Minka nodded. “They’ll shoo you away if you so much as look in their window for too long. But how can Flora afford to go to all those expensive places? Does she have a donkey that craps ducats for her?”
“Oh, she doesn’t buy anything. She just wants to see how other businesses deal with their customers, for ideas for the flower shop.” Sabine shrugged. “That’s just the way Flora is. Whatever she does, all she has in mind is the business.”
“Then she shouldn’t be surprised if nothing ever comes of finding a husband,” Minka said. It was a thought that had crossed Sabine’s mind, as well.
“It’s strange. I really can’t imagine that Flora won’t be here anymore in just a few weeks.” Kuno rustled the newspaper loudly as he lowered it.
“Neither can I. I’ve grown very used to having her around,” Ernestine agreed without looking up from her embroidery at Kuno. She eyed the basket of thread critically—should she do the next tendril in a lighter green or a somewhat darker tone?
“Schierstiefel talked me into going for a beer with him at lunchtime. When I shilly-shallied a little, he told me the shop was in good hands with Flora.”
Now Ernestine looked up. “You, drinking at lunchtime?”
Kuno shrugged. “Why not? It was very interesting in The Gilded Rose, too. You would not believe how excited some of the people there get when they talk about Bismarck and the emperor. Flora says her father would go off for a drink like that all the time. And also that, now that the war is over, one has to enjoy life a little bit.” He reassembled his newspaper elaborately.
Ernestine reached for the bowl of raspberries that Flora had picked that morning. The fruit was deliciously sweet and a real treat. Oh!—despite all her care, a drop of raspberry juice landed on the handkerchief she was embroidering for Flora.
“When Flora’s gone, I can forget about taking my midday naps, though they’ve done wonders for my health,” said Kuno.
“You’ll still be able to take your naps. Just close up the shop, like you used to,” said Ernestine, and glared at the damaged piece in her hands. Should she try to wash it out right away or finish embroidering the flower first?
“But I can’t just close up the shop anymore.” Kuno gave his wife a reproachful look, which she did not see because she was concentrating on embroidering a pink flower over the spot of raspberry juice.
“People really do seem to be getting over the war, gradually,” Kuno added. “My own spirits are very good! And I hope the people around here manage to hold on to their taste for beautiful things for a while.”
“You can mostly thank Flora for that ‘taste for beautiful things,’ you know,” Ernestine replied. “When I look at how she’s transformed your old junk room out front . . . I just think about the porcelain.” She held her breath. Would Kuno finally find the words of praise she had hoped for? Many of the vases, bowls, and figurines had been sold, after all, and at good prices, too.
Kuno proved himself full of praise, in fact, but not for Ernestine. “The girl certainly has a wonderful imagination, though I’m not saying I like everything she comes up with. A little more reserve would certainly be more appropriate now and then. But I can’t understand her parents’ fears that she might embarrass herself in front of her Reutlinger master. She’s a natural talent. I just hope the people there know to appreciate it.” He paused for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice had a somewhat abashed tone.
“There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask . . . Do you think that Flora likes it here, in our family?”
If she likes it? In the family? What was Kuno going on about? “Of course she does,” said Ernestine. “Just today I let her borrow my favorite painting from the dining room. She wanted to re-create the still life of flowers and fruit for the front window of the shop. Has she done that?”
Kuno nodded. “Friedrich thinks it’s a little overwrought.”
Ernestine’s brow furrowed as she put her needle and thread aside. “Well, now, if it had been me who came up with an idea like that, you would have packed me off to an asylum. But that girl can do whatever she likes with you.” She shrugged. “Our Friedrich is sometimes more old-fashioned than you.”
They both laughed. Kuno then asked, “What is going on with Friedrich and Flora?” He now had the bowl of raspberries on his lap and was popping them into his mouth with gusto.
“If you’re afraid that Friedrich would behave at all disrespectfully toward Flora, I can put your mind at ease,” said Ernestine. “I admit I had certain fears myself, at the start. All those long walks, his helping out in the garden . . . Luise and Gretel have been teasing me constantly about church bells ringing soon. But I think they’re wrong.”
There was a touch of disappointment in her voice. If she were to be honest with herself, the thought of her son tying the knot with Kuno’s apprentice was far less unsettling than it once had been. On the contrary . . . Of course, one had to make sure that common decency was preserved, but the one did not preclude the other, did it?
She took the bowl of raspberries that Kuno held out to her and sought out a particularly delicious-looking specimen. “The boy’s been the very picture of respectability.”
Kuno’s expression darkened noticeably at Ernestine’s last words.
“The picture of respectability—I think I’d find another way to put it. If Friedrich lets that girl go, he’s a damn fool!”
“My beloved Flora!” Friedrich’s voice was no more than a croak. He opened the top button of his shirt—it felt as if something was cutting off his air. He cleared his throat. Start again.
“My dear, esteemed Miss Kerner.” No, that sounded far too stilted. He took a deep breath and opened the left door of the wardrobe, where a mirror was affixed. With one hand on his chest, he lowered himself onto one knee.
“Dearest Flora . . .” No, going down on one knee felt contrived. He sighed and stood up again.
Standing, then. “Dear Flora . . .” Yes, that would work. “You and I . . .” He bit his bottom lip. What came next?
Blast it, why was it so difficult to admit his feelings to Flora? He found her delightful beyond measure, but why could he not simply tell her that? She was so pretty and natural and almost always had a smile on her lips. Of course, she could get quite furious at times, too, but he was enthralled by her even in those moments . . . and the way her brow furrowed when she was concentrating on something!
He was probably approaching the whole thing wrong. It would be better to give her a few compliments instead of just blurting out what he felt.
“Dear Flora, when I’m around you, I feel like the happiest man in the world.” That didn’t sound bad at all, and it was the truth.
What if she just laughed at him? She hadn’t heard anything of that nature from him at all. For her, he was most likely just a good friend.
But that had to change. He wanted to marry her, and before too long. He was twenty-five, after all. If he did not find the courage to admit his feelings to Flora soon, she would return to her village and all would be lost. No kisses and no embraces.
Panic overcame Friedrich, and he paced back and forth in his room like a caged tiger. It was not only that he could not find the words, but also that he had no idea where he should propose to Flora. Women usually had a rather pronounced sense of romance, so . . . what would be romantic?
Friedrich stopped his pacing and gazed out the window.
Why was this so hard for him? Was it too early for a proposal of marriage—was that it? Wouldn’t he be better off just asking Flora if she would like to stay on awhile longer? Then, over time, everything would happen more or less by itself.