How could she explain something she did not understand herself?
He placed the shirt and the letter back on the table before facing her again. “I know you don’t want to leave Arlund, and I accept that you do not feel strongly enough about me, about my role in this family, to go to Germany.”
She started to protest, but he raised a finger to his lips, and she stared at him in bewilderment. He turned away, and Katharina imagined she was driving him to the final edge, that he would take a tool down and turn against her. Instead, at the end of the workbench, Florian lifted a flat piece of wood, as broad as himself and as high as his middle, and came to stand before her again.
“I wanted to save this until our wedding anniversary, but…”
When he turned the wooden board to expose the other side, Katharina gasped. Florian was holding a sign, a plaque, with fine burnt lettering and design. Upon a mountain landscape, Graun’s Head towering in the middle, he had burned in the word Katharinahof.
She stared at him in disbelief. This time, the tears came for a different reason, streaming down her face. She lifted it from his hands and held it out in front of her.
“Katharina, I’m going to sell the house in Nuremberg and pay off the bank. We’ll get the deed then. I may be listed on it, but this is your farm now.”
The relief that washed over her was so violent, she had to shove the sign back at him so that she could brace herself on her thighs.
“Katharina? Are you all right?”
She nodded but could not speak.
He bent towards her, trying to help her up, but she wanted to stay there, to feel the intensity in this change between them. To revel in it.
“You and Bernd and Annamarie, you’re my family now,” her husband was saying. “Katharina, I would do anything to protect all of you, but I need you to make a decision.”
“Yes,” she gasped, and the tears came for a different reason now.
“No more secrets, Katharina. Please. They’re poison. From here on in, we’re honest with one another.”
“Yes.” She straightened, still shaking, still gasping. She looked at the sign again, resting up against her mother’s pine chest, and shook her head. Katharinahof.
“Florian,” she said, the emotion catching in her throat, “what you’ve done for me? I don’t deserve this.”
He lifted her chin and gazed at her. “I chose you, not because you needed someone for Annamarie but because I love you. Now it’s your turn to choose.” He picked the shirt off the table. The letter fell to the floor with a soft clunk. “You may keep him a secret,” Florian said, “and it will keep us as strangers living under the same roof. Or choose to be open with me. Choose to trust me. Maybe even choose to love me.”
His face was smooth, expectant, as if he seemed ready to accept either decision from her.
From the house, Katharina heard Annamarie squeal and Hans laugh. She would axe that swallowwort for all it was worth and axe it all the more. All she wanted was to be in this man’s arms, to raise her children with him. Here, on the Thalerhof. On the Katharinahof.
She wiped the tears with the back of her hands, and when she saw him clearly again, his eyes were bright, caution and hope pooling together. She gathered the strength to step forward, bringing her face so close to his, their foreheads touched.
“I choose you, Florian,” she said steadily. “You. We will always choose you.”
Chapter 12
San Remo, Ligurian Sea, August 1924
F rom the veranda of the Hotel Astoria, Angelo watched the silhouettes of fishing boats come into the San Remo harbour as cats of every colour slithered towards the docks. Along the promenade, lined by umbrella pines, hawkers were slowly putting their wares away, locking up the scent of roasted pine nuts and spun sugar. He watched a harried family of six extracting itself from one of the blue-and-white-striped beach huts, the children all in the same black-and-white bathing costumes, only different sizes. Behind them came the hotel staff, sweeping off sand from the lounge chairs and folding down the umbrellas. A young couple strolled by on the veranda, past the line of potted red geraniums and white oleander, so absorbed in one another that Angelo was certain they were honeymooning.
As the tide came in, each new wave crept a little farther up the shore. He could imagine the water reaching for those abandoned footprints on the beach and exchanging them for remnants from the sea. Behind him, he heard his father coming and took one last look at the beach below before turning to face the Colonel. Many things had been thrown from the depths in these recent months, especially for his father.
The Colonel was already dressed for dinner. He leaned on the balustrade next to Angelo and gazed towards the water.
“Everyone settled in?” Angelo asked.
“Your sisters and your mother are still preening. And Chiara?”
“I imagine she’s getting ready as well.”
“Good. We have a little time to talk about the hearings.”
Angelo sighed. The reason for coming here was to get away from the committee and the journalists, if only for a few days.
“This charade of a family holiday can start when Pietro and Beatrice arrive at the weekend,” the Colonel said. “By that