Flora shrugged. “And even if she did have her eye on him, Friedrich has every right in the world to find himself a new, better woman. I can be happy that he hasn’t already filed for divorce . . . or had me thrown in jail. He’s a good man. Maybe he’ll find a wife who makes him as happy as he deserves to be. It doesn’t look as if I was the right one.” As glibly as the words tripped off her tongue, her heart felt as heavy as lead.
Try as she might to banish all thoughts of her and Friedrich’s life together in Stephanienstrasse, they roiled up again and again. She missed Friedrich.
His serious eyes whenever she announced another idea for the shop. His skeptical questions. His grumbling about how she was never satisfied, about how she always wanted more. But in the end, he had always supported her. He had trusted her, and trusted that she would make it all work.
And what had she done in return? She had destroyed the lives of everyone in the Sonnenschein family. Oh, Friedrich. Forgive me. I was so foolish . . .
The two women sat in silence for a long moment while Alexander crawled around on Flora’s lap, babbling away.
“The Englishwoman . . . Friedrich might be able to talk to her about curative waters and such,” Sabine said slowly. “But he certainly doesn’t seem happier for it.”
Konstantin had already had breakfast when Flora returned to the hotel. He sat at the dressing table, tying his long hair back into a tight braid.
He’s so handsome, Flora thought. A tray with empty plates and bowls caught her eye. It stood on the small table by the window and smelled of caviar and onion.
“Did you have something brought in from the épicerie again? Starting the day with caviar . . . that’s not a proper breakfast.” Flora’s own stomach growled; she’d assumed that they would have breakfast together.
“Who’s to say what a proper breakfast is? You, my dear?” Konstantin murmured as he plucked nose hairs in front of the mirror.
Flora stepped up behind him and tickled him on the nose with her makeshift bellflower bouquet, still damp from the meadows.
“Wouldn’t today be a good day to start painting again? If you like, I’ll model for you. Perhaps naked, with nothing but the flowers in my hand?” The idea was enough to put a blush into her cheeks.
He pushed the hand holding the bouquet away roughly. “Do you know how late I was up last night?”
“No one forced you to stay out late playing cards,” she replied archly, and she sat on the bed. She would pick flowers, and Konstantin would paint them—that was how she had daydreamed their life together.
“One has to be in the right mood to paint. It certainly doesn’t help to have you pushing me all the time,” he said as he polished his cuff links.
For a moment the previous night, her fingers had suddenly been so eager to try painting that she had been on the verge of taking out Konstantin’s supplies. Oh, to finally do something with her own hands again! Add red to white, swirl together some shades of blue, and be happy with whatever came out. But painting was his art form, not hers. She had forfeited hers, along with everything else.
“When Püppi was still alive, you were always complaining about how much you missed painting. Now that you have the time, you’re no longer interested,” she said, her voice cool. “You’ve always got a thousand reasons not to get started, and yet it’s a gift to dedicate yourself to something so beautiful.”
“I honestly don’t know why you’re getting so worked up about it.” Konstantin kissed her lips fleetingly, then peered around the room, looking for something. “My hat?” he asked.
Creases appeared on Flora’s forehead. “You’re going off again? Weren’t we going to go up to the Altes Schloss? The weather would be perfect today.”
“I’m sure it would be, but the Altes Schloss isn’t going anywhere,” he replied. “In Iffezheim, however, there’s a very special horse race on today—a race just for German officers. Not that I’m particularly interested in horses, but Popo persuaded me to come along. He says it will be interesting to see how good the German horses are.”
“When are you coming back?” Flora could do nothing about the disappointment in her voice.
“I don’t know yet. Why don’t you get yourself dressed up and go to a café or take a stroll along the Promenade?” He pressed some money into her hand. “What do you think? Should we go back to that little wine bar this evening?” Without waiting for Flora to reply, he tapped his hat and blew her a farewell kiss from the door. “Go out and have some fun! I promise I’ll do the same.”
“I don’t doubt it for a second,” Flora murmured to herself. Go to a café? Take a stroll? Did Konstantin have any idea what he was suggesting? Either one would be like running the gauntlet.
Listlessly, she went down to the kitchen, where she could at least talk the cook into a cup of coffee and a sweet roll.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Work like that is not seemly for a woman!
With trembling hands, Ernestine wiped the sweat from her brow. Had there really been a time in which she had believed that to be true? Foolishness, that’s all it was. And was it not done for one to keep their things in order? For one to take care of what was necessary? What other choice did she have, when Friedrich chose to hide away and perpetually lick his wounds? She had asked him at least three times to turn the compost heap, and what had happened? Nothing. She felt sorry for her one-and-only, of course, but she was starting to sense another emotion rising in her. Was it annoyance? Disillusion? Anger? Ernestine did not know.
Anger at her son . . . no, that was not possible. Not with him suffering. But good heavens, what was she supposed to do to ease his misery? She had Sabine prepare his favorite meals, opened the newspaper for him when he got home from work, endeavored to keep a merry tone in her voice when she told him about her day with Alexander. Friedrich didn’t seem to appreciate her efforts in the slightest.
Ernestine looked up to the second floor. The shutters were closed over his window, which meant he was probably sleeping off last night’s indulgences, as he did so often. The only thing that surprised Ernestine was that his late appearance at the Trinkhalle morning after morning had not had consequences. My God, what if he loses his job on top of everything else?
Although her arms were sore from the unaccustomed work, Ernestine went on with it. All her neighbors were busy that early in the morning, so it was unlikely that any of them would see her slaving away in her garden like a common farm girl.
So what if they did see! Ernestine snorted contemptuously. She didn’t really care what her neighbors thought anymore.
What Sabine had seen, however, mattered far more. Sabine believed she had seen a rat on the compost heap, which was why she refused to do the job herself. Neither cajoling nor threats had been able to change her mind.
Ernestine kept peering at the mountain of kitchen waste, decaying flowers, leaves, and earth. She hoped Sabine had been mistaken and that the alleged rat was a little mouse.
Had Flora had any fear of rodents when she worked in the garden? Ernestine had never asked her. When it came down to it, no one had ever asked Flora how she was.
And what had she herself done to help Flora with the thousand tasks she did? It was not the first time the question had appeared in Ernestine’s head, and the answer was invariably devastating: not very much at all.
No, for Ernestine it had always been Friedrich this, Friedrich that. Always her one-and-only son.
“Every third thing you say is about your son and his heroic deeds at the Trinkhalle,” Gretel Grün once had chided her. “I have to say, his work there isn’t really that interesting.” Ernestine had been horrified. Why could her friends not understand that Friedrich’s happiness and contentment were her heart?
Friedrich this, Friedrich that. Just as it always had been Kuno this, Kuno that in the years before he passed away. And what thanks had he given her for that?
If only she had paid a little more attention to Flora. Maybe then she would have noticed that someone else had lured the girl astray, and maybe then she could have saved Flora from this terrible turn of events.