“Good God, you sound just like my aunt Francesca.” He eyed her bare shoulder. “You mimic her like a parrot.”
“I thought,” Annamarie pouted, ignoring him, “you wanted to meet Mussolini in person.”
Marco made a hissing sound between his teeth.
Annamarie plucked at the veritable rose garden on the first layer of her skirt and fingered the black ribbons that were sewn on as the stems and branches. “Feminine but sophisticated,” Francesca had declared when Annamarie had frowned at the gown. “And soft featured. Chiara will find no trace of Fascist in this dress. You want to win her heart. If you go with something too daring, she will feel threatened.”
Marco paced behind Annamarie, and she craned her neck to watch him. “What do you think of the dress?” But he hadn’t heard her, and she stewed in an all-too-familiar concoction of disappointment and frustration. Since she had arrived in Bolzano, he had done no more than kiss her, groping clumsily, but his urgency and assuredness were not the same as when they’d met in Reschen Valley. She’d been telling herself it was because of the restricted privacy here. If he didn’t want to go to Venice with her, however, then his interest may indeed be waning. She wouldn’t take the old woman’s money. Marco had access to enough without his grandmother’s help.
“Come here, my sweet,” she tried again. “Tell me that your mother will like me. Tell me that you like my dress.”
“It’s my aunt’s dress.” He sighed and perched on the armrest of the divan.
“A minor detail. It’s not that I don’t understand that you need to work, but surely your grandfather and your schooling can afford to be without you for a week or so?” She sprawled across the divan to reach him and turned onto her stomach, her chin resting on her hands, and the pink chintz upholstery making her eyes swim. He was watching her legs as the hem of her dress slipped down her calves. She crossed her ankles in the air.
Marco put his hand over hers. He looked quite serious.
“What is it, my love?” she purred. Control, she reminded herself.
“Grandmother wouldn’t like you lying about like that on her furniture,” he muttered. “Sit up.”
Heat flooded her face, but she sat up and pulled at the sash across her waist. “Fine. We can discuss Venice later.”
“I can’t go on holiday, Annamarie. The Colonel wants me up in Kastelbell, working with a new foreman of his. Annamarie, if I do this, I may be able to lead the team that will build the reservoir in your valley.”
She pulled away from him. “What? Why in heaven’s name would you want to do that?”
“It would be a promotion. It would secure my future.”
“But, Marco, I want to get away from there. Aren’t there any dams being built in the south that you can lead?”
Marco scowled. “It’s going to be one of the biggest projects ever, Annamarie. It’s my chance.” He cocked his head. “Why do you care? You’re from the Lombardy, remember? Your father’s a big lawyer.”
“I know what I said,” she snapped. “Don’t tell me what I said.” She felt queasy. What was her family doing right now? They were probably all working in the stables. Bernd and Manuel teasing one another. Her father, whistling. She could imagine her father looking up and smiling to see her. Her mother would be happy too. A kind caress, a kiss. Annamarie remembered bringing Papa his tools when he was replacing the shingles on the house. She’d been just old enough to hammer in the nails, which he’d let her do. Though she was a girl, he had let her do everything at least once.
Marco stood up, looking uncertain. “Doll, don’t be all upset. When I come back, I’ll ask the Colonel for holiday, and we can even go to Rome. Or Milan. Milan’s beautiful. Or Venice, like you want. Come on. We need to get to the villa.” He pulled her up to stand before him.
“Is your family a happy family?” Annamarie asked. The question had simply spilled out.
Marco’s face darkened. “I wouldn’t call it that.”
Annamarie looked down at the shoes and the dress she did not own. “Mine was,” she said. “Mine definitely was an ordinary, happy family.”
Chapter 12
Arlund, October 1937
B ernd came into the house, hauling in a pail of milk. Behind him, the crisp fall morning drifted in, and Katharina pulled her shawl around her shoulders. Her throat was sore, and she wanted nothing more than to stay warm.
“Tell your brother,” she said to Bernd, “to bring me some more wood for the stove. It’s cold today.”
He nodded and went back out. He was not sullen, and he could have been still stinging from his parents’ scolding over the night of graffiti painting, but Katharina was sure he was not. Her son was simply a young man of little words. Very much like her grandfather had been. Opa had wasted little breath, relying more on actions than words.
When Manuel came in with a basket of logs and kindling, he complained about his hunger. She handed her youngest a cup of milk, stroked his hair, and then sent him back out to help Bernd set out the milk tins for the pickup. The boys sorely missed their sister’s extra pair of hands.
They all missed Annamarie. They had so much to do before they settled in for the winter, but mostly they missed Annamarie’s laugh and her spirit. Katharina counted the days until Florian would be able to leave the farm for Bozen and look for their daughter. But there were trees to be felled, and Florian was at the mercy of the neighbours and other farmers. He could not just leave when every able-bodied man was needed. When Katharina offered to go to Bozen
