The House by the Lake
Read The House by the Lake Online
Authors: Ella Carey
PRAISE FOR
PARIS TIME CAPSULE
Paris Time Capsule
by Ella Carey is one sensational women’s fiction piece that readers will love . . . it will be a story like the Titanic that readers won’t ever forget. A stunning and well written plot, readers will be looking for more of Ella Carey’s future work. As a reader, I couldn’t get enough of the marvelous scenes and addictive romance. I recommend this novel to readers everywhere. I loved reading it and I have no doubt others will too. Overall, I rate it a five out of five stars.
—Danielle Urban,
Universal Creativity
It’s the perfect book to read on the plane, in a waiting room, at an outdoor cafe on a crisp, sunny day, or under the covers at night. I also want to mention that the whole time I was reading it, I was thinking what a great movie it would make.
—Heather Schmitt-Gonzalez,
Girlichef.com
There are so many things to love about
Paris Time Capsule
—a chance to travel to Paris and the French countryside via the author’s vivid descriptions, an absorbing combination of romance, mystery and historical fiction, and especially the fact that this novel is based on a true story.
—
Kahakai Kitchen
I loved this book. I absolutely loved it! I devoured this book over the course of two days. Based on a real apartment in Paris, this work was the perfect combination of mystery and romance—invoking a writing style that was reminiscent of Kate Morton.
—Melissa Rose,
Around the World in Books
ALSO BY ELLA CAREY
Paris Time Capsule
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2016 by Ella Carey
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of
Amazon.com
, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503934153
ISBN-10: 1503934152
Cover design by Shasti O’Leary-Soudant
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
San Francisco, 2010
The decision was made in the Italian Café on Chestnut Street. Afterward, Anna wondered if she had any say in it at all. Everything beyond the table in the window had become one inextricable whirl. There was only one thing Anna was sure of: change was coming, and fast.
Her mind bounded with questions, but one stood out among the others. Why today? Why this morning?
Anna had woken at the usual time, thrown on her standard black work outfit and one of her mother’s favorite scarves, hand watered her garden, removed dead leaves from her roses, even paid a few bills before heading out the door. There was nothing unusual in that.
Now shoppers with wicker baskets over their arms strolled up and down the sidewalk outside the window. Saturday morning traffic sat at a standstill in the busy street. Anna could only stare and stare at her ninety-four-year-old grandfather, Max. It was impossible to know what to say.
If anyone had asked Anna whether she thought her grandfather was capable of the revelation he had just made, she would have told them that they were mad. He had been the greatest source of consistency and love in all her twenty-nine years. She was devoted to him—and always had been.
She had tried countless times to get him to talk about the past. And countless times he had refused. It was a no-go zone. Now Anna knew not to touch it. Anna knew not to ask. She had no idea what had happened to make him never, ever want to talk about it.
One day she had found him in his apartment, snipping up photographs that he said were from his childhood. He was going to burn them all up. Anna had not known that he owned any photos at all until then.
And then Max had looked up and asked about Anna’s day. As usual. Diversion. Away from him. And definitely away from his childhood, his youth, in the former East Germany. All she knew was that his family had been forced to escape at the time of the Soviet invasion, that Max had never returned, and that he never, ever wanted to talk about it. His past had always loomed in Anna’s imagination, and yet it repelled her too—she found it too confusing so left it, out of respect and love for Max.
This morning, Anna had left the glass counter that ran the length of one wall of the café as soon as she saw Max walking up the street. She had made her way past all her customers, who were lined up for her thirty-four varieties of sandwiches, her Parma hams, and her Italian cheese selections—Rocca Reggiano, Parmigiano, Locatelli Pecorinos, and Dry Jacks—all of which had garnered her something of a reputation in Pacific Heights, indeed, throughout the whole of San Francisco. She continued past the second line that had formed for her artisan breads and delectable cakes.
Anna had amassed a loyal following that came back again and again for the magical blend of coffee that she had perfected. Her Italian Café was scented with it, along with spices, garlic, and hints of red wine. Anna’s customers often told her that if they closed their eyes, they could imagine they were in Rome.
Anna had placed one of her small black reserved signs on her grandfather’s table an hour before he was due to arrive. If she did not reserve his seat, someone would settle down to read the Saturday newspapers and not budge for hours.
When Anna held the door wide to allow him to enter, every other table was full. The counter staff were in nonstop motion and the café was abuzz with refreshing weekend chatter. Anna led Max through the melee, one hand guiding his thin arm. Then she settled him into place and made sure his chair was in exactly the right position before going to prepare his coffee.
Cass, Anna’s business partner, appeared at her side. “Mind if I join you today? I am so in need of some Max time.”
“Well.” Anna pulled off her black apron. She grinned at Cass. “Perhaps you need a 1930s man. Now that’s an idea. You could always go back in time.”
“If only,” Cass said. Several curls had escaped from her attempt to confine them in a bun. Today her hair was red. The following week it could be purple. Whatever week it was, Cass hoped to meet a man.
Anna was grateful for every week that she did not.
She took Max’s soft almond-meal biscuit out of a glass jar and placed it on a plate. She sensed Cass watching her. A drop-dead gorgeous man had just walked into the café. He looked as if he worked out at the gym full-time, and his white T-shirt showed off the loveliest of biceps.
“Forget it,” Anna muttered, swiping a look at her friend.
“It is becoming a bit ridiculous, Anna,” Cass said in a whisper. “Six years? It’s a very long time.”
“Watch me.” Anna smiled at the woman standing at the front of the line.
Ten minutes later, Anna kissed her grandfather on the cheek, sat down with him and Cass, leaned back in her chair, and stretched her tired legs out in front of her. She inspected the black pumps that she wore every day. They were polished; they looked fine. She tugged at the pencil skirt that she wore under her black apron; it had risen a little under her black top. Her long dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail, highlighting her almond-shaped brown eyes.
“I brought this.” Max pushed a newspaper article across the table toward her.
Cass leaned in toward Anna, reading over her shoulder. “A Belle Époque apartment in Paris that was abandoned for seventy years? How intriguing. Imagine the ghosts!”
Anna frowned at the photographs before her. A faded Mickey Mouse plush toy was propped up against a stuffed ostrich with a patterned shawl draped over its poor stiff back. There was a photograph of a sitting room, wallpaper peeling off in long strips. Yet another showed an antique dressing table complete with cut-glass bottles containing the remnants of some ancient perfume.
But Anna couldn’t take her eyes off the very last photo. It was a painting of a woman. Her dark hair was tousled and her face turned to the side. Though elegant and beautiful, she also had a touch of the erotic about her. Her dress had been painted with such feather-like brushstrokes that she seemed ethereal and not of this world.
“The apartment was . . . ,” Max began, then paused. “Full of beauty once.” There was an old Hollywood quality to his voice that blended with his slight European accent. It lent gravitas to almost everything he said.
Max meant, of course, that the apartment
must
have been beautiful once. Anna smiled at him, adopting the sort of expression that she often took these days with her grandfather. Inside, she felt a twinge of sadness at his advancing age.
“You see, this is why I want to go to Paris,” Cass said. “This sort of thing never happens here. If I could get Anna there, maybe I could find her a man. It’s exactly what she needs. Don’t you think so, Max?”
“A vacation could be wonderful,” Max said. “If Anna would ever allow herself to let go of the past.”
Anna almost choked on her coffee. “Excuse me—I am in the room!” But she was laughing.
Max appeared to be thinking.
The only thing to do was wait.
“Anna, darling. I haven’t asked you to do anything for me in a while.”
“If, by that, you mean
never
. . .”
“Don’t speak too soon,” he said, his voice softer now. It was easy to picture him as he had once been—glamorous, young, his fair hair swept back, showing off his sparkling blue eyes. Anna’s grandmother had kept her wedding photograph on the chest of drawers in her home. Anna had often picked it up as a child, turning it over in her hands.
Cass scrutinized him. “What is it, Max?”
“Anna, you have never been to Berlin,” he said.
“No.” A knot formed in her stomach.
Max leaned down and pulled a piece of paper out of the leather bag on the floor by his feet. Even Cass stayed silent as he opened what was clearly an old map and laid it across the table, spreading it carefully with his gnarled fingers. Anna stacked the empty coffee cups and plates to one side; she hardly noticed when a staff member appeared and took them all away.
A neat interior plan of a building covered the yellowing paper. Anna ran her eyes over the rows of rooms, all lined up in sepia ink. A faded drawing of what was clearly the building featured on the map was sketched into the background. Elegant turrets and pretty French windows hinted at beauty beneath the more prosaic diagram.
Anna stared at Max.
“Schloss Siegel,” Max said, his eyes meeting hers.
“Oh, my.” Cass leaned in toward the old paper, smoothing the parchment with her fingertips. “Did you pick this up in an antique shop, Max?”
“Not exactly.”
Anna stayed silent.
Max inclined his head and pushed the paper toward her, inviting her to have a proper look. Anna studied the drawing: there was an enormous entrance hall on the ground floor. A set of double doors gave way to a room labeled “music salon,” which, in turn, led out to a terrace overlooking a park with its own lake.
The rooms leading out from the entrance hall were all labeled in the same handwriting: smoking room, billiard room, library, ladies’ room, guest bedrooms, small and large dining rooms, estate offices, footmen’s rooms, individual rooms for the valets, even one for the silverware. The second floor housed several large bedrooms above the salon and corridors that led to smaller rooms labeled “maids.”
“I left something there, you see,” Max said.
Anna looked up. Her eyes caught Max’s.
“Something valuable,” he went on.
“Sorry?” Anna whispered.
“You heard me, darling. It was . . . another life.”
Max had always been open about his life in the States—how he had wound up in San Francisco in the 1950s, earned a degree in economics, worked hard to build up an investment company of his own. He had married Anna’s American grandmother, Jean, and they had had what looked like a tolerable marriage. Max had not spoken of her since she died. But it was what Anna had seen growing up—and it was the last thing she wanted for herself.
“Anna.” Max sounded like his gentle self, but there was something firm in his voice.
Anna wanted to stand up. She pushed her chair back to do so, then pulled it forward again. Everything in her life was going so smoothly these days. The unsettled feeling that had coiled into her system became more pronounced.
“It’s your family too, Anna.”
Anna inhaled deeply.
“Two hours northeast of Berlin. The old Brandenburg—Prussia. Forests, lakes.” He paused. “So beautiful—my old home.”
Anna’s gaze returned to the map, her eyes roaming faster now: twenty-six rooms on the first floor; twenty-four on the second; stairs leading down to another floor, with an arrow marked kitchens and scullery—no basement, but several attic spaces. So. Four floors. Anna’s brain always retreated into numbers when she was overwhelmed. Logic never let her down—and most importantly, it was always, always there.
“I want you to go back there for me, Anna. I want you to find what I left behind.”
He wanted her to go there? To this house by the lake, this—Schloss, he had called it?
“Oh, my.” Cass sat back in her chair and let out one of her customary whistles. “I told you I needed a dose of Max. Didn’t you hear me say that? You romantic, you.” She leaned in toward him. “What do you want her to do? Tell us! This is exactly what Anna needs, you know. You are clever.”
Anna shook her head. “Sorry. I’m not following you. You want me to go to Germany? To retrieve something you left—when?”
“Nineteen forty. June. I was in a bit of a rush.”
Anna sat back in her seat.
“The best things in life are mad, you know, darling. Instinctive,” he said. “You don’t understand that yet . . . but, in time, you will. That’s where the magic lies. And that, my darling, is what you are lacking in your life.”
“What?” Anna didn’t know what to say. Max never spoke like this. She had never heard such urgency in his voice.
“That is so true!” Cass rapped her fist on the table. “Bravo, Max! That’s exactly right.”
Anna shook her head. “Hang on. You’re telling me that you grew up in a palace in the former East Germany, and that you want me to go there, on my own, to search for something that you left there seventy years ago? Did I hear you right?”
Max held her gaze.
It was all the confirmation she needed.
“But decades of people will have passed through the Schloss—the Soviets probably used it for military operations, or a hospital. A family must be living there now. Grandfather, surely you know that there is no chance that whatever it is you left there will still be there. I’d hate to see you disappointed. Not now. And I’m just reeling from this.” She stared at the map once more.
There was a silence.
“There’s a strong chance it will still be there,” he said, finally.
“Oh, come on, Anna!” Cass stood up. “You can’t just not go!”
“I can’t just run off to Berlin!” She turned to her grandfather. “And I don’t like leaving you alone. What gave you this mad idea anyway? The abandoned apartment in Paris? Because that is clearly a freakish situation. You can’t expect your . . . stuff . . . to be sitting there too, untouched after all these years.”
Max leaned his forearms on the table.
Anna sighed. “I have questions. So many questions, Grandfather. First, what is it that you want me to retrieve? Second, couldn’t we just write to the owners and ask them to send whatever it is you want back? Surely we could find a simpler way to do this. And third, we need to talk about this. Please.”
“You could go away for months and the business would be fine,” Cass said. “I can run everything for both of us. It runs like a Swiss train.”
“A conspiracy then.”
“No, it’s not.” Cass and Max spoke at once.
Anna’s fingers wanted to trace their way over every detail and run over every room on that map in front of her eyes. Her mind wanted to imagine the entire place—set it out. A palace? Who lived there now? What must her grandfather’s childhood have been like? It was what she had always wanted to know, but she needed to talk to him properly. She didn’t want these vague hints. Asking her to go and get something? What was that? Why now?
“We’ll have to talk about this later,” she said, but she said it with kindness. She simply had to return to work. Frustration at this blended with an urgent desire to know everything.