Mr Grimani said something, his voice low again, and Annamarie heard Henri say, a touch of amusement in his voice, “He wants to know what your rates are during the high season, Tante.”
“I appreciate the question,” Jutta said, her voice like syrup. In Italian she asked, “Have you been here before, Mr Grimani?”
The man’s response was cautious. “Yes. Many years ago.”
“Then you know your way around here,” Jutta said.
“I know the lake very well,” Mr Grimani answered, and Annamarie sensed a sharpness in his voice, as if he were daring Jutta to say more.
“I’m sure you do. In which case, at the rates the ministry has to pay for your stay here, perhaps you will finally realise that a reservoir in this valley is too costly for the Italian nation. Go on, Henri. Translate what I said.”
When Henri had finished, Mr Grimani stepped back, the room key dangling in one hand. “That will be my decision alone. Potete essere certi.” You may rest assured.
Jutta scoffed, and then Mr Grimani said, “And your name, Signora? In case we need anything, on whom shall we call?”
There was a long pause, and Annamarie frowned, waiting. Finally Jutta said, “This is my nephew, Henri Roeschen. He’ll see to your comforts, Signor Grimani. Good day.”
Why hadn’t Jutta given him her name? It was exceptionally rude of her.
Movements towards the stairs. Annamarie could do only one thing. She stood and waited. As the Italian guests reached the landing of the first floor, she pretended as if she were just coming down the stairs herself, adding an extra spring to her step. She intended to take in as much of the two men as she could, but as they stepped aside to let her by, the eyes of the boy—green like she’d never seen before—startled her so much, she looked down at the ground again.
As she reached the bottom of the stairs, Jutta was standing there. At the sight of Annamarie, her eyes widened. Then she took in a deep breath, cocked her head, and looked at the ground as if she were thinking hard about something. When she looked up at Annamarie again, her face was blank.
Jutta turned abruptly to Henri. “I gave them Widow Winkler’s old room,” she said, the corners of her mouth turning up. “If anyone rests assured, it will be them.” To Annamarie she said, pointing to the door of the Stube, “Your father is in there. You may want to let him know you’re all right.”
And with that, she went into the kitchen as if Annamarie’s presence at her inn had been the most natural thing in the world.
Chapter 3
Arlund, April 1937
U p to her elbows in dough, that was what she was. Katharina sighed with frustration. For whatever reason, she could not perfect Iris’s gnocchi recipe. She added just a little more water to the potato dough, kneaded it in, and then let out a scream of exasperation when the dough turned sticky again. She had just managed to roll the last pieces from between her fingers when she heard Annamarie greet someone from where she was feeding the chickens in the yard.
“Is your mother in the house?” It was Jutta Hanny.
Katharina rubbed her hands vigorously and wiped them on the dishcloth.
“Yes, ma’am,” Annamarie said. “It’s her baking day.”
Katharina went to the window in the sitting room to look out and saw Jutta with her hand shading her eyes, facing the lower meadow. Bernd and Florian were out there, setting new fence posts. Manuel was helping them by holding the posts.
When was the last time Jutta had come by to see them? Half a year ago? Katharina’s friendship with the woman she’d once considered her surrogate mother had soured into cautious formalities.
Jutta waved to the boys, but nobody was looking in her direction. She turned to the door and wiped her boots on the mat, then knocked and came in.
“Greetings, Katharina.”
Katharina gave her a brief hug. “I was just going to make coffee, and there’s an apple cake cooling.”
She cleared the bowl of potato dough away before Jutta could have a good look at it and make comments about her preparing Walscher food.
Jutta slid onto the bench at the table. “You’ve rearranged things. It looks nice.”
Katharina glanced around her neat kitchen, thanked her, and brought cups, silverware, and plates to the table, then put the coffee on.
Jutta toyed with the cake fork. “That Manuel’s a little scrappy one, isn’t he? Shooting up like a bean. Looks just like Florian must have when he was his age. And Bernd, he’s gotten so big!”
“Bernd is just like Opa was. Works hard, always has his nose to the grindstone. He’s a real help to Florian.”
“A true Thaler then,” Jutta said.
Katharina inhaled deeply and tried to smile.
“And Annamarie?” Jutta asked.
“What about her?” Katharina hid her displeasure behind the mug of coffee. Jutta had better not mention who Annamarie reminded her of.
“She told me she wants to go to Bozen when she’s finished with school.”
“We’ll see.”
“Of course. The money,” Jutta said. Then, as if in afterthought, added, “She really should study, and it looks like it will be a good summer. I imagine you could sell a few of your calves to the Swiss buyers. Just inflate the price.”
“So what brings you here?” Katharina softened the impatient tone with another ingratiating smile.
Annamarie came through the door, and Katharina recognised the look in her daughter’s eye when she glanced at Jutta, the one she had when reminding her brothers not to spill any secrets about their latest conspiracies. She checked to see if Jutta returned some sort of mutual understanding, but Annamarie leaned over her, reaching to swipe a crumb of cake between them.
“May I have a piece, too?”
