by Gina Kincade
Stephano and Lukas were exchanging raised eyebrow glances, and Alessandra knew she had to turn the conversation. "No one wants to listen to us exchange barbs, Raul. Let's call a truce."
"Certainly." His eyes lit up. "Just to show there are no hard feelings, let's go skiing together the day after tomorrow."
Damn. That round went to him. She could tell by his amusement that he'd cornered her deliberately.
"I'm sorry." She was, too, in many ways. "I didn't bring any ski gear to Austria." She didn’t actually own any ski equipment, but she didn’t feel compelled to say that.
"No problem." Raul’s eyes continued to dance with pleasure. "I'm sure you can borrow from one of my sisters."
"I have large feet."
All three men looked down at her high-heeled sandal-clad feet, and she was grateful that she'd borrowed the gold Jimmy Choos from Cindy, who also wore a size nine.
Raul cleared his throat, but his voice was still rough when he spoke. "Still not a problem. We can always rent boots if necessary, adjust the skis, and you'll be good to go."
She pasted on her best smile. There was no way she could ski as well as he did. Austria was a mountainous country, with fine ski resorts. She'd spent her formative years in dry and dusty Los Angeles. But she refused to be cowed. Surely skiing was like bicycling—a skill once learned, never forgotten. "Thank you then," she managed. "I'd be delighted to join you."
"Excellent." He showed her his teeth, in what she imagined he thought was a smile. "We can get to know each other better."
Yup. She heard the implied threat. He intended to unmask her. The only thing she didn't know was why.
Chapter Seven
Alessandra hated to spend the money, but she had to rent a car to visit the town of Daenos the next day. She absolutely had to have her birth certificate before she went skiing with Raul. It would give her peace of mind to be able to prove her identity.
Excitement propelled her through the crowded streets of the city of Bergserrat and onto the winding roads of the mountains. The sun shone from a high blue sky, and the snow and tree-covered mountains seemed to cuddle closely around her.
The bracing, pine-scented air brought back long-forgotten memories of skiing and sledding and running into Nona’s cottage for hot chocolate after a day outdoors in the snow.
She steered her rented Fiat into an open parking spot on the main street of the lovely little town. The residences outside of town, in the mountains, were mostly chalet-style houses, with the gabled roofs found throughout Austria. Here in town, some of the buildings were modern, rectangular boxes, but when she asked for directions to the town office, she was pointed to an attractive, dark brown building with a chalet roof and deep eaves. The white trim shone in the sunlight, and the bright red door welcomed her. Inside, old-fashioned signs directed strangers to various town offices. Of course the signs were written in German, but at least they were charming, if not helpful.
Having made the decision to obtain her birth certificate before visiting Nona's property, she was anxious to get on with the task. Another visitor in the building who spoke heavily accented English showed her to the records office, and she found a white-haired woman standing behind a long counter, similar to what might be found in a post office in America. "May I help you?" the woman asked pleasantly, first in German, and then in good English.
"My name is Alessandra Ranieri." She paused but, if she'd expected a reaction to the name, she was disappointed. The woman continued to wait.
"I'm looking for a birth record, for myself," Alessandra continued, repressing a sigh. "I need proof that I was born here in Daenos in 1994."
"I see." The woman eyed her as if wondering where Alessandra had been in the intervening years. "Unfortunately, we just began computerizing our records at the turn of the century." Her mouth turned down in a sad moue. "It would have been better if you were looking for someone born after the year 2000."
"Yes, well..." Alessandra's voice trailed off. She couldn't change the date of her birth now. "I'm twenty-six, and I was born in July so my birth year can only be 1994." Did she have to apologize?
"Right." The clerk gave Alessandra a bright smile that did nothing to mask her air of determined efficiency. "Don't worry. Our paper records are in good order, by date. We'll find you."
She moved to the back of the large office, where a long row of tall file cabinets stood, blocking most of the windows on that side. The woman moved unerringly to one cabinet, leaned down, and pulled out a long drawer. "Right here," she said cheerfully. "July, 1994. What's the exact date?"
"July 17." Alessandra watched the clerk flip through a couple of file folders. She stopped, backed up, and flipped through them again. She checked the tabs that stuck up out of the folders. Then she turned her head and looked over at Alessandra.
Unease snaked through Alessandra. Something was wrong. Slowly, the woman closed the drawer. She walked over toward the counter which separated her from Alessandra, her step firm, but her face wearing a slight frown.
Her hands were empty.
She stopped and folded her empty hands on the counter. "I couldn't find a birth record for the name you gave me."
Alessandra stared at her as something unpleasant and sharp pierced her. Emptiness. A cold emptiness that spoke of a void beyond human understanding.
It was a feeling she was familiar with. It attacked her at odd moments, but always when she’d been reminded of her status as an outsider. A nameless outsider. She used to walk to school with her friend Emily, who lived across the street from her in their neighborhood of small ranch homes. Her friend’s home had a carport, with a side door, and Alessandra always went to the side door, rather than the front door.
The side door opened directly into the kitchen, so she often saw and heard Emily’s family eating breakfast, talking and laughing. Emily had two sisters, a mom, and a dad. Of course, in hindsight, Alessandra knew the family could not always have been having a good time every morning.
But that’s what she remembered. Warmth. Laughter. Love.
All things which were absent in her own home, where she’d eat whatever breakfast she could scare up from the empty cupboards in her kitchen. Her mom had no interest in cooking, and was always on a diet anyway.
Now Alessandra stared at the grandmotherly woman in front of her, words failing her. Where was her birth certificate? How could she claim her Nona’s land and return to the security of her childhood home without it?
She thought she'd dealt with the issue of not having a father. She’d met other people with no known father. She’d never actually missed the person, because you couldn’t miss what you’d never known. But she had missed the role of a father, the big, loving imaginary figure who, in her mind, would always come home from work with a smile for her, a pat on the head, and words of praise for whatever she’d accomplished that day.
A fantasy, she knew that. But such a potent one.
And always—the thought sneaked into her head unbidden—she’d fantasized that when she finally got her hands on her birth certificate, she’d find her father’s name there, spelled out in the appropriate box, the only clue she’d need to finally track him down and fill the hole that ate at her whenever she let down her guard.
The emptiness of the long counter between her and the clerk taunted her now.
Who was she? Did she even exist? If she did, where was her birth record? Where had she been born, if not here? The void whispered cruel questions, like wind whistling out of an Arctic tundra. This was the only memory of a place she had, and if she wasn't identified with this place, how would she ever find the correct location where she'd been born? How would she ever find a birth certificate, or the name of her father?
How would she ever press her claim for her inheritance?
Worst of all, how would she ever know who she was?
A vast swell of emptiness rolled over her, as if the universe had opened up on top of her, an enormous gaping maw, and let her know what a
tiny speck she was in the scheme of it all. Not even a speck.
Nothing.
The clerk was still looking at her. Was there an edge of suspicion in her eyes now?
Alessandra had to say something. "Are you sure?" she whispered.
The woman nodded. Perhaps pity joined the suspicion in her gaze.
"Maybe it was another date in July," Alessandra pleaded. "Or June 17." Couldn't she remember her own birthday? Or had that also been a lie?
"I would need to see some identification to do a broader search." The clerk pressed her lips together firmly over the words, as if determined to say nothing more. She fiddled with her watch, as if it were a talisman against needy seekers.
"Could I look?" Alessandra knew she was begging, but she had to do something.
"I'm sorry. The public is not allowed behind the counter."
Defeat fell over Alessandra like a heavy blanket. Of course she didn't have any identification. That's exactly what she'd been trying to get.
She turned away, despair curling inside her. How could she prove who she was if she didn't exist?
She had to force herself to get back in the car, and start the drive to her grandmother's house. Dread clutched her with icy fingers even after the heater in the car warmed up. If she couldn't win her claim to the property, would she be better off not even seeing it?
Pure stubbornness forced her on. She'd come this far; she'd keep going.
The setting was spectacular. Her GPS guided her through the foothills of the long chain of majestic mountains known as the Austrian Alps. Nona's home was at the foot of Tremman Peak, one of the taller mountains, in a pristine setting. Even in winter, the tall evergreens stood sentinel on the mountain flanks, and the snow softened the harshness of the lonely landscape.
The views were as foreign to Alessandra as if she'd never been here. But the mountains spoke to her, and she thought maybe she remembered the essence of them. When she finally pulled up to the house, her hands were clutching the steering wheel as if it were her lifeline.
Of course, the driveway was impassable, covered with two feet of snow. The air was cold and moist, with the threat of more precipitation. Briefly, she remembered Raul's scent, that whisper of cold mountain air.
If there had been a walkway to the house, it wasn’t shoveled, and no other welcome was present. No pretty wreath on the door, no light shining through a window. And the house itself—it was smaller than she'd expected, and drabber. The dark brown outer walls blended in to the forest surrounding it. Of course, she knew the house had not been maintained in years. But the air of wildness unsettled her. Uncontrolled vegetation had taken over the yard, with spikes of nameless bushes poking out of the snow, reaching every which way, as if searching for something that never could be found.
Alessandra shuddered. She felt the same way. What could she find here? Certainly not any concept of home.
She turned off the car, but hesitated. Now that she was here, having traveled across a continent, over the wide expanse of the Atlantic Ocean, and then halfway across another continent, she wondered at her foolishness. How would she get inside this house? What would she disturb if she did go inside? How could she have thought her memories would have remained here, intact, when nothing else in life ever did?
But something drove her on. If she gave up, then what? Would she give up her claim to her inheritance?
No.
She opened the car door and leaned into the cold wind. The pine trees soughed around her, with an eerie swishing and creaking that caused the hairs on her neck to spring up. A malevolent cloud suddenly blotted the sun.
She put her head down and trudged up through the heavy snow to the front door.
It was locked. Disappointment whipsawed through her, but what else had she expected?
She would have to make her way around to the back. Didn’t she remember a door that had given a view of the thick forest behind the house?
She set off again, plowing through the deceptively delicate snow. Why had her memory given her an image of snow as a glittery frosted substance? In reality, it was dense and heavy, pulling at her boots and creating cold and dampness when it made its way inside her waterproof footwear.
The snow wasn’t quite as deep on the side of the house. This must be the western-facing side, where the late afternoon sun would warm the ground. She plodded on.
Only to find that the back of the house was buried more deeply than the other sides. The wind came off the mountain and blew the snow up against the house in downy-looking drifts.
Her shoulders drooped for a moment, at the thought of the task before her. She had a fleeting memory of the blazing California sun. She pushed it away. That was a false warmth. She wanted the real thing. She’d come this far. In the safe and cozy confines of Nona’s house, she would revive her true memories, the memories that made her who she was.
Without thinking any more about the daunting nature of her task, she began plowing through the snow, using her hands to furrow through the powder. Fortunately, she had mittens that Tem had lent her. But it was slow going. She couldn’t tell what drove her on—her disappointment at not finding her birth certificate, her determination not to let any setback stall her, or just plain stubbornness.
When she finally saw the door handle, she was exhausted. For a moment, she just leaned against the shabby door. The tan paint had faded and peeled, and was still streaked with snow.
But when she tried the worn handle, it twisted in her hand, as if by magic, and opened. Clumps of snow that clung to the door frame fell into the house when she pushed open the creaking door. It didn’t matter. No one was home to be dismayed.
She stepped into the kitchen, looking first at the hearth across the room. It was cold and lifeless. The large stones which had been quarried from these very mountains appeared unforgiving, pouting out from the wall as if angry to be inside all these years. Where was the glow she'd expected, the straight-backed woman leaning over to add another log to a smoldering blaze?
No warmth softened the chill of winter, no flame brightened the dark room. Red-checked curtains still hung at the windows, but the gay color had long since faded. The light of a gray mid-day didn't penetrate far into the room.
Most importantly of all, the rich scent of food cooking was absent. Instead, the smell was of decay, dust, and absence, all the lonely scents that tugged at her heartstrings, whispering that this place was no longer a home, that she would find no sanctuary here.
What had she been thinking to make this trip, based on the whim of finding a long-lost letter? How had she allowed herself to hope that, despite the facts that she knew well, someone still might have been here to greet her with open arms?
As always, she was a fool, alone in the world, unnecessary to anyone. She turned and fled.
Chapter Eight
Raul glanced around his father’s library, grateful that he’d invested a bit of money in spiffing it up. Nothing made a money guy antsier than seeing signs of poverty in a client.
Of course Calandre had told him what to do, since he had no head for interior decorating. But, he had to admit, she’d been clever.
The ancient dark drapes that framed the window behind the massive mahogany desk had been taken down and replaced with some kind of a box valence that nicely highlighted the view of the Austrian Alps.
The desk was an antique with its own grandeur, but he and Stephano, and the bankers would meet at a small conference table at the side of the room. Its scarred surface was covered with a navy tablecloth that blended into the room.
This morning, he’d dragged the antique dining room chairs into the room, as he did whenever he had a meeting. No one had to know about that move.
A wall of packed bookshelves added to the gravitas of the room. Calandre had removed the colorful paperbacks that had crept onto the shelves over the past few decades, and filled the empty spaces with curios, none valuable, from other rooms in the castle.
The enormous carpet was
old, rather than valuable, but she’d said people would only notice and appreciate its age, so he hadn’t had to replace it.
The lighting was too dim, but they’d be using computers, so that was okay. He opened his own laptop and glanced at Stephano, who raised his eyebrows, and said, "Ready for the crucifixion?"
Raul couldn’t muster a laugh. The stakes were too high today. "I trust you’ll bury my body appropriately when we’re done here."
Stephano grinned at him. "Full honors."
"If only Calandre had done what she promised—" Raul left the thought unfinished. There was no point in completing it. His sister had promised to get a banker friend of hers to say he’d float them a substantial bridge loan. The idea was to make their usual bankers from the British firm Finance, Inc. realize there was competition to work on this deal, so they wouldn’t call their loan.
