Winter Passing (6 page)

Brant tossed the heel of the salami onto the coffee table. What kind of a dinner was that? He rarely had a home-cooked meal or much social contact. Perhaps that was it. When he had first arrived in Salzburg, he’d dated, attended social events, and been considered one of the most sought-after bachelors in the area. But then he’d dived into work, way too deep.

“You need to find yourself a good wife,” Gunther had told him on his last visit to Brant’s apartment. His old friend had looked into the refrigerator, shaking his head. “Yes, a good wife will keep your belly filled with warm food and your nights with warm love.” The older man had winked slyly.

Brant would have loved to hear Gunther say those words tonight. He’d love to have an ear to help him wade through all the things bothering him. But the night Gunther had told him to “find yourself a good wife,” Brant hadn’t been amused. It had been an especially stressful day with the death of Avia Gerstein weighing heavily upon him. Her only wish, to receive her father’s Swiss bank funds, would never be granted. They had worked hard, but time had worked harder against them.

“You say I should marry and what, then be as happy as you?” Brant had immediately regretted his harsh words. Gunther didn’t respond; he simply closed the refrigerator and turned toward him.

“Gunther, I didn’t mean to make such a judgment. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, but you speak what you perceive to be truth. That can be a good quality at times, but honesty tempered with grace is a greater quality.”

“I know.”

“Do you? And yet, you speak of my marriage to Ingrid. But after all these years, Ingrid isn’t my true wife. I was married once and will be married to her until I die. I did Ingrid a favor because we were friends at one time. And in grief and for her, I spoke vows I have done my best to follow. But she has never been my true wife.”

Brant stood, speechless.

“I am not sorry. I was granted more love in a short time than many people have in a lifetime—and that is a gift.”

Brant shook his head. Gunther held no anger or bitterness, even though all he had left of his wife was a grave on a mountainside.

Gunther always seemed to read his mind. “Listen to me. You fill your life with work—worthy work, don’t get me wrong. Much has been accomplished for survivors due to your dedication. And Austria will be a stronger nation as it enters a new age. You are taking our country there. But though this work is worthy, don’t forget to live. Cherish each day as a blessing, no matter what doors God opens or closes in your life. People want to thank God for the good days, then accuse him for the bad. Everything in life is for a reason, to fulfill a purpose, even when it’s beyond what our mortal eyes can see. But you need to live, to breathe, to love, even when it hurts and causes pain. But to have love for a moment is greater than never to have it at all. So don’t forget to live, to breathe, to love.”

Those words haunted him tonight. He was supposed to be figuring out what Richter was up to, or at least consider what to do with his careers. Perhaps he needed to choose between his dual roles. Either he could keep the lower paying and highly stressful job of helping Holocaust survivors reclaim their heritage and record their stories, stories that would soon be lost as the survivor list dwindled. Or he could resign from his CEO position at the Austrian firm that helped the emerging country compete in the age of computer chips and mega-hertz.

Tonight Brant wished more than anything to have his old friend sitting beside him. He missed the man who’d helped with every major decision since his mother’s death when he was in high school. He missed the one person he loved the most, the person who loved him the most. Instead, Brant heard Gunther’s words again: “Don’t forget to live, to breathe, to love.”

The problem was, Brant had forgotten. And he couldn’t remember how to get another chance.

Darby awoke to darkness and reached to turn the clock face toward her. It took until her hand grasped for the lamp to remember she wasn’t in her Redding apartment or in her grandmother’s home, but in a Cozy Hotel International in Salzburg, Austria.

It was midnight, and her body was refreshed and ready to go. The streetlight outside shone foggily through the closed blinds, and Darby heard the occasional slush and fade of a car on wet roads. She dug into her purse for the pack of airline pretzels. The salty snack did little to placate her stomach.

After a hot shower, she sat on the bed in an oversized T-shirt and flipped through the TV channels. At last something resembled home, a
Magnum, P.I.
rerun. But then handsome Tom Selleck was oddly matched with a German-speaking voice. She continued through the round of channels, then returned to the German
Magnum, P.I.

She still wasn’t sleepy and finally picked up the telephone. It took several tries to use her calling card with the international access code before she finally got her mother.

“I’m here!” Darby said in a cheerful voice that sounded strange in the quiet of the night.

“Darby! I was just thinking about you. It must be late over there.”

“Actually, it’s early. 12:30
A
.
M
. I wanted you to know I arrived safely.” She noticed a slight delay between their voices.

“I’ve watched for airline crashes or terrorist activity. So what do you think?”

“About airline crashes and terrorists? I don’t like them at all.”

“All right, smarty-pants.” Carole chuckled. “I meant, what do you think of our family’s homeland?”

“It was raining when I arrived and I haven’t ventured out, so not much to tell. I’ll have many stories soon enough and a ton of postcards.”

“I’ll look for them. But don’t talk too long—I’m sure these are expensive calls. Just please be careful. There are men who prey on young women, you know.”

“How was today—or the last few days? With the time change I’m confused as to how long ago I left you.” Darby tried to sidetrack her mom from her fears.

“It was just yesterday, though it seems longer. But I’m fine, thank you. Maureen checked on me and the pastor called too. I somehow volunteered to get more involved at the church, which actually sounds nice. I may even start working on Grandma’s room this week. But with you so far away, that’s keeping my mind busy enough.”

“It’s only a place, Mom, like L.A. or New York. Well, those are bad examples because Salzburg is small for a city—only 144,000 people. It’s not all that far from home, really, just a hop in the plane. And I read tonight that the greeting here, ‘
Grüß Gott
,’ means ‘Greet God.’ So I’m safe in a country like that.”

The line was silent for a moment. “I just don’t like my girl there all alone. If you weren’t an adult, I would have grounded you home.”

“I’ll be back, I promise. Clarise only gave me three weeks to return to the studio or she’ll be completely bald from pulling her hair out.”

“That Clarise needs to take a chill pill.”

“Agreed.” Darby paused, feeling so very, very far from her mother. “I wanted to say, I’m sorry, Mom.”

“For what?”

“I never asked about your father and never even thought to wonder about him. Grandma told me a little before she died, but I’m sure it was hard having a hero father you never met.”

“He was always a legend.” Then, after a slight hesitation, Carole continued, “Now your bill is really getting high. Be sure to check in every four or five days, so I know you’re okay. And call collect next time.”

“I’ll call.”

“Take extra precautions. I heard that train stations can be dangerous if you act like an inexperienced traveler.”

“Me, an inexperienced traveler?” Darby bit her lip to keep from laughing. She sat on the bed and bunched up a pillow behind her neck. “Any other travel tips?”

“Keep your wallet deep inside your purse or in the inside pocket of your jacket. Don’t walk alone after dark—”

“I was kidding, Mom.”

“I know I’m overreacting, but you feel so far from me. I look at the globe and can’t believe my daughter is way over there. And I’m reading too much of the newspaper with all the terrible things that are happening—terrorists, kidnappings, disappearances. I miss you already and wish Grandma would have left this alone and not involved you.”

Darby smiled. How often had she heard her mother say this in hints or nuances since the day Carole gave her the key to the safe and Darby had decided to come here? Perhaps she should have backed out after all. Her mom wanted to leave the past buried probably because of her own years of relentlessly pursuing her father, finding only disappointment time and time again. But it was different for Darby. She was seeking answers for her grandmother, not trying to fill in the pieces of her own life.

“Here are my suggestions. Put the globe away and quit watching the news. I miss you too, and it won’t be long until I’m home. Clarise will hunt me down if I don’t return in a few weeks. And Mom, if you aren’t ready to go through Grandma’s things, wait till I get back.”

“Thank you, honey. Remember I’m praying for you.”

“Okay.” There it was again—newly religious Mom.

They said their good-byes, and Darby hung up the phone. She snuggled down against the pillows, her eyes watching a fistfight between Magnum and the “bad guy.” No matter how much she told her body to sleep, she was wide awake.

If she wasn’t going to sleep, she could refine her strategy. Once Darby had decided to come to Austria, she’d been so busy preparing for the trip that she’d had little time to figure out what she’d do when she actually arrived. Clarise was her toughest obstacle. Her partner in the photography studio did not encourage her decision.

“You’ve missed three weeks because of your grandmother’s illness. I understood that, of course, but why do you have to go to Austria now?”

“I’m trying to get there before winter settles in and I have to worry about storms and driving in the snow. Or I could wait till spring when we have our wedding assignments.”

Clarise finally agreed, though not happily. Darby ignored her comments in the following weeks. After all, she never took vacations, while Clarise took time off every month to do things with her family. It seemed the unspoken rule that since Darby wasn’t married and didn’t have children, she naturally should work more than Clarise. She thought of mentioning this, but at the time she hadn’t minded the extra hours. Darby dated sporadically, hadn’t had a boyfriend in years since she and Derek had broken up, and she worked most weekends. So why not make the studio her life? But since Grandma Celia’s death, Darby had been seeing things differently—and Clarise wasn’t looking for change.

The weeks before the trip evaporated quickly with long hours at the studio and driving the four hours down to her mother’s on her Monday and Tuesday days off. Now here she was in Austria with hardly a plan. Well, there was no time like the present, she decided.

She’d made copies of the documents from Grandma Celia’s safe. She’d put one copy back in the safe at home, and another set was safely tucked into the inside pocket of her suitcase. The originals were carried at her side in a long, black purse. She’d almost left the originals at home, but many of the letters were still unopened, and she hoped to find an expert who could examine and translate them.

Grandma had said the safe would give her information. Instead, the contents brought more questions. Darby now knew what the coins and brooch looked like by documents she’d found. She had the engagement half of a ring, enough money to live abroad for a long time if necessary, and other documents that didn’t make a lot of sense.

She parted the window shade and looked at the dark, deserted street below. Over the bridge, spotlights shone on the church spires and toward the white monster fortress on the mountain. How could she open and run a business and backpack into the wilderness, but feel so intimidated by foreign travel? People did it all the time. Grandma had escaped this country during the Nazi occupation, and she was alone, pregnant, and facing real danger. If Grandma could do that, then Darby could play tourist and ask a few questions in the process. But perhaps that was part of it. Sure, it was the Nazis who had sent her grandmother fleeing for her life to the States. But this was still the same country.

I came here to seek answers for Grandma Celia. I’m not giving up. This isn’t some Third World country. Austria is developed and cultured with many English-speaking people.

She sighed and turned from the window.
Even if I don’t know a soul for thousands of miles, I can do this.

Darby spotted the letter she disliked the most—the letter from Brant Collins. He worked here in Salzburg, perhaps even slept somewhere nearby. He had accused her grandmother of being an imposter when the elderly woman lived thousands of miles away. It would be different now that Darby was here. Corporations easily shrugged off individuals as if they were wiping mud from their shoes. But she wasn’t so quickly scraped away, not when it came to defending Grandma Celia. Yes, she could face Brant Collins. Darby awaited the chance. And in the process, perhaps she’d find out why her grandmother had contacted him in the first place.

“Well, Mr. Brant Collins, you may write your letters to old women, but I’m not letting you get away with it.”

Brant turned away from the computer screen. He’d spent the morning staring into the humming business world via e-mail and videophone that lived and breathed within the computer. After weeks of working with Osterreich Forest Products, the company had entered the technological age with full capacity to compete with other European lumber companies. One more down, and only a few thousand Austrian companies to join the new millennium.

Brant stretched in front of the window. His shoulders felt tight though it was still morning. Sleep came hard for him these days. He looked toward Hohensalzburg, resting confidently above the city in a mass of gray clouds. The fortress had spent seven hundred years staring from the mountain. It reminded him that some things endured long past today. Such success gave him a slight hope for his own work.

“Herr Collins?” a voice crackled from the small speaker on his desk.

Brant turned in his leather chair toward his desk. “Yes, Frau Haider.”

“You have a call from a woman named Darby Evans. And she speaks only English.”

“What company does she work for?”

“No company—she says it’s a personal matter.”

“A personal matter?” Brant was stumped. He didn’t know anyone by that name.

“She said it concerns a woman named Celia Müller.” Brant paused. “I’ll take the call.” Frowning, he waited a second before picking up the line. “This is Brant Collins. What’s this about?”

“My name is Darby Evans.”

“I know that already.”

“Okay. Well, I’m calling because I received the letter you sent my grandmother, Celia Müller—”

“Celia Müller died over sixty years ago. I don’t know what you want, but like I wrote to whoever that was—”

“What are you talking about? She didn’t die sixty years ago!”

“Listen, I’m not playing games.”

“Perhaps
you
could listen for a moment, Mr. Collins, without interrupting me.”

“All right,” Brant said, clearing his throat.

“Thank you. First of all, my grandmother never received the letter you wrote. I picked up the mail and never showed her because she was very ill at the time. But I have some things we need to discuss, and since I’m here in Salzburg—”

“You’re in Salzburg?” Brant stood and turned again toward the window.

“May I finish, or are you going to interrupt every time I open my mouth?”

Brant didn’t respond.

“I’d like to discuss this with you. In person.”

His eyes felt drawn again to Hohensalzburg. The fortress had watched the comings and goings for hundreds of generations—protecting, eyeing, always knowing. Brant remembered that the woman who claimed to be Celia Müller was trying to locate information on the Lange family inheritance. Gunther had told Brant little about it, but he knew the inheritance was worth millions—if someone found and claimed it. If he met with Darby Evans, perhaps he could find out what the two women wanted.

It was better to have an enemy below your gaze than out of view.

“When would you like to meet?”

Darby pushed back from the small desk in her hotel room. Their appointment set and her notes in order, she was ready to face Brant Collins.

A gurgle rumbled through her stomach. At least one part of her was on schedule. Darby’s eyes were bloodshot and finally she was tired, but at nine o’clock in the morning. The day had just begun, and she was ready for food and a long night’s rest.

After a quick shower that helped wake her up, Darby hooked the electrical converter and blow dryer to the bathroom outlet in the slight fear she’d fry the hotel fuses or blow herself up. She sighed with relief when the dryer hummed alive. As she dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt with the black scarf and boots Maureen had sent her, she remembered the note from her sister:
You’ll look like a beautiful European in these. Remember, no tennis shoes or sweat suits—that’s a dead giveaway you’re an American tourist. Dress nicely.
Maureen and John had spent three weeks in France and Switzerland on their honeymoon. Her younger sister was the trendsetter of every new fashion so Darby listened to Maureen’s advice, except for the faded jeans she couldn’t live without. With hair semi-dry and makeup mostly on, she grabbed her purse and headed downstairs before breakfast was over.

She followed her nose to a cozy sitting room with a dining area at one end. It looked tidy in soft burgundy and white with perfect table settings, as if she were the only person who’d come to eat, ever. The food was just like home—pancakes and bacon, muffins, and whole-grain breads.

A woman entered wearing a neat Austrian
dirndl
. “
Guten Morgen. Wie geht’s
?”

“Uh.”

The woman waited.

“English?”

“Ah yes.” She smiled. “I say good morning. How are you?”

“Oh. I am very good, and good morning to you.”

She nodded. “Vould you like coffee or tea?”

“Coffee would be very nice. Thank you, or
danke
.”

The woman nodded graciously and left the room. Darby picked up one of several different-sized plates from her table. She was probably doing everything wrong but was too hungry to care. The woman returned to set a cup of coffee on the small table, arrange some food on the buffet, then left once again.

Darby sat in the quiet of the white-plastered room and took a couple of bites of the whole-grain pancake. Then a thought struck her—
my curling iron
. Had she left it plugged in? She often did at home and would call her neighbor to check. In fact, the woman had her own key to Darby’s apartment, it happened so often. The hotel brochure said the building was over five hundred years old, and it would be just her luck to burn the entire thing down.

Darby left her food, hoping it wouldn’t disappear into perfect cleanliness before she returned, and hurried up the stairs. She put her hand on the door to unlock it. Instead, it pushed open.

Hadn’t she locked her door? Yes, she was sure of it. She peered inside, but no one was there. She was tired—perhaps she hadn’t locked it. Or perhaps the maid? Darby spotted her suitcase on the bed and knew something was wrong. She clearly remembered returning it to the wood cupboard.

The squeak of wheels made her pivot toward the hallway. A maid came from another room.

“Excuse me.”

The woman looked up.

“Have you or anyone else been in my room?”

“
Nein. Kein Englisch
.”

“You don’t speak English? No English?”

“
Nein
.”

Darby motioned to her room. “My door was open.” She pointed to the door and opened and closed it. “Was someone in here? A person?” She tried to think of any German words or something from her high school French classes that might help. “A woman or man?”

“Ah. You
Mann
.”

“My man? Oh,
Mann
means husband, right?”

“
Ja. Mann
. Husband.” The woman grinned and nodded. “
Ja
, you husband.”

Darby stared at the woman. “But I don’t have a husband.”

The woman continued to grin. “You husband,” she said and made a movement like she opened the door for someone, obviously Darby’s husband.

“No. I don’t have a husband. Me, no
Mann
.”

The maid’s smile disappeared.

“We need the manager. Your boss. Manager.” Darby pointed toward the stairs until the short woman hurried away. She touched her purse, to reassure herself that the packet of original documents was present, then stepped toward her room. A shiver raced down her back. Perhaps the man was still there.

Brant checked his watch. He’d kept his eyes down the approaching street for over twenty minutes now. Every time a woman walking alone approached, he expected it to be her. He could see her hotel down the street. Brant had chosen this cafe in the Old City as the meeting place. She couldn’t get lost with only a block to walk. So why hadn’t she arrived?

A woman stepped quickly along the narrow sidewalk toward the cafe. Brant stood up, but she didn’t hesitate as she continued past. That was it. He wouldn’t play these games. The woman had called him. His work at the office was piling higher every minute he sat here. Brant paid his bill, then decided he’d drop by her hotel to see if there had been a mistake or if, perhaps, there was no Darby Evans.

Brant pushed the lobby door open and headed to the front desk.

“Darby Evans’s room,
bitte
.”

The woman looked at him with a strange expression. “Are you the man who was here? Are you her husband?”

“No, I’m not her husband.”

The woman stared over his shoulder. “Please wait here a moment.”

“Is something wrong?”

“
Nein, nein
. Just wait here, please.” The woman hurried around the desk and through the entry to the sitting room where Brant could see a group of people and one police officer standing together. The desk clerk approached and spoke to a dignified, older man from the group. Brant wondered what would call a police officer to the five-star hotel. A short, older woman was speaking to the officer in rapid German, but Brant was just out of range to understand exactly what was said. Another woman, probably in her late twenties or early thirties, stood with her arms crossed. Probably a maid caught snooping or stealing a patron’s jewelry. Then the younger woman spoke to the officer, and Brant caught a few words in English. He took a curious step forward. The young woman had long, dark hair and appeared, from his profile view of her, to be unhappy about something. She wore jeans and a shirt that was a bit rumpled in the back.

Brant saw the desk clerk and the older man look his way. The man spoke to the policeman and the three of them walked toward him, leaving the young woman and maid behind.

“Is there a problem?” Brant said as they approached.

“You asked to see Fräulein Evans?”

“Yes. That must be her.”

The young woman, obviously Darby Evans, came up behind them.

“It seems she’s had some trouble today.”

“Could you please speak English? Is this the man?” Darby asked the officer.

“I’m Brant Collins. You know, the guy you had an appointment with this morning.”

She looked surprised. “I didn’t forget. Someone broke into my room.”

“That is not exactly certain,” the man in the suit said quickly. Brant knew he must be the manager of the hotel.

“I think it’s pretty certain. After I came down to breakfast, I returned to my room for a moment and found my door open. This woman said a man asked her to open the door—he’d lost his key. At least, that’s what I think. He told her he was my husband, or he acted like my husband. I’m still unsure what she said about that either.”

The hotel manager motioned for the maid and pointed to Brant. “Is this the man who was in the room?” he asked in German.

“What?” Brant said.

“
Nein, nein
.”

“Okay. You may go back to your work,” the manager said to the maid.

“
Danke, danke
.”

“Yes,
danke
,” Brant said and glared at Darby. “I get stood up for a business appointment and suddenly am a suspect in some woman’s break-in.”

“I apologize but must check all options,” the manager said. “This does not happen at Salzburg Cozy Hotel.”

“Well, it did,” Darby said. “And where is that woman going? You aren’t going to do anything?”

“Fräulein.” The policeman spoke in slow, broken English. “Nothing missing from your room. We keep contact with you and hotel and see what happen.”

Within a minute, the hotel manager said a quick apology and hurried to the front desk, where concerned patrons watched and questioned the desk clerk. The officer also left after giving Darby Evans a business card, an apology for her difficulties, and a promise to find out what had happened. She stared at the card after he left. A long strand of hair fell across her cheek. Darby pushed it behind her ear and looked up at Brant just as he wondered why he was still there.

“This wasn’t exactly the meeting I had in mind,” Darby said. “I’m sorry for making you wait.”

Brant didn’t like this either. He’d been prepared to find out what this woman wanted and who she really was. The woman in front of him was nothing like he had expected. Her soft brown eyes with the dark circles beneath them appeared tired from deep within. She bit the side of her thumbnail, then seemed to realize it and dropped her hands to her side. The woman took a breath and attempted a brave look, but she appeared near tears—God forbid that. How could he be shrewd and hard against her?

Brant had to look away from her eyes. “Why don’t you call my office tomorrow and we’ll reschedule?”

“Sure.”

“Fine.” He began to walk away, then turned back. Her gaze hadn’t moved. Was she wondering what to do? Or was this all a ploy to get information from him? Brant hated that he was so suspicious, but lately it seemed he had to watch every strange occurrence. And Darby Evans was one of them. But the maid did say she had seen someone in the woman’s room. “So what are you going to do now?”

She shook her head slightly. “I’m not sure.”

“Perhaps you should go lie down or something.” He knew as soon as he spoke that his words sounded uncaring, even condescending—more so than he had intended.

“Thanks. That should make everything better.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“Nothing. This has nothing to do with you. I apologize for missing our appointment. I’ll call your secretary tomorrow. I don’t need or expect anything else, is that what you want me to say?”

“I just asked.”

“Don’t you understand, Mr. Collins? Someone broke into my room whether you, the police, or that manager believe so or not. And what a charming pleasure it’s been meeting you. Everyone in this horrible country treats me like an idiot or a criminal. I know I closed my door. I’d know if I had a husband or boyfriend. I don’t have one friend or acquaintance for six thousand miles—and I know it’s that far because I checked my map last night! I keep asking myself what I’m doing here.”

“That’s what I’m wondering.”