“What about the church?” he called after her.
A woman with two children rounded the corner of the inn and greeted Katharina, but when she saw Angelo, her greeting ended in a question. He stepped out of the way as she walked past with a basketful of daffodils—where had she gotten them?—and went up the steps to the church.
“I’ve been assured,” Katharina said, “that we’ll have the privacy we need.”
All his humour evaporated. Angelo was not certain he wanted to go somewhere where he might be trapped. One spurned woman was dangerous enough. Conspiring women were a certain death for any man if they wished it. But there was nowhere else to go, nothing else to do, but follow her.
As he did, he felt awkward about the formalities their situation dictated. They’d been to bed together. He’d had his way with her. He stopped there, reminding himself that she had taken advantage of him. He’d been the one who was feverish, recovering from severe wounds and a head injury. She’d been a young, foolish girl, believing that she had found love or something of the sort. It was not that he could not relate to her. He recalled the house, empty of all her relatives, though he could only guess at what had taken them away—the Great War, deaths, plagues, maybe even the poverty. When Katharina and her grandfather had brought Angelo to their home, it had just been the two of them in that big house. It was a recipe for heartbreak, no matter how he would have handled it.
They reached the front door of the guesthouse, and Angelo brushed past her to grab it for her. Katharina muttered a thank you, and they moved into the low-ceilinged Stube. It was Henri, not Mrs Hanny, who brought them glasses and a jug of water as soon as they sat down. When they were alone again, Katharina fidgeted with a napkin, and Angelo imagined the innkeeper was tiptoeing down the hall to hang a Chiuso sign outside. Closed.
He chuckled to himself, and Katharina glanced up, then smiled weakly before turning the water glass between her hands again. “This is odd, isn’t it?”
“You wanted to speak to me, Mrs. Steinhauser?”
“I don’t know how to begin.”
He felt a sharp irritation but waited, keeping his expression patient.
Finally, she said, “Did you ever receive my letter?”
He cocked his head. Her eyes leapt away from his. This was not about the letter. “Recently?”
“No.”
She meant the one that had landed on his desk, in German. The one he’d had to translate in part with a dictionary. “Yes, I recall a letter from you. That was very long ago.”
“Why did you never respond?”
“I did not see the need to. You shared your opinion about the reservoir, provided me with information I already knew, and there was nothing more to be said on my part.” He had hurt her feelings. Change tactics. “I can assure you that I did take it quite seriously.”
“You asked about…nothing.” She looked over his head, laying her palms flat on the table. Her chest rose, and her eyes were on him again. “When nothing happened, I thought I had convinced you this project was a waste of money,” she said. “Didn’t you get reports from the geologists in Munich? Why are you going to build it now, and with a company that once carried your name? It doesn’t seem to me as if you care one bit about…about the people who helped you.”
He leaned towards her. “What of Fritz Hanny, the man who attacked me? He was one of you as well. If you mean to tell me that you folks here are innocent victims, well, I have proof otherwise. There are just some things a person does not do.”
Katharina shot him a hateful look before hanging her head. “I thought you were different.”
Now he’d shamed her, and he had not really meant to. He recalled the first impressions of her all those years ago: strong and free spirited, definitely brave. While cooped up in their house, he had watched her work as hard as a man without losing any of her femininity. She had been lean, maybe even beautiful. An image came, the last one he’d had of her, straddling her bicycle before the wagon rolled away and he had turned to face the road again. She had chased after him, and when she had caught up to the wagon, the longing had been so clear on her face, even the doctor had to have seen it. She had claimed that Angelo had forgotten something at the farm. He’d had to step down from the wagon and prevent her from saying anything about the night before. She’d had nothing for him, of course. Nothing.
He looked up at the farmer woman before him now, cheeks splotched pink. She was embarrassed. Of course she was. His earlier memories of her rang so false now that he realised, with a sense of alarm, that he had nothing in common with this woman and never had. How had it ever gone that far?
He cleared his throat, but before he could start, she looked back up at him as if realising something.
“You owe me,” she said.
“Pray tell, for what?”
“I saved your life, Angelo Grimani.” Her voice was unsteady. “Or have you forgotten that?”
“I haven’t forgotten,” he said softly.
Her face fell. “That’s all you have to say?”
Her letter. It had hinted at something else, that there was more than just Katharina he had left behind. He had to quell this, fast.
“You’re right,” he said. “I do owe you. I owe you an apology, and I owe you many thanks for your bravery. I should have
