Raven Sisters (Franza Oberwieser Book 2) by Gabi Kreslehner Page A
Authors: Gabi Kreslehner
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from the world of the living, from those who were able to maintain her happiness, who held it in their hands, fiercely determined not to let it go.
10
Franza stood in the garden of her house, which, if everything went according to plan, would not be hers for much longer.
She looked around. It was all growing wild after nine months without care or nurturing. It was as if the garden knew there was no longer anyone here who wanted anything from it.
Everything had gotten a little strange. Franza could feel it as she walked across the overgrown lawn, as she ran her fingers over the leaves of the rose bushes.
She was thinking about how she and Max had finally made the irrevocable decision to sell. It had been during those days the previous winter when it had become ever clearer that Ben was not going to return, that he would stay in Berlin.
After Marie’s death, she and Max had fetched him home. They’d traveled to the capital and brought their son back to his childhood home, and the thing she had hoped so fervently for, but hadn’t truly expected, had happened. The house gave them sanctuary and allowed them to grieve. They were able to support one another in safety. While Ben grieved for Marie, his first great love, who had been murdered, Max and Franza grieved once again for themselves and their love, which had not worked out. They grieved for the house they would lose, for the world that had not turned out the way they had dreamed in their youth, and for the fact that Ben had been forced to learn this at such a young age.
Ben eventually packed his things and returned to Berlin, to the city in which he had hoped to settle with Marie.
“Are you sure?” Franza had asked him on the day he was due to leave, standing on the station platform as they waited for the train to arrive. She knew what his answer would be before he opened his mouth. The answer was clear; there was no doubt.
Long after the train had departed, she was still standing on the platform.
“We didn’t do everything wrong,” Max had said, hesitantly putting an arm around her and encouraging her to lean on him.
“No,” she said. “Not everything. Coffee?”
She raised her head and looked at her husband, who had not been her husband for some time now. He nodded with a smile.
“Coffee. Yes, of course. Coffee. And cake.”
“No. No cake. Look at me.”
He sighed, throwing a covert glance at her hips and realizing that he still felt a twinge of longing for her, for her hips that had always been so wonderfully soft, offering him security that he still missed every now and then.
They drove home, and he made the coffee while she got out fresh-baked cookies, a new recipe that had not turned out quite to her satisfaction.
Then they had sat on the couch, contemplating the dusk slowly gathering in the garden, and talked about Ben as a baby, as a small child, as a teenager, and about how he’d had to learn about grieving. She’d smiled and laughed over the memories, felt renewed anger and sadness, and was finally calm.
She worried about her son, feared for him, but she sensed the strength he had suddenly found in himself. She sensed his courage simply to live his life, without a plan, without a supporting framework. She secretly admired her son’s immediate return to his life. It was working. Not entirely without a hitch, but it was working. It made it easier for her to let him move away and to sell the house. Things were going well for him, her Ben.
A car swept up and stopped. High heels clicked on the asphalt. The prospective purchaser had arrived. Franza went to the garden gate to let her in. This young woman with her firm handshake, large mouth, and shining eyes didn’t fit in this tired garden or the house beyond it, with its paint flaking off in places. She was too young, too pretty, too sharp.
Her blouse was tight across her breasts in just the right way, her skirt reached to just above the knee, and her stilettos were high and pointed and
10
Franza stood in the garden of her house, which, if everything went according to plan, would not be hers for much longer.
She looked around. It was all growing wild after nine months without care or nurturing. It was as if the garden knew there was no longer anyone here who wanted anything from it.
Everything had gotten a little strange. Franza could feel it as she walked across the overgrown lawn, as she ran her fingers over the leaves of the rose bushes.
She was thinking about how she and Max had finally made the irrevocable decision to sell. It had been during those days the previous winter when it had become ever clearer that Ben was not going to return, that he would stay in Berlin.
After Marie’s death, she and Max had fetched him home. They’d traveled to the capital and brought their son back to his childhood home, and the thing she had hoped so fervently for, but hadn’t truly expected, had happened. The house gave them sanctuary and allowed them to grieve. They were able to support one another in safety. While Ben grieved for Marie, his first great love, who had been murdered, Max and Franza grieved once again for themselves and their love, which had not worked out. They grieved for the house they would lose, for the world that had not turned out the way they had dreamed in their youth, and for the fact that Ben had been forced to learn this at such a young age.
Ben eventually packed his things and returned to Berlin, to the city in which he had hoped to settle with Marie.
“Are you sure?” Franza had asked him on the day he was due to leave, standing on the station platform as they waited for the train to arrive. She knew what his answer would be before he opened his mouth. The answer was clear; there was no doubt.
Long after the train had departed, she was still standing on the platform.
“We didn’t do everything wrong,” Max had said, hesitantly putting an arm around her and encouraging her to lean on him.
“No,” she said. “Not everything. Coffee?”
She raised her head and looked at her husband, who had not been her husband for some time now. He nodded with a smile.
“Coffee. Yes, of course. Coffee. And cake.”
“No. No cake. Look at me.”
He sighed, throwing a covert glance at her hips and realizing that he still felt a twinge of longing for her, for her hips that had always been so wonderfully soft, offering him security that he still missed every now and then.
They drove home, and he made the coffee while she got out fresh-baked cookies, a new recipe that had not turned out quite to her satisfaction.
Then they had sat on the couch, contemplating the dusk slowly gathering in the garden, and talked about Ben as a baby, as a small child, as a teenager, and about how he’d had to learn about grieving. She’d smiled and laughed over the memories, felt renewed anger and sadness, and was finally calm.
She worried about her son, feared for him, but she sensed the strength he had suddenly found in himself. She sensed his courage simply to live his life, without a plan, without a supporting framework. She secretly admired her son’s immediate return to his life. It was working. Not entirely without a hitch, but it was working. It made it easier for her to let him move away and to sell the house. Things were going well for him, her Ben.
A car swept up and stopped. High heels clicked on the asphalt. The prospective purchaser had arrived. Franza went to the garden gate to let her in. This young woman with her firm handshake, large mouth, and shining eyes didn’t fit in this tired garden or the house beyond it, with its paint flaking off in places. She was too young, too pretty, too sharp.
Her blouse was tight across her breasts in just the right way, her skirt reached to just above the knee, and her stilettos were high and pointed and
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