Butterfly and the Violin (9781401690601)

by Cambron, Kristy

  “I suppose I did,” she said quietly, her hands busied in removing the pins from Adele’s hair. “It was too much to have to entertain them.”

  “But we entertain them every day.”

  “Yes. At the gates when they march out to work each day and when fewer march back in. Perhaps that is entertaining to them.”

  Adele shrugged her soiled dress up over her shoulders, instantly feeling the difference between the buttery soft chiffon and the dirtied fabric. It layered a film of dust over her skin.

  “Was it because the other musicians didn’t show? You were worried about them.”

  “Of course. Who wouldn’t be?”

  “Is that it?”

  Omara gathered up the things from the bed as she answered, “Adele, I have come to respect you more than you know. You have been born to privilege, yet you carry yourself as anyone here. You have a most compassionate heart. But what I caution you is to mind yourself with them.”

  “You mean the SS guard?”

  “Yes. What did you say to him?” Omara stared back, her eyes wide and searching.

  “Nothing. He was talking to me.”

  Omara paused. It was cold that morning, strangely cold for dawn in summer, and her breath almost froze out on a fog. “They will make you their pawn if you’re not careful. That you don’t want to be.”

  Adele had endured enough scrutiny at the hands of Marta. It didn’t seem warranted to receive it now from their trusted den mother too.

  “What must I do to prove my loyalty to this group? To you, even?”

  Omara stopped. Her eyes drifted up to meet Adele’s. She had no family. She barely had air in her lungs. If Adele had no trust from those closest to her, then what was left?

  Omara spoke gently. “The building right outside—it has no back door.”

  The crematorium.

  Adele knew it well. They could see Crematorium IV from their block, passed it daily as they marched out to play, kept their heads down as they passed the scores of unsuspecting Jews lined up to feed the fires that coughed black smoke from the smokestacks.

  Omara was right. The crematorium had no back door. It was the beast of death in the midst of this hellish place and she knew that only God saved them from it.

  “You understand my meaning?”

  Adele nodded. “Yes.”

  “And that is all I need to say. I care for you to live. That’s all.”

  “But how could I be a pawn to them?”

  “Pawn. Pet. Ornament paraded before the international arts community—they care not. You have talent and a name. They are masters of exploitation. And in here? They are the gatekeepers of death. In this place, you have no power over either of those truths and they will use you if they can, to your last breath.”

  Thinking of the blueberries and the SS guard and the oddly tranquil resort that was but miles from the throngs of death all around them, Adele could make no sense of it. But it stood to reason that if there was a prisoner of notoriety, they would attempt to use that.

  To use her.

  “I understand.” She turned her attention back to dressing quickly, her fingertips tired and cracked to near bleeding after having played through the night. But the paltry pain and exhaustion that she felt was nothing compared to the fate of those lined up right outside the block. She knew they would be there and she would be forced to walk by them with the knowledge of their fate.

  It was almost too much to endure.

  “How can we walk by them? Play at the selections? All the while, knowing that the elderly, the mothers and their sweet babies are all being sent straight to the gas chambers? And the ones who do live will slowly starve. They’re crying for food. Parched with thirst. Changing from people to skeletons before our eyes while we play melodies for them to march to. I can’t bear it.”

  Omara took her hand, and with the characteristic strength that had helped them all endure for so long, she squeezed Adele’s palm. “God is here. He sees. He knows what is happening in this place.”

  “But how? I’ve prayed every day, poured my heart out to Him each night while we shiver, packed like animals in the block. Yet we receive no answers!” Adele fought tears, felt them burning her cheeks like acid, knowing that weeping had no home in a place like this. “I always thought I championed God in my heart, yet I’m ashamed that I question Him now. Where is He? Why does He not answer the prayers of the many here?”

  “He answers,” Omara assured her. “He has heard your every cry, witnessed your every tear. He is a God of vengeance and they will learn this soon.”

  She found the last thought a curious thing to say aloud. “But how do you know He will enact vengeance upon them?”

  Omara nodded slightly, as if she knew, but was reluctant to share. “Because if need be, we will do it for Him.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  I can see that she’s being taken care of.”

  William had slipped into Sera’s gallery when she’d been tackling her always monstrous e-mail inbox and caught her notice only when he commented on their painting of Adele. Sera had been watching the door all day, waiting for him to walk through it, and somehow he’d managed to sneak in.

  He stood there, handsome and relaxed in jeans and a worn-in tee, smiling at her from the center of the deserted gallery. He gave a halfhearted glance at his wristwatch and shrugged.

  “I know. I didn’t exactly give you a time.”

  “Hi.” Oh-so-unimpressive for a greeting, but there was nothing else she could manage. It was all her jittery heart would allow her to say.

  “Hi yourself.” He said it back, and there was nothing contrived in it. He buried his hands in his pockets and gave her a congenial grin.

  Sera’s lips parted on their own, and she felt the warmth of a blush as she broke into a smile. Yes, she was glad he was there.

  “Nice weather you’re having,” he said, and took several steps toward her desk, looking around as if the building’s old ceiling were instead the backdrop of a beautiful starry sky. “Fancy a walk through Manhattan on this spring night?”

  She nodded and sucked in a breath as he walked closer. “Sure. Just let me close down in here,” she said, fumbling around as she quickly closed up shop for the night.

  “It suits you.”

  “What?” She turned off her laptop and dimmed the table lamp.

  He’d taken several more steps until he was just inside her office and casually leaned against the doorjamb. “The gallery. All the art and the wide-open space. Something about it really suits you.”

  She grabbed her purse from her bottom desk drawer. “Oh. Thanks.”

  “And the painting.” He kept talking as he followed her from the office. “It looks like it belongs here somehow.”

  Sera stopped and looked at Adele, the intensity of her eyes staring out into the open room as if she knew someone was watching her.

  “I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that Penny and I have grown rather attached to her. We may have even plotted an idea or two to convince you that you want to sell. But then, professionally speaking, that’s not meant to sway you. After all, we’re looking for the same thing, aren’t we?”

  He walked up beside her and, staring back at the painting before them, said, “The original.”

  Sera nodded. It started with finding the original painting for her, but that was by no means where it ended for them both. It also included learning the identity of the painting’s owner and the true heir to the Hanover estate. And the full story of what happened to Adele and Vladimir all those years before . . . Sera had a feeling she wouldn’t have peace until she found out the fate of the young musicians.

  Did they ever feel nervous and unsure as the prospect of love bloomed?

  William broke into her thoughts. “This is a business expense, by the way, and I’m paying. So where am I taking you?”

  The question was simple enough. But the answer? Not simple at all.

  It depended on whether this was a date.
If it was to be purely business, they could go to one of the posh bistros that usually impressed clients. But a date—that was something else entirely. She couldn’t see spending the evening with him in the midst of a hundred business suits and noisy cell phones. But how did she know what it was?

  He’d said it was a business expense, so it couldn’t be a date.

  “I thought maybe we could go to one of my favorite restaurants,” she said, and clicked off the lights at the nearby wall switch. She stepped by him and walked out into the open gallery, flipping off the rest of the lights as she went. “It’s a few blocks away, but if you like authentic Italian, I’d say the walk to Little Italy is worth it.”

  They stopped at the front doors. He did the gentlemanly thing, of course, and opened the door to the street.

  “After you,” he said, holding it wide.

  She locked the door, trying not to notice that he stood so close to her as she turned the key in the lock.

  “Which way?”

  Sera felt her face warm with another telltale blush. Would she ever not do that with him?

  “It’s down here.” She motioned to the glow of city lights a few blocks down on her right and took a step in that direction. He joined her, walking along as the warmth of the spring evening welcomed them to explore the blocks between the gallery and the restaurant.

  Sera let her hand hang down at her side, wondering if he’d think to hold it in his own. They lingered through their walk, noticing the sky overhead, becoming lost in their own world. Chatting, laughing every now and then, passersby going unnoticed as they talked. They came to a charming old three-story brick building with outdoor tables, ropes of lights hanging as a makeshift awning against the sky, and the wonderful smell of roasted tomatoes and garlic wafting out from inside.

  A neon sign overhead blinked in red with the green map image of Italy’s boot behind the word “Mickey’s.” It was Sera’s favorite place, a lazy little eatery she’d drop by once a week because of the amazing eggplant Parmesan and quiet tables tucked back in little nooks of the vintage-inspired dining rooms.

  “This is it.”

  They both stopped at the glass front door.

  “In or out?” Sera asked, and tilted her head to the options.

  “Outside, I think,” he said, reading her mind. He reached for the door handle. “I’ll go in and tell the hostess we’re out here.”

  “It’s Gino, actually. The owner. He prefers to seat everyone himself.” She smiled, letting him go through the door if he chose. “He’ll be the only man in there wearing a tuxedo. You can’t miss him.”

  “Been here on dates before, huh?”

  He winked and cruised through the door, not giving her a chance to respond.

  Sera turned and sailed her eyes heavenward the instant he was gone.

  Oh Lord—this is a date. He thinks this is a date.

  Even Sera had to admit that the potential of dating again held a certain amount of promise. But she was terrified. Despite how much of a gentleman he could be, she wasn’t sure she could give in to trusting anyone again.

  Lord . . . calm me down.

  Sera exhaled just in time for him to return.

  He stepped through the door and pointed her over to a table tucked in the back of the patio area next to an old stone fountain with green moss peeking out from cracks in the bricks. The sound of water dancing down the building’s outer wall welcomed them to their little table.

  “Are you sure you’re not his long-lost relative? He said to take the special table by the garden,” William said, his hand grazing the small of her back as he guided her forward. “And he’s bringing out two chef’s specials—whatever that means.”

  “That’s Gino.” Sera grinned, a light laugh escaping her lips. “And it’ll be two eggplant Parmesans and a Caesar salad. I hope that’s okay.”

  “I think it will have to be. I only had to mention that I was here with Sera James—he went into a frenzy and disappeared into the kitchen.”

  “Well, I’ve been coming here for years,” she said, leaving out the fact that Mickey’s had once been a date spot that she and Michael had shared. “He was friends with my father. Kind of took me under his wing for a time.”

  William pulled the iron patio chair out for her and she sat, a cascade of flowering trees at her back. He took the chair next to her, the light of the restaurant windows dimly illuminating his face. Music of old Italy was piped outside, just loud enough to be heard against the backdrop of the trickling fountain. There were other guests dining outside on the warm evening, but they seemed miles away from their tiny corner of the world.

  It was a quiet, lovely spot.

  He must have noticed the tranquility of the surroundings, because he too glanced around and smiled. “It’s nice. Not exactly what I’m used to in Manhattan,” he admitted, the smile turning into a welcoming grin.

  “Good or bad?”

  “No, good. Definitely good.”

  She unfolded her napkin, then dropped it into her lap. “Been to New York much?”

  “Yeah, a few times. But I rarely left the hotel except for meetings in stuffy offices.” He shrugged. “All business. No gallery stops or Little Italy with art dealers.”

  “So what kind of business brought you here?” she asked, then immediately thought to backtrack. Not good to corner him into answering the question, though she was dying for an answer. “I don’t really know what it is that you do. For work, I mean.”

  “I manage the family business in my father’s absence—I think that’s enough for right now. It’s all purchases and restructuring of companies. We buy real estate to invest, then sell off to make a profit. Let’s say it puts Paul in his leather jackets and keeps my mother as the top banana at her country club,” he said, then leaned back to allow the waitress to place water glasses in front of them. She set two small plates and a bread basket on the table with a quick smile, then left them alone again.

  “You don’t sound enthused.”

  He surprised her by nodding. “Maybe that’s because I’m not.”

  “But I thought . . .” Sera couldn’t get that first picture of him out of her mind—the man who had entered the office in his California estate had been all bristle and brash. If he wasn’t happy with his place as head of the family business, he wore the mask well enough to hide it from her. She wondered if anyone else in the family knew.

  “You thought I was a suit, and that’s it.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  William shook his head. “No. It’s okay. Most people do. I know I come off as hard-nosed,” he said, making her knees shake when his blue eyes stared back at her. “But I don’t have a choice. I have to keep this business going mostly on my own, so that doesn’t leave me time for much else. Except for gardening, that is.”

  Sera laughed, remembering how they first met. “All right,” she conceded, laughing in between bites of bread from the basket in front of her. “I admit it. It was an original way to meet a new client. But why the façade? Even with the painting. You were pretty guarded when you walked in the office that first day, but it doesn’t seem to be who you really are. Is it deliberate, to appear more rigid than you really are?”

  “No. I think I may have some . . . trust issues.” He grinned.

  “Sounds familiar.” Sera smiled. “In business or in your personal life?”

  William paused and tilted his chin to one side as if he’d figured something out. “Which William do you really want to know, Sera? The one who wants to get to know you, or the one you’re sure is only here for the painting?”

  Though she’d averted her eyes from his, she knew he was watching her, waiting for a response. But how could she say it? How could she explain that she did want to know more about him, but that her heart was locked tighter than the front door of the gallery they’d left behind? And then, in a moment of sheer horror, she found herself blurting out the truth before she could stop it.

  “I was engaged,” she
spat out, the words feeling like fire in their effort to fly off her tongue. “Two years ago. He left me at the altar.”

  And that should do it. He knows the whole story and that I’m still not over it. He’ll see I’m damaged goods. That I’m not ready for this . . . He’ll catch the next flight back to California where he belongs.

  Sera picked up her handbag, even pushed back on her chair ever so slightly, fully expecting to flee when he ended the date right then and there. But if he was shocked, it didn’t show.

  Instead, William reached across the table and, as gently as one might approach a skittish horse, took the purse from her hand. He placed it on the other side of the table and, with a loud scrape of his chair against the concrete, nudged his up closer to her.

  Sera’s gaze was redirected to her lap. The humiliation was too great to look him in the eye. Here he was, a gorgeous man with everything going for him, and he was playing nursemaid to an emotionally frazzled art historian who hadn’t anything but a small apartment and a broken heart as her list of notable possessions. She was sure he could have any woman who caught his eye. So why was he being so nice to her?

  “William, I like you but—” She couldn’t continue, afraid that the emotion welling up would humiliate her further by generating waterworks from her eyes. But she felt the surprising warmth of his hand even before she could get her next words out. His thumb brushed the inside of her palm, then his fingers wrapped around the side of the hand she’d dropped in her lap.

  “What a relief.” His voice was soft, whispered even, and almost carried out on the breeze around them. He leaned in closer as the trees rustled overhead. “I had the most terrible feeling that this whole thing might have been one-sided.”

  “But after what I’ve just said, how can you be sure you even want to—”

  “I’m a businessman, Sera. I’m used to contracts and paperwork. But I assure you that no one is asking you to sign anything here. We’re just two people getting to know each other.” He took his thumb and nudged her chin up, until they were once again staring eye to eye. “Talk to me.”