight catsuit, approached with the appointment book in her hands. The girl spun around immediately and offered a cappuccino to a client with an already-impeccable pageboy hairdo, presumably to make up for the delay.
I dropped into the pink imitation-leather chair, which squeaked under my behind—and almost burst into tears when I saw myself in the mirror. My hair really was catastrophic—it was the icing on top of everything that had happened recently. Ever since Bri and Li had returned to Frankfurt and we’d resumed wedding preparations, I’d watched myself mutate into a bundle of nerves with each advancing hour. Li’s botched flower order was only partially to blame, as was the pneumonia that befell the woman who was supposed to
sing at the church. In the past, I would have easily handled these small to moderate mishaps with a cool head and lawyerly calm. Now, I more or less sat by impassively and allowed Li and Bri to make the chaos even more perfect. But when Bri’s friend Mechthild had experimented with my hairstyle, I’d bawled like a baby.
And I was supposed to be happy.
I swallowed and raised my chin. Frau Ziegelow, now flanked by my aunts, was standing behind my chair, grinning with a mixture of mirth and disbelief. Li patted my shoulder and made whimpering noises until Bri gave her a little shove.
“How could we have known she’d give her an eighties perm? Anyway, it’s the best Afro I’ve seen in ages.”
“I told you that someone who cheats at cards like Mechthild does can’t be trusted with anything,” hissed Li. “Josie looks more like Mechthild’s dreadful poodle than a future bride!”
“Bride?” Frau Ziegelow scrutinised my face in the mirror while wrapping a pink smock around my shoulders. “So you’re going through with it? You’re marrying your . . . ‘colleague’?”
I nodded at my reflection in the mirror and widened my lips, but it was obvious even to me that this attempt at a smile didn’t reach my eyes.
“Colleague. Good one.” Bri winked at Frau Ziegelow and raised a thumb. “Where did you find this woman? I like her.”
“Can you save my hair?” I asked.
“I can save anything, so long as it’s hair,” my client proclaimed, tugging at one of my tight curls.
Bri watched sceptically until she caught my angry look in the mirror and, with a shrug, followed Li to the waiting area.
Even though we had talked things through, I was still mad at Bri. She’d been far less contrite than Mama, whom I had forgiven quickly because I’m no good at dealing with tears. Bri did apologise and even offered to smooth things over between Grandmother and me, as I hadn’t felt able to drive to Villa Meeseberg to face her. Worse, I wasn’t sure I ever would. Yet the wedding was set for the following Sunday and the mere thought of the empty seat in the first row brought a lump to my throat.
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