and her Christmas wish. I should be thrilled, and all I could do was pour salt tears onto Frau Kirchmann’s shoulder.
Gently she drew me to the sink, took out her handkerchief and wet it, dabbing my face and eyes. “It’s a big day —a great accomplishment —and so much tension in the air. There is every reason to cry for joy and sorrow and confusion. If it helps any, we’re all confused. We’re simply doing the best we can.”
The best we can . . . and I must too. I pulled away, sniffing.
Lukas appeared in the doorway, and my heart sank. My eyes must look like swollen fish bellies, my cheeks stained and splotched. What would he think of me now?
“Take the knife and matches, Lukas. The brandy for the cake is in my purse. We’ll be there in a moment,” his mother ordered.
But he waited a moment longer, concern written in his face. “Ja —ja,” he stammered. “But what is —”
Why shouldn’t he be embarrassed? I was embarrassed, too. But we women pulled apart and stared at him, as if he were the one caught in that awkward moment.
When he left, Frau Kirchmann clucked her tongue and dug her fists into her hips. “Ach, men, don’t they know that tears shed are never wasted? What would they do without women to keep their lives interesting?” And we both laughed.
CHAPTER FIVE
HANNAH STERLING
DECEMBER 1972
The brass bell over the door of Ward Beecham’s downtown office tingled. There was no secretary in the lobby. No secretary and no desk for one. Just an orange vinyl sofa with walnut veneer legs and a matching chair that might have come off the floor of the five and dime, or been left over from my principal’s office.
But the paintings on the walls could have been set in any upscale attorney’s office in Charlotte. Instead of the printed portraits of the founding fathers, Franklin D. Roosevelt, and John F. Kennedy sported in black plastic frames by every judicial and political office in town, Mr. Beecham’s walls held carved, gilt-framed cityscapes of Paris, London, and the ruins of two castles set somewhere in Scotland —places the locals had probably never dreamed of, let alone visited. The paintings —originaloils —drew me and gave me a tingling sense of freedom, that perhaps the world held more possibilities than I’d imagined, that maybe one day I’d sit in a Parisian café or walk the paths of the Highlands. And then I pinched myself. Who am I kidding? At the rate I’m going I’ll be lucky to pay my weekly boardinghouse room rate and hold onto my ancient Royal typewriter.
The inner office door opened. I wouldn’t have guessed that the bespectacled brown-eyed man with curly dark hair and sporting the first signs of a mid-life paunch was the owner of the paintings —the vinyl sofa, maybe.
“Miss Sterling, I’m pleased to meet you.” Ward Beecham, with loosened tie and shirtsleeves rolled above his wrists, extended his hand. “Please come in.”
His office was as mismatched as his lobby. He offered me the single wine-colored leather wingback chair, taking a seat behind a gunmetal gray desk —army refuse, by the looks of it.
“I appreciate you calling me, Mr. Beecham.”
“Call me Ward, Miss Sterling.” He smiled, brown eyes creasing at the corners.
“Then call me Hannah.”
“Hannah.”
The way he said it warmed my face, which was just silly and further proof that I needed a life. “You mentioned that my mother left a key, as well as her will.”
“To her safe deposit box. She was very particular that I see you privately and place it in your hand.”
“Yes, you said. I had no idea my parents rented a safe deposit box, or that they owned anything to put in it.”
He nodded, but shifted forward and, all business, clasped his hands on top of the desk. “Let me go through the will with you. Then we’ll talk about the box. I’ll share with you everything she told me.”
There was nothing in the will but the house and land —the
Gently she drew me to the sink, took out her handkerchief and wet it, dabbing my face and eyes. “It’s a big day —a great accomplishment —and so much tension in the air. There is every reason to cry for joy and sorrow and confusion. If it helps any, we’re all confused. We’re simply doing the best we can.”
The best we can . . . and I must too. I pulled away, sniffing.
Lukas appeared in the doorway, and my heart sank. My eyes must look like swollen fish bellies, my cheeks stained and splotched. What would he think of me now?
“Take the knife and matches, Lukas. The brandy for the cake is in my purse. We’ll be there in a moment,” his mother ordered.
But he waited a moment longer, concern written in his face. “Ja —ja,” he stammered. “But what is —”
Why shouldn’t he be embarrassed? I was embarrassed, too. But we women pulled apart and stared at him, as if he were the one caught in that awkward moment.
When he left, Frau Kirchmann clucked her tongue and dug her fists into her hips. “Ach, men, don’t they know that tears shed are never wasted? What would they do without women to keep their lives interesting?” And we both laughed.
CHAPTER FIVE
HANNAH STERLING
DECEMBER 1972
The brass bell over the door of Ward Beecham’s downtown office tingled. There was no secretary in the lobby. No secretary and no desk for one. Just an orange vinyl sofa with walnut veneer legs and a matching chair that might have come off the floor of the five and dime, or been left over from my principal’s office.
But the paintings on the walls could have been set in any upscale attorney’s office in Charlotte. Instead of the printed portraits of the founding fathers, Franklin D. Roosevelt, and John F. Kennedy sported in black plastic frames by every judicial and political office in town, Mr. Beecham’s walls held carved, gilt-framed cityscapes of Paris, London, and the ruins of two castles set somewhere in Scotland —places the locals had probably never dreamed of, let alone visited. The paintings —originaloils —drew me and gave me a tingling sense of freedom, that perhaps the world held more possibilities than I’d imagined, that maybe one day I’d sit in a Parisian café or walk the paths of the Highlands. And then I pinched myself. Who am I kidding? At the rate I’m going I’ll be lucky to pay my weekly boardinghouse room rate and hold onto my ancient Royal typewriter.
The inner office door opened. I wouldn’t have guessed that the bespectacled brown-eyed man with curly dark hair and sporting the first signs of a mid-life paunch was the owner of the paintings —the vinyl sofa, maybe.
“Miss Sterling, I’m pleased to meet you.” Ward Beecham, with loosened tie and shirtsleeves rolled above his wrists, extended his hand. “Please come in.”
His office was as mismatched as his lobby. He offered me the single wine-colored leather wingback chair, taking a seat behind a gunmetal gray desk —army refuse, by the looks of it.
“I appreciate you calling me, Mr. Beecham.”
“Call me Ward, Miss Sterling.” He smiled, brown eyes creasing at the corners.
“Then call me Hannah.”
“Hannah.”
The way he said it warmed my face, which was just silly and further proof that I needed a life. “You mentioned that my mother left a key, as well as her will.”
“To her safe deposit box. She was very particular that I see you privately and place it in your hand.”
“Yes, you said. I had no idea my parents rented a safe deposit box, or that they owned anything to put in it.”
He nodded, but shifted forward and, all business, clasped his hands on top of the desk. “Let me go through the will with you. Then we’ll talk about the box. I’ll share with you everything she told me.”
There was nothing in the will but the house and land —the
Similar Books
