Abramson.
It is a detail that has been obscured by time and marriage. But the names of her parents are plainly written on these documents, and it would take a curious mind very little time to discover the truth. It would be her ruin.
Funny how marriage can erase the person you used to be, she thinks. It happened for her mother. And it happened to her as well. When she married Hans Imhof all those years ago she went from being the daughter of a Jewish woman to being the wife of a German innkeeper. In a breath—no longer than the time it took to speak a vow—she was someone else.
The loss of her name never troubled her much. But she has never recovered from the loss of her husband.
Emilie pulls off her dress and stockings. She hangs them on the ladder that leads to the upper berth and allows herself to be comfortable for the first time that evening. A hesitant knock sounds on the door. The tension that only moments ago had subsided in her shoulders, the small of her back, and the arches of her feet returns with a lurch. She curses silently. There is no time to shove everything back in her case, so Emilie grabs the papers and the money and hides them in the closet. The knock sounds again, lighter this time. Emilie is at the door wearing nothing but a slip before she can properly think through her response.
“What?” She yanks the door open with a growl and immediately regrets it.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t think you’d be in bed already. I just came to say good night.”
It is a great credit to Max’s sense of honor that he looks at nothing but her eyes.
“Just a moment.”
Whether he takes a peek as she turns to get her robe she cannot say, but he is waiting calmly at the door, eyes on the carpet, when she returns a few seconds later. There is a decision to be made and she must do it quickly because they are standing in the corridor, in full view of anyone who should happen upon them.
“Come in,” she whispers.
Max takes off his cap and steps into the room. It’s identical to his own cabin, but he looks around anyway. Her clothes are hung neatly over the rungs of the ladder. Max reaches out to finger the collar of her uniform.
“I’ve never seen you not wearing this,” he says.
“I do have other clothes.”
He flicks a glance to the deep V of her satin robe. “So I see.”
The twitching at the corner of his mouth makes Emilie wonder if he wasn’t so noble with his gaze after all. It has been less than an hour since the mail drop over Cologne, but from the hunger in his gaze you would think he hadn’t seen her in months.
“Is there something I can do for you, Herr Zabel?”
“Yes.” He steps forward and the room shrinks considerably. “You can start calling me Max.”
“I already do.”
“Only sometimes.”
“Are you suggesting that we are on a first-name basis now?”
“I should like to think so.”
“And you don’t think that perhaps you’re taking liberties?”
“Not at all.” Max seats himself on the edge of the bed and pats the space next to him. He seems unconcerned by the fact that her personal items are strewn all over the blanket. “Let me explain.”
Damn it, she thinks, how does he do that? But she only hesitates for a moment before settling next to him on the heavy knit blanket. “This I need to hear.”
“It’s really quite simple,” he says. “We’ve just spent the evening together—or some of it, at any rate. And now I’m sitting in your private quarters kissing you good night. I think that puts us on a permanent first-name basis.”
She looks up at him in surprise. Max catches her face in his hands. He gives her a smile that is so mischievous, so pleased with himself, that she cannot help but return it.
It has been ten years since Emilie kissed her husband good-bye. Ten years since he left for work one morning and never returned. And in those years she has forgotten the profound, blood-warming pleasure of being kissed. Of course he would be good at this, she thinks. He begins with a tender brushing of his lips against hers, and when she tilts her head and softens beneath him he pulls her close and earnestly goes to work. There is no uncertainty with Max, and when her lips part he finds her tongue with his. He tastes of white wine and fresh melon, and she thinks that there is truly no better combination.
She is not ready for him to pull away, but he does anyway.
Max straightens his collar and smoothes his hair. Oh God, did I do that? she wonders briefly, and is certain that she did, in fact, twist her fingers through his hair. She cannot remember doing so. Ten years of widowhood and this is what one brief kiss does to her?
Emilie has no idea what expressions are running over her face in rapid succession, but Max laughs at her.
“You don’t have to look so bereft,” he says, bending closer and playing with the curls at the base of her neck. “I’m not ready to stop either. I just thought I’d better make sure you wanted to keep going.”