“We miss you too,” he said, and cleared his throat. “I can’t imagine what that must have been like, to put your children on that train. I think about it sometimes. And I’m not sure I could have done it—even knowing what I know.” He cleared his throat again.
“I know,” she said, and it surprised her, how natural this conversation felt. This was the most she and Gerhard had talked about the past in decades. Rose was thinking about all the leaps of faith their parents had to take: that the train would not be detained, the children rounded up by the SS, that they would actually make it across the various borders and onto the boat and across the Channel to England. That once they were there, the families that said they would take care of their children, would in fact do so. Her parents were forced to make an excruciating decision—their children would be better off without them—and devastatingly, they had been right.
“We were fortunate,” she said to her brother.
“Very,” he agreed.
When the doorbell rang a few hours later, Rose still felt worn out, jet-lagged, her body at war with itself. She answered it shoeless, expecting Harry. But Lizzie stood at her door, clutching a small cardboard box.
“Cookies,” she said solemnly, and thrust the box into Rose’s hands. “I thought you might like some.”
“I never don’t like cookies,” Rose said, surprised. “Come in.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t call,” Lizzie said, “But I thought it might be better if I just came by.”
“I’m glad you did,” Rose said, and led her into the living room. “I’m sorry I ran off yesterday.”
“You don’t need to apologize.”
“Well then. How about some coffee with these cookies?”
“That sounds lovely.” Lizzie was wearing a long dark top over dark leggings, curly hair loose over her shoulders. All that darkness conspired to make her pale skin look luminous. Had she always looked this young? Yes, Rose told herself. She was at least forty years younger—another creature entirely. But there was something else at work, Rose decided: she had gained weight. It suited her.
In the kitchen, Rose opened the box: “Linzers!” she exclaimed. “Wonderful.”
Lizzie smiled shyly. “There are two kinds, raspberry and black currant.”
Rose started the coffeemaker, arranged the cookies on a plate. “You know, we never had Linzer cookies growing up, or if we did, I don’t remember them. I only started having them here, in America,” she said as she brought the plate back into the living room.
“I’m glad you like them,” Lizzie said, and lapsed into silence. Rose broke a cookie into two.
“Delicious,” she said after taking a bite. “Sometimes Linzers are too sweet, the filling can overwhelm, but these are done right. Thank you for bringing them.”
Lizzie was gazing toward the entry hall, where Joseph’s masks still hung. “I’m so sorry, I still can’t believe that my father—” She stopped. “He did this.”
“He had his reasons,” Rose found herself saying. It disturbed her to think of those lunches with Joseph, all those times he had talked to her about the supposed investigator on the case, but after seeing the painting, after all that she remembered . . . well. Things were different now.
“That’s bullshit,” Lizzie said, her dark eyes fixed on Rose’s own, no longer tentative, and Rose heard an echo of Joseph in her tone.
“It’s not,” Rose said, and she felt this was essential to impart. “I didn’t say they were good reasons. I said they were particular to him.”
“What does that even mean?” Lizzie said.
“Look, what if I had known that your father had engineered the theft of the painting years ago? If I had gotten it back, that would have meant something, of course. But it wouldn’t have meant everything. Not to me.” Such a simple truth but it hurt to articulate it. There was nothing she could do to change what had happened.
“I know,” Lizzie said, “I know.” Her voice cracked on the last word. “But it would have meant something to you. You can’t tell me it wouldn’t.”
Rose gave her a short nod. What would be the point in lying? That would help neither of them.
This wisp of an admission seemed to soothe Lizzie. She swiped a few errant cookie crumbs into her napkin, her face calmer. Finally she spoke. “I’m sorry I was out of touch for so long. So many times I thought about calling. But I felt so guilty. I didn’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to explain,” Rose said. “It’s not necessary.”
“I’m going to help you get The Bellhop back,” Lizzie said. “The situation with the insurance company is only temporary—”
“I know.”
“I’ve already made phone calls. There’s Ciparelli, who I told you about before. But there’s also Michael Zalman in New York, who won the Schiele case. And I’ve heard that Roger Yannata here in L.A. is terrific, tenacious and surprisingly pleasant, at least to his clients—”
“Lizzie, stop.”
“I know, you hate talking about this. But this time it’s different,” Lizzie insisted. “You can’t ignore it.”
“I’m not ignoring it. My brother and I are handling it. And I’m grateful for your help, truly.” She meant it. The Bellhop’s reappearance didn’t solve everything, but its absence wasn’t to blame for everything either.
“I should be the one thanking you,” Lizzie said, picked up another cookie. “This might sound strange, but some of the things you said to me last year—they resonated. You have no idea.”
“I see,” Rose said, because she was beginning to. She studied Lizzie openly now. It wasn’t Rose’s imagination; Lizzie had gained weight. “So, out with it. How far along are you?”
A speckled pink spread across Lizzie’s cheeks. Rose was right, she knew she was. “I’m due in June. I’m just over four months now.” Lizzie held her palm to her stomach, smiling an inward but unquestionable smile. “I can’t believe you noticed.”
“Of course.”
“Not of course,” Lizzie said with frank admiration. “So many people don’t—or are too afraid to ask me. But you never miss a thing.”
Rose shrugged. “It suits you.” It was more than just the changes to her body, it was the way she carried herself, more confident. “You look good.”
“Thank you,” Lizzie said, and blushed some more.
“You won’t be able to be able to hide it for long, you know.”
“But I’m not,” she said. “I’m not trying to hide a thing.”
Of course not. Lizzie had no need to hide anything. Rose caught her breath. She thought back to her miscarriages. What would have happened if they had tried sooner? What would have happened if she simply let herself live? But she could hear Thomas in her head: There you go again. You did live. You are living.
Thomas would have liked Lizzie, Rose thought with a strange but unmistakable fierceness. The two of them would have gotten along splendidly. Rose reached across the coffee table and patted Lizzie’s hand, a light gesture that did little to reflect the emotions roiling inside her. “A summer baby, how nice,” she murmured.
Lizzie held on, her fingers moist. “It’s just me. I’m having the baby alone. I have no idea what I’m doing.”
“Oh, you’re going to do just fine,” Rose said, and she stroked her palm. She was certain of it.