Two
Weeks Later
Grace glanced at the clock on the wall in her
kitchen and groaned. “Not again.”
She was late.
Or rather, she was going to be
late. To church. Again.
She had been eating her pastry she’d
gotten the afternoon before at the bakery across the street, and listening to
Jeremy Camp on her phone, and somehow, 7: 30 had turned into 8:15, and she
hadn’t even had a shower yet, never mind getting dressed. Now that she was ready to fly out the door,
it was already 9:40, and she had to drive halfway across Hamburg to get to
church.
Grace Saint-Dreyfus, par for the
course.
It didn’t help that she was still
looking for a church she could feel at home in.
She’d grown up attending the same church, back in Boston, and really
didn’t know anything else. She’d loved
that church. Finding somewhere to fit
in, here in Germany, wasn’t quite so easy.
She had made a couple friends at the orchestra, but not all of them were
Christians—Germany was much less religious than America, she had come to
realize. She’d tried out the church with
the English services for a while, and enjoyed meeting others who had the same
accent as her, but if she was ever going to fit into Germany, she needed to
meet real Germans, and her German would never improve listening to English
sermons.
Besides, they only served to remind
her of what she’d left behind.
She missed her parents and
grandfather. Sam had only been gone for
three days, but she missed him incredibly, too, and, more than anything,
Henry. Even Germany couldn’t keep her
thoughts off of him completely, and she missed the way he would wrap his arm
around her and pull him into his side, cocooned in his embrace during the
church service. She had loved how she
felt closest to God when she was closest to Henry.
Now they both felt so very far away.
She grabbed the piece of paper on
her stove—rapidly written directions to a German church in Hamburg from one of
the little old ladies at the English-speaking congregation—and her purse and
rushed out the door.
She was off on another German
adventure.
If only she could find some pleasure
in it.
‡ ‡ ‡
Benedikt
felt an almost giddy peacefulness welling up in his heart as he pulled up the
familiar drive to his church’s parking lot, lined by stately European beech
trees. It wasn’t a massively large
congregation, but larger than some.
Hamburg prided itself in its atheism, and Benedikt was simply happy to
have a congregation he enjoyed, period, much less with such a beautiful setting
and building. One of his best friends
from his childhood—Tobias Zimmermann—was now the pastor here, and he’d grown up
in this church. He had visited many
churches, all over Germany, and even the world, but none felt quite as much
like home as this one did. His faith
came alive here, and, much like his friends from St. Bonifaz, or the German
football community at large, this place felt like home.
He pulled into an open parking spot,
and turned off the ignition, content to just sit and absorb the day. The heavy sound of the rain pounding into his
car, the peacefulness of the morning.
Just inside were many of the people he held most dear to his heart, and
today would be a good day. His mother
had dragged him back to America, only a couple days after the win against
Bayern, for his grandmother’s 83rd birthday celebration, and, before
that, all his time had been occupied by St. Bonifaz, who had been kept busy
with away games before coming home for the final match against Bayern München,
which, of course, had little time for church, period, but no time to travel
back to Hamburg. He’d visited other
churches when he could, but it wasn’t the same.
He’d been looking forward to an unassuming day at church, recharging,
for more than a month now. Now it was
finally here, and he was going to enjoy it.
After a few more seconds of peace,
he pushed open the door to his car and stepped out, sprinting to the front
door. He had tried to shield his head
with the cover of his Bible, but it did little in way of protection. He had thought that it was just a little bit
of rain, but he’d underestimated how heavy the downpour was, and by the time he
reached the glass double doors, he was nearly soaked through.
He yanked open the front door,
surprised no one was there, waiting to hold it open for him, but as he ran his
fingers through his hair and shedded his suit jacket and rolled up his
shirtsleeves, he realized why.
“I don’t think it’s going to kill
you.”
He looked up and laughed at her
deadpan response. The little old lady
sitting only a couple meters away was grinning up at him, proud of her own
joke, as if sarcasm was a form of humor she’d only just discovered, and he tossed
his jacket on the bench and was hugging her a second later. “Frau Werner!”
He sat down next to her, took her
hand. “How are you?”
Anna Werner was much like the German
grandmother he’d never had—his father’s mother passed away a couple years
before he had been born—and he loved her dry sense of humor, the way she loved
him as if he was her own. Anna and her
husband, Helmut, had never been able to have children, and now that Helmut was
gone, Benedikt worried for her.
She smiled over at him bravely. “I’m here.”
He wondered how much that meant she wasn’t
telling him, but he didn’t think he could get her to complain—honestly—about what
was wrong if he tried, so he let it go.
“But, Benni, just this once, can you finish for me today? You know my knees aren’t what they once were. And the guests need a strapping young man to
hold the door for them and rescue them from the rain. Just like you.”
She patted him affectionately again,
and he laughed. Sometimes he wondered
who wanted to see him turn into a perfect gentleman more—his mom or Anna
Werner. His mom would say that chivalry
was dead in Germany, but it was just a different culture. Most people just expected people to open
doors for themselves. And while Anna
didn’t grow up on American manners, she sure seemed to support them as soon as
she’d found out about them.
He helped her to her feet. “C’mon.
I’ll take you into the sanctuary so you can listen to the lesson.”
She smiled at him gratefully and
wrapped her arm around his waist, holding on.
It pained him to see her arthritis affect her so badly, but there was
really nothing else he could do, besides help when he could. He wished she’d had her own son, to look
after her when he couldn’t.
He returned to his post, watching as
the rain poured down. He’d looked
forward to joining the young adult class that met in the basement, meeting up
with some of his friends, soaking up the lesson. He always loved the way the man who led the
class brought the Bible—and his faith—to life.
He shrugged it off. There would be next week. Training for the next Bundesliga didn’t begin
until early July, which left him a little over a month of time to himself.
‡ ‡ ‡
Benedikt
stood at the door to the church’s foyer, staring off into the rain. It was a peaceful sort of morning, and he
enjoyed taking advantage of it. He heard
snippets of the Bible study taking place in the sanctuary several meters away,
and he was so relaxed and at ease that he was nearly falling asleep there,
standing at the front door, waiting for someone to come.
About 20 minutes before the church
service was scheduled to start, a silver Jetta pulled into the small parking
lot, and Benedikt pushed his shoulder off the door jam and started to push the
door open a few centimeters, curious to see if he knew who it was or not. A few moments after she pulled into the
parking spot, the woman turned off her car and stepped out, and, as that
beautiful dark hair and twinkling bright blue eyes registered, Benedikt’s eyes
grew wide in shock and let the glass door slowly slide shut in front of him.
It was her. The girl in the
stadium.
Where
had she come from? And how did she find
him?!
He peaked back around the artificial
ficus plant standing in the corner, by the front double doors, just to be
sure. And there she stood, in all of her
glory, her long, dark hair and pretty, girly sundress shielded from the rain by
a bright, floral umbrella.
And, like the coward he was, he
slunk back behind the ficus. He’d been
having a nice morning, listening to Herr Arnt speaking about Jesus’ passion,
thinking about how unexpectedly passionate Jesus was, while he enjoyed the
peaceful hum of the rain and the quietness of the morning. No football practice, no demanding fans, no
pressures to be the kind of footballer the Bundesliga wanted him to be, no
fame. It was just he and the rain and
Jesus and the word of God, and he had soaked it up. In the pressure and fast pace of the Bundesliga
season, he often forgot how freeing a morning such as this could be.
Until she showed up, catching him
off-guard and out of his element, with no idea as to what to say to her. He’d been hoping for such an opportunity as
this—to apologize, to see her face-to-face—but this was totally unexpected and
he had no clue what to say. The day of
the game, he had been running scenarios through his head from that sickening
moment he’d realized he’d broken her nose right up until that nurse had told
him that she had already gone. He’d
thought he didn’t have a hope of talking to her again. How could he possibly make it up to her? Maybe, he could get lucky, and, by some
miracle of God, stay hidden behind this ficus bush without her finding out at
all.
As she reached for the door handle
and cast a glance his way, right past the ficus and straight into his eyes, he
knew his chance for oblivion had completely passed him by. There
goes my miracle, he thought, with a deep gulp.
‡ ‡ ‡
Grace
reached to pull open the door to the church, surprised there was no one manning
the door, and she stopped short when she came face-to-face with live-and-in-the-flesh
Benedikt Breslau. Her breath froze in
her throat, and wow, okay, he was sort of gorgeous. As soon as she had told her friends from the
orchestra that it had been Benedikt that had broken her nose, Julia and Ariana
had squealed in delight, and Julia had babbled on and on about the dreamy
footballer, but she hadn’t really paid her any mind. Now she knew what she had been talking about.
Grace’s eyes were glued to him, all
six feet and one inch of him, dressed in charcoal dress paints, a fitted
periwinkle-lavender dress shirt, a deep plum tie, and a matching charcoal vest,
and wow, he cleaned up well. His shirt
was rolled up to his elbows, and even the conservative shirt couldn’t hide his
toned arm muscles. His dark blond hair
was messy—probably from running his hands through it too many times, trying to
keep the rain out of his eyes—and he stood there, frozen, seemingly
horrified. His mouth was parted open in
shock, and she found she’d unintentionally backed him into the corner, behind
the ficus. It almost looked like he had
been hiding behind it.
She knew, from Christian (and numerous newspaper articles), that
Benedikt had been the one to break her nose, but she hadn’t known him, and honestly
didn’t hold it against him. She’d had a
good story to tell her friends. Besides
the perfect opportunity to date one
of the most eligible bachelors in Hamburg, Ariana and Julia had thought it
hilarious, and Julia wanted to know how many reporters had tried to track her
down. Emmy Patterson, her best friend
back home in Boston, wanted to know how much Sam had wanted to track the man
down and pummel him.
But honestly, it was football. She knew there were risks involved, and
surgery hadn’t even been required. She
was mostly better—a few lingering bruises, and she still had to play it safe
while playing her violin—so why hold it against him? She had much more important things to worry
about.
He appeared to have come out of his
stupor, and with the most contrite face she’d ever seen in her life, he
whispered, “I’m sorry.”
‡ ‡ ‡
Benedikt
felt like a total tool. A class-A
jerk. Not only had he broken her
nose—he’d also hid from her when he knew he should have gone out to her with
the umbrella, helped her inside.
And then maybe not let her go until
she accepted his apology.
And my goodness, was she beautiful
up-close and in-the-flesh. Dark brown
hair that reached halfway down her back, pulled out of her face by a little
braid that framed her beautiful face.
Bright blue eyes the color of the Caribbean Sea. That adorable pug nose, still slightly
bruised from the game (it made him sick all over again). A shy, half-smile gracing her lips. She had a beautiful smile, and it wasn’t even
full-fledged yet. She was wearing one of
those floral sundresses he had grown to recognize her by.
And his words froze in his
throat. What could he possibly say to
her, that would make it all right? Benedikt
blushed as he allowed himself to peak around the branches of the ficus bush.
“I’m sorry,” he blurted out, and
instantly blushed even more. He
recognized that the words had come out of his mouth before he could filter
them, make them sound less lame. For a
national football icon, he sure crumbled into idiocy quick. It wasn’t that he didn’t mean the words—he
really was sorry—but he had hoped to
find a way to say them that sounded less lame, more like he wasn’t a total
societal misfit. Why couldn’t he have
the gift of eloquence where it mattered?
He just stared at her then, waiting
for her reaction, and then he realized she surely needed an explanation before
she could grant forgiveness. Dummy! he berated himself. His cheeks blushed crimson, and he just
wanted to sink behind the ficus and die.
“I mean—I didn’t mean—I mean, you
probably—you can’t possibly know—you’re m—I mean—I’m—” His eyes widened in horror at the sounds
coming out of his mouth, and he clammed his mouth shut right there, dropping
his head in shame, as he groaned to himself.
He let his head fall back against the cool glass of the window as his
eyes fluttered shut. He was a total
idiot. And he couldn’t let himself risk
even one glance at her. Oh my goodness, idiot, shut your mouth
before you make even more of an idiot of yourself. Why couldn’t he just say I’m sorry like a normal person?
What
was wrong with him?! Use your words, Benedikt! he told
himself.
He slowly lifted his head, half
afraid she wouldn’t even be there when he did, and saw her, right where he’d
left her before he had made a total fool out of himself. She was trying desperately not to laugh at him,
her hand over her mouth.
And he smiled back at her, an
I-know-I’m-such-an-idiot-and-I’m-sorry smile, and he held out his hand to her
apologetically. “Hi,” he said. “I’m Benedikt Breslau, the footballer that
took out your nose a couple weeks ago.
I’m sorry. Both for your nose,
and for not getting the door for you earlier.”
He sighed as he gauged her reaction.
He sighed in self-deprecation.
“That’s what I was trying to say.”
She really did giggle then, the most innocent and lighthearted sound he’d ever
heard in his life. And then she clapped
her hand even harder over her mouth, and her eyes grew wide like saucers. She reached out and grabbed his forearm, as
if she thought he really would run
away. “I’m sorry!” she squeaked
out. “It wasn’t funny—but… well, that was the strangest apology I’ve
ever received in my life.”
At
least she was laughing about it. He wanted to run down the hallway and hide
under the table in one of the children’s rooms.
When he relaxed under her hold on
him, she smiled softly as she studied him deeper, seemingly moving past his
words to his heart, on the inside, and he wondered if she could really see him
so easily. She had a funny look in her
eye, and he didn’t know what to make of it.
Finally, she dropped his arm, as if convinced he wouldn’t cower out of
fear anymore, and she said, “I know who you are. My friends are rather obsessed with my
fifteen minutes of fame.” She offered
him a gentle smile. “And don’t worry,
Benedikt Breslau. I’ve forgiven you long
ago. Sam might be another story, but you
and I are fine.”
Benedikt’s heart seized with
worry. Her boyfriend. “Sam?” Why couldn’t something go in his favor just
once?
She grinned, loving the look of
terror on his face. “Yeah. Sam.
My brother. The guy that was with
me at the game?”
Benedikt sighed with relief. She
didn’t have a boyfriend. But her
brother was still mad, apparently, which didn’t necessarily bode well, either.
Grace laughed. “But he’ll get over it. Sam’s harmless.” She lifted her nose to the light, so he could
see the remnants of the bruising. “See? Just a little bruising still. It’s barely affected me at all.” She grinned at him.
She offered her hand to him, this
time. “I’m Grace Saint-Dreyfus.”
He accepted her hand and offered her
a wan smile. He still couldn’t believe
she’d actually forgiven him, was half-afraid to think it a hoax, but she seemed
sincere enough. “Pleased to meet you,”
he responded, focused more on the way she’d said Dreyfus—more like the French dray-foos than the German drye-foos, and the way she’d stumbled
over the word fame. He studied her a bit more closely. “You’re not German, are you?”
He had assumed, all this time, that
she was, but she blushed a little at his observation, and he knew he was
right. “Guilty,” she said with a
smile. “I’m from the United States, but
moved to Hamburg last fall when I was given a really good work opportunity.”
He smiled back at her, somewhat
relieved the conversation was on better feet.
“Well, welcome to Hamburg, Grace Saint-Dreyfus of the United States of
America.”
She smiled weakly. “Thanks.”
She appreciated the sentiment, but she wasn’t sure even this important,
internationally-known footballer could make being in Germany—or anywhere, really—a
happy place without Henry.
But
boy, would Julia and Ariana freak out when they heard about this.
Benedikt’s eyes narrowed slightly at
the dip in her friendly front. Grace
Saint-Dreyfus appeared friendly, gracious, kind, happy, but, in a moment, he
saw it for the façade it was. What had
he done to cause the dark cloud cover over her heart?
‡ ‡ ‡
Benedikt
felt a little hand on the back of his thigh a second before he heard that
little voice he knew so well. “Bonjour!”
Benedikt turned and lifted Amélie to
his hip, planting raspberry kisses on her cheek. “Hi, baby,” he said affectionately, and she
wrapped her little arms around his neck tightly.
Benedikt turned back to Grace. “Sorry,” he said. “This is—”
But Amélie beat him to it,
interrupting him. “Je m’appelle Amélie!”
she squealed, her laughter pealing through the foyer as Benedikt tickled her
sides.
Grace watched, with a smile, as the
little girl wiggled in his arms and threw back her head in laughter. They were obviously close. She wondered at Benedikt’s relationship with
the little girl—Julia hadn’t said anything about Benedikt having a daughter,
but it certainly wasn’t out of the question.
A niece, maybe? Or just a member
of the church he was close to?
Benedikt sobered up enough to turn
to explain to Grace. “This is Amélie
Schuster, Pax—erm, Pascal Schuster’s—daughter.
He’s the head goalkeeper for St. Bonifaz, and one of my best
friends. Amélie, here, has adopted me as
her uncle,” he said with an affectionate smile down at the little girl as he
gave her a little shake. She grinned up
at Benedikt, as if sensing that he was talking about her, and wrapped her arms
around his neck in a vice-grip hug.
Grace smiled at the interaction
between the two. They were obviously
close, and it was sort of adorable that a little four-year-old had wrapped a
big, macho, national footballer (okay, with a huge shy, geeky streak) like
Benedikt Breslau around her little finger.
In Benedikt’s defense, though, Amélie Schuster was adorable. She was
already falling for her, a little bit, and they’d only just met.
“Salut, bébé,” Grace said, with an
affectionate smile more wide than all the happiness Benedikt thought she had in
her entire soul. Hello, baby. “Je m’appelle
Grace.” My name is Grace.
Amélie shot up, ramrod straight, in
Benedikt’s arms, and they both stared at her with a look of utter shock. Amélie turned to Benedikt, and, with eyes,
wide as saucers, she whispered, “Elle parle le français?!”
Benedikt laughed at the comical
expression on Amélie’s face, and pressed an affectionate kiss to her
temple. “Apparently she does,” he said,
studying Grace, not for the first time, in awe of her contradictions and the
unexpected surprises hidden in who she was.
She was an enigma.
Grace, however, only had eyes for
Amélie, and was already saying, in French, “Can I hold you?”
Amélie apparently had no qualms switching
alliances, and Benedikt watched, not sure how he felt, as Grace took his best
girl into her arms. He’d never had to
share Amélie before—besides with Pascal, and Nathalie, when she’d still been
alive. Nathalie had been killed in a
tragic accident a week after Amélie had turned one; she had taken Amélie back
to France, to celebrate Amélie’s birthday with her family, who lived in
Montpellier. Pascal had a game, that
week, in Amsterdam—a friendly between the German and Dutch national teams—and
had been unable to go with them. He
returned home to their apartment to find a policeman knocking on his door, just
in front of him. Amélie had been
virtually unharmed—a couple bruises—but the head-on collision with the
semi-truck had totally destroyed the first half of the car, and, even after
they’d been able to get to Nathalie—the car smashed around her body as it
was—she had been injured almost beyond recognition. She had been long gone, even before the
police had arrived on the scene. He told
himself it was a good thing, that Amélie was getting the affection of a good
woman again, even if it only was for five minutes. He just couldn’t help but feel a little
twinge of jealousy.
“I love your dress,” Grace said,
tapping the skirt of Amélie’s poppy sundress, grinning. “See?
We kind of match.” She held out
her own skirt, so Amélie could see. “Do
you like flowers, too?”
Amélie grinned and nodded with an
exaggerated swoop of her head, although Benedikt thought she’d agree to
anything, really. Amélie loved anyone
and anything. She poked one of the
flowers on Grace’s shoulder. “This one’s
my favorite,” she said, and Benedikt bit back a laugh. Amélie rotated through favorites—of
everything—faster than she could slip down out of Grace’s arms and run away.
For the next five minutes, Grace and
Amélie discussed everything from favorite colors to the picture Amélie drew in
class to Pascal and Benedikt to where Amélie lived and all her favorite
subjects, the most prevalent, of course, being “bébé Jonas.” More than anything, Amélie loved babies, and
“bébé Jonas,” the little baby brother of two of her friends, Mia and Lotte, was
the best, probably because he was the only baby she knew well.
Once she’d exhausted every topic of
conversation she could possibly think of, she slipped down to the ground and
called, “Au revoir!” and gave Benedikt a good-bye kiss before skipping around
the corner, probably in search of her father.
Amélie had the personality of a little butterfly, and she flitted out of
his life just as quickly as she crashed into it.
At least he knew he hadn’t completely fallen from Amélie Schuster’s
good graces.
As Amélie scampered off, Grace
stared off at her with an affectionate smile, but Benedikt just stared at
Grace. Who was this woman, and what’s she do with the sad, stoic, quiet woman
he saw in the stands every week? At
every turn she was a surprise, and now, he added trilingual American to the list.
She was incredible.
When Grace noticed he was staring at
her, in somewhat of a stupor, she smiled politely at him. “She’s adorable.”
Benedikt was shaken out of his
reverie by her words, and he glanced behind him, where Amélie had
disappeared. “Oh, yeah. I like to think so.”
While his back was turned, Grace let
herself laugh at his antics. Just when
he was starting to act like a human being again, these dorky aspects of his
personality came out, and it was possibly the funniest thing she’d seen in
Germany yet. She really wouldn’t have
expected a German footballer—particularly one so well-renowned!—to have such a
simple problem as talking to a human
being, but at least she didn’t feel self-conscious about being late
anymore.
When he had turned back around he
just stared at her again, as if he couldn’t believe her. “You speak French,” he blurted out, more like
a statement than a question, but she was just so unexpected. He had to know.
She laughed. “Yes.
My grandfather is French, and he and my grandmother lived with us
growing up. He still refuses to speak to
me in anything other than French, even though he knows how to speak English
full well.”
Benedikt thought about the fact that
he’d never met his German grandparents, and had only met his American ones a
handful of times. “That must be nice.”
Grace snorted, and he found it unbelievably unlike her to
do so.
She smirked, and then
explained. “Well, my grandmother is
English, and my mom fully Danish, and they all had the same idea. Growing up trilingual isn’t as easy as you’d
think.”
She was unbelievable. She spoke Danish, as well? So she was quadrilingual? He was about
to tell her that maybe she could talk some sense into Christian, teach him a
little German, when the gentle music playing over the speakers ceased, and a
man stepped up to the podium.
Grace glanced through the double
doors to the sanctuary, and smiled at him apologetically. “I think that’s my cue,” she said, picking up
her umbrella that she’d had resting against the wall, and shuffling everything
to her left hand so she could extend her right one. He took it in a handshake. “But it was very nice to meet you, and thank
you for not making me feel like a total loser for being almost an hour late.”
He laughed. Funny,
too. In a sort of self-deprecating
sort of way. “You’re welcome.”
She held up a hand in farewell as
she walked into the sanctuary, and he groaned.
Dummkopf! he berated
himself. He was such a loser. What must she think of him?
At least he could add gracious to the growing list of
intriguing qualities that Grace Saint-Dreyfus possessed.
‡ ‡ ‡
Benedikt
ambled over to the open double doors leading into the sanctuary and leaned his
shoulder against the side of the door, peaking in and listening as the service
began. He could hear if anyone pulled
up—probably—and he planned on glancing behind him every little bit to be sure
he wasn’t missing anyone. Germans were
almost excessively punctual, and he didn’t expect anyone else to come in,
anyhow.
As the recorded music playing over
the speaker system faded out into silence and the elder walked up to the podium
again, Benedikt glanced around at the fairly small congregation, and his gaze
stopped when he reached his parents, two rows ahead of where he stood at the
door. They were still as smitten as the
day they’d met, over thirty years ago, and he knew that because they still
acted like love-struck teenagers, and even now they held hands and whispered to
each other like they’d been apart for all of ten minutes and it had been
killing them. Peter and Annie
Breslau. His father was the most generous
man Benedikt knew, and his mom the most affectionate, which easily made them
the heart of the church, no matter who came and went.
Somehow, Benedikt wasn’t surprised
to see Grace Saint-Dreyfus seated a few meters away from his mother, taking in
her surroundings. She seemed to soak it
all up, as if a German church service was a million miles away from an American
one. Though they hadn’t yet talked, it
put him at ease, thinking his parents would be there if Grace should be alone
or confused. Somehow, it mattered that
she enjoyed this church service, that she enjoyed Germany, period.
He would have loved to see his
mother’s face when she realized the girl sitting three meters away from her was
an American. An American herself, she
seemed to collect Americans in the country with an uncanny ability, but she
never stopped being excited to see someone from her home country. He wondered, not for the first time, what
she’d given up in the United States for his father.
Peter Breslau turned to glance
behind him, and smiling warmly when he saw his son, and Benedikt nodded with a
grin. He almost pushed off from the door
with his shoulder, went to greet his parents, but an elder now stood up at the
podium, and called into the microphone in German, “Good morning, everyone!”
Benedikt took the opportunity then
to push off the door, and wander back toward the two glass double doors that
led out into the parking lot. An opening
prayer and the announcements would be next, and he didn’t mind keeping his eye
on the door during those. He stared out
at the rain, still coming down at a steady, soothing pace, and he absently
listened to the elder talk about the upcoming church gathering and the food
collection for the needy in Hamburg.
He had zoned out, and, before he realized
it, the voice had changed to a middle-aged woman whom he only knew marginally,
announcing that it was time for the song service, and that, sadly, Frau Barfeld
had come down with the flu, and would not be able to play. She was the only pianist in the congregation,
Benedikt knew, so that meant there would be no music, period. “But,” she said brightly, “let that not keep us
from giving thanks the Lord for His provision and blessings, anyway!”
But, before a beat of a second had
passed by, a voice called out across the sanctuary, “Ich kann Klavier spielen!”
Benedikt strode over to the opening
to the sanctuary, surprised to hear someone calling out in the middle of the
service, and even more stunned to realize that it had been quiet, demure Grace
that had been the cause of it all. He could
see that everyone else had been just as astonished as he, and all eyes were now
on Grace. She squirmed uncomfortably in
her seat.
“I play first-chair violin for the
Philharmoniker Internationale,” she explained, smiling sheepishly and a bit
shyly. “But I play the piano, too. If you need a pianist, I can play for you.”
Benedikt stared, in awe, as the
church as a whole seemed to embrace Grace and usher forward, and she slipped
out the pew, around his parents, and up to the baby grand that sat just to the
left of the podium in front. “What’s the
first song?” she asked the song leader, quietly lifting the lid of the piano
and sliding her fingers along its keys, almost reverently, as if this was a
common occurrence, and Benedikt wondered how he could have ever thought she was
German.
She was nothing like a German, all
guts and determination and inner strength, all American boldness, all
unexpected spontaneity, and he wondered how he could have thought she was quiet
and demure.
She had handled every song the song
leader had thrown at her, and was now playing an arrangement of Fairest Lord Jesus while the deacons
took up the offering. She had played
Mozart during the children’s offering, as well, and he couldn’t help wondering
if there was anything gutsy, tenderhearted Grace Saint-Dreyfus couldn’t do.
Benedikt’s eyes had closed, of their
own volition, as he took in the healing sound of the music coming to life under
Grace’s fingertips—he could almost feel
the music that way—when he felt an urgent hand shaking his shoulder, pulling
him away from the sanctuary and into the empty foyer. “Benni!”
His eyes fluttered open, and he
looked around, slightly disoriented.
Florian Schiffer stood before him, both worry and insistence equally
flashing in his eyes, leaving no time to remember where he was. He nodded toward the parking lot. “C’mon.
I just got a call from Matthias.
It’s Ronan again.”
Dread filled in his heart, and he
guided Florian to the door. Ronan
Breckenridge was another one of his best friends from the football team, and
had been hitting the bottle hard lately.
Ronan’s mother had been killed a little over four months ago, in an
accident involving a drunk driver, in Ronan’s native Ireland, and while he was
playing football in Germany, no less. It
had affected Ronan more deeply than anyone had thought or expected, and he had
gone off the deep end, falling into a tailspin of alcohol and regrets. Before the accident, Ronan—or Rory, as they’d
started calling him (Jack had an easy tendency to give them nicknames, and
somehow, they all stuck)—would have refused to even enter a bar, and now,
Benedikt was rescuing him from them nearly a dozen times each month.
Right before he stepped through the
double glass doors, Benedikt glanced back at the sanctuary doors. He didn’t want to leave Grace alone—plus,
he’d wanted to talk to her again, after the service was over, tell her how
beautifully she played, and maybe see if he had a chance of staying in her
life. Somehow. But his mom and dad were there, and one of
his best and most reliable friends, Tobias, their gentle, understanding,
compassionate pastor. She was in good
hands.
And Rory needed him.
‡ ‡ ‡
She was
magnificent.
Benedikt sat in his seat,
spellbound. Who was this woman? Half the time she seemed so sad, so serious,
so withdrawn, and then the next moment, she was so fully alive that he didn’t
know what to think. Out of all the
people in the world he’d met—and as a footballer, he’d met a lot—he’d never
seen anyone like her. She was a study in
contrasts—brilliantly happy, but bone-deep sad.
Vibrantly alive but quietly withdrawn.
Bold and brave but quiet and unsure.
And inside it all, he was convinced she had the most beautiful, good,
kind heart he’d ever seen.
In this orchestral hall—seemingly as
old as Germany itself—even the air itself sizzled to life under the power of
Grace’s bow. She was… glorious.
Vivacious, really, was the
better word. If he hadn’t come across
her so many times before, over the past few months, he never would have
believed that she could be reserved and bookish, sad and shy, timid and
safe. He would have believed her capable
of anything. He would have bet that she
could slay dragons and hypnotize the United Nations with that violin of hers.
He couldn’t help the smile that
inched up his face as he watched her. He
loved watching the twinkle in her deep blue eyes, the hint of a smile at her
favorite parts, the hint of a scowl at the difficult parts. He even thought, once, that he saw her little
pink tongue stick out between her lips in concentration, about halfway through
her solo. He had never met someone so
completely, adorably, beautifully honest.
He wasn’t sure she’d have been able to hide her emotions, even if she
had tried.
She was so beautiful tonight.
He hadn’t been able to take his eyes
off of her. He’d come because he loved
the orchestra, but also because he’d wanted to see her live-and-in-the-flesh,
comfortable doing what she was best at.
He hadn’t really expected to see more of her, after he’d had to leave
early to rescue Ronan, but he’d come on a whim.
Even after the accident, and receiving her gracious forgiveness, she
still intrigued him.
Grace finished her solo with a
flourish, and beamed first at the audience and then back at the orchestra before
she curtsied and returned to her seat, speaking to the violinist next to her in
quiet whispers as she prepared for the next song. My
goodness, she was amazing, he thought, and, not for the first time, he
wondered if she realized it.
‡ ‡ ‡
Grace was
grinning to herself as filed off the stage with the other musicians, violin and
bow in hand. Today’s performance had
gone well. Really well. It had been the
sort of performance that had left her giddy on the inside afterward. The air in the auditorium had been electric,
and the orchestra had been on fire. She’d
been worried about this solo, and tonight had been their first time performing
it in front of a live audience, but it couldn’t have gone any better, even if
she’d tried, and it reminded her of every reason she’d stuck to orchestral
violin rather than pursuing a solo pianist career. She loved playing for an orchestra—feeding
off of the others’ passion, the camaraderie…
She loved playing the piano, but she hated being alone.
Julia Gottfried, one of her best
friends from the orchestra, was chattering on about something, and Ariana
Esposito, a cellist from Italy, slid her arm through Grace’s affectionately
while she listened to Julia. She’d been
in a horrific accident when she was eleven, which had caused more painful
injuries than Grace thought she’d ever fully know about. But the worst part had been that a
tracheotomy had gone wrong and stolen Ariana’s voice from her forever. Somehow, Grace thought, good-hearted Ariana
said more in her silence than chatty Julia said with her voice.
Grace slipped her arm through
Julia’s, too, and laughed at something Julia said. Though moving to Germany had been the hardest
thing she’d ever done, moments like these, with Ariana and Julia after a good
concert, made it so much easier. She
turned them down the hallway toward the practice room where they’d all left
their instrument cases.
“Miss Saint-Dreyfus!” a voice called
from just behind her, and Grace turned to look.
One of the stage hands, Stefan, was holding a bouquet of lilies out to
her. “A gentleman left these at the
front desk for you.”
Julia looked first at the flowers in
Stefan’s hands, then at Grace, and cooed, grinning mischievously, “Ooooh-ooh.” Grace shot her friend a look, but it didn’t seem
to faze Julia in the least, who only grinned wider.
Julia and Ariana pressed closer as
she accepted the flowers with her free hand.
“Danke, Stefan,” Grace said, taking a step back in hopes of some
breathing room. Sometimes, despite their
best intentions, Ariana and Julia could make her claustrophobic.
As he nodded and walked off, Julia
cooed, grinning mischievously, “Ooooh-oooh.
Gracie has a boyfriend…”
Grace clenched her jaw, and had to
check the unexpected surge of irritation at her friend. Julia and Ariana didn’t know about Henry,
didn’t know that the subject of boyfriends was a touchy subject. She told herself she should just enjoy the
attention such a well-known footballer was paying her, enjoy the teasing of
Julia and Ariana, but she knew they’d take it as far as she let them. And even if she wanted to tell Julia and Ari
about Henry—how could she? She could
barely afford to think about him, herself, much less share the big, gaping hole
in her heart with her friends. It made
her sad to think she’d never be able to share this—the gossiping about
boyfriends, the talking about crushes, the squealing and laughter she’d shared
with Emmy as her relationship with Henry had developed. Sometimes she wanted to hate Henry—for
letting himself be taken (or whatever had actually happened), for not coming
back to her sooner, for making her love him, for his loving her so much. For not letting her move on with her life. Until she had proof that whoever had taken
her boyfriend had killed him, she was incapable of moving on—which meant that
she would either have to tell her friends about Henry, or suck up and deal with
their excitement every time an attractive guy looked her way.
She felt bad as she studied their
expectant faces, and she pushed the dark thoughts away. She’d been happy, a couple of seconds ago,
with her two friends, and she didn’t want any more darkness overtaking her
life.
According to Ari and Julia, Benedikt
Breslau was one of the most eligible bachelors in Hamburg, and they were living—or
rather, trying to live—vicariously
through her. She couldn’t blame them—not
really—and it was sort of adorable how excited they were. Benedikt was certainly attractive. He just couldn’t be her attractive guy. That
spot was reserved for Henry, and only Henry.
Julia leaned down and breathed
deeply of the flowers, sighing melodramatically, and Ariana came around on her
other side, and started inspecting the flowers, lifting the leaves to look
underneath, and Julia exclaimed, “Good point, Ariana! There may be a card!”
A slow smile slid up Grace’s face. Even if Benedikt had absolutely no shot with
her, it was almost funny to watch her two friends’ reactions, in their passion
for the supposed development in her non-existent love life. She allowed herself to be taken along by
Julia’s antics.
Ariana grinned at Grace, sharing a
patronizing look as Julia pawed through the flowers for a card. Despite the fact that Ariana mostly just knew
Italian, and Julia predominantly spoke German, they understood each other well
enough, and Julia had dubbed herself Ariana’s spokesperson. Ariana, in her grace, had let her. Everyone—except for Julia, perhaps—knew that
Ariana could easily take care of herself, and speak her own mind, but she could
sense Julia’s desire to help where she could, and, in her mercy, allowed her
to.
Grace swatted Julia’s hands away
good-naturedly, and handed Ariana the flowers so she could look for a
card. When she did, she pulled it out.
Grace,
you were stunning tonight. Benedikt
Ariana read the card with wide,
twinkling eyes, and before Grace could anticipate the question in her eyes,
Julia snatched the card out of Grace’s hands as she squealed in delight. She read the message again, and her eyes
twinkled mischievously. “Ooooh,” she
cooed again, and Grace scowled, snatching the card back.
Grace hadn’t known he was here,
tonight, honestly. In fact, she was
surprised he knew what she did at all, because she hadn’t told him she played
violin for the Philharmoniker Internationale, and he had been gone when she’d
emerged from the sanctuary, at the end of the service. In fact, she really hadn’t expected to meet
him again, unless she returned to his church—which, honestly, she was
considering. She’d felt more at home
there than she ever had, anywhere else, and, after playing the piano for their
song service, the entire congregation had practically adopted her. She had liked the pastor—his name was
Tobias, she thought—he had preached a sermon on the Sermon on the Mount, and
she couldn’t help thinking that Jesus might have preached a lot like Pastor Tobias
had. Simple words and thoughts, down to
earth, but convicting. Challenging. After the service, when he’d shaken her hand
and thanked her for playing the piano, he’d made her feel like she
belonged. He’d invited her to stay for
the fellowship meal afterwards, and she’d only agreed because Amélie dragged
her down to the kitchen. They’d made her
the guest of honor during the meal, and Amélie had been her emissary between
her and the congregation, which, in itself had been hilarious, because Amélie
didn’t understand them at all, and half of them didn’t understand her, either. So maybe she’d be back. At least she’d felt more at home there than
she had at the English-speaking church.
“It’s not like that,” Grace said
defensively, and Julia grinned widely at her in turn. “He’s a national football star.”
Julia’s eyebrows quirked in amused
disbelief. “Sure, it’s not,” she said,
laughter practically flowing from that knowing grin.
Grace took the bouquet of pale pink
lilies back from Ariana, blushing. “It’s
not.
I swear. He’s just a nice
guy. Sort of dorky, but… nice. He’s
not interested in me, and even if he was, I’m not interested in him.”
Julia stared up at Grace through
raised eyebrows with a dubious look, but just rolled her eyes and walked off
toward the practice room. “If you don’t
want to date the most dreamy-looking footballer in the whole country of
Germany, that’s not my problem. I tried
to tell you he’s dreamy, but would you listen to me? Noooo, nobody ever listens to Julia, even if
she’s right. You’re in denial, but if
you don’t want to admit that you want to date Benedikt Breslau von Swoonsburg,
then that’s all on you…” Julia muttered to herself, not bothering to try to
even look over her shoulder.
Grace and Ariana turned to share
amused glances, and, as Julia disappeared into the practice room, they burst
out into laughter.
Grace stepped into the room and
slipped her violin and bow into her case, right by the door, and turned to hug
Ariana. “I know I was going to take the
train with you, but I just need a minute.
You can go on without me—I’ll see you on Monday at practice.”
Ariana nodded, seeming to understand
something was up. She seemed to
intuitively understand that Grace still battled demons, and when she was ready,
Ariana would be there to listen. It was
one of the reasons Grace was growing to love her so much.
She tiptoed out of the room and
headed down to one of the individual practice rooms down the hallway. She ducked inside and flipped on the light,
propping her violin against the wall, before she sank onto the piano bench,
still holding onto the flowers. They
were her favorite kind of lilies—white around the edges and blushed pink at the
center, with a smattering of those dark magenta freckles and the warm yellow
center. She recognized sprigs of
lavender and baby’s breath, too, and a slow smile lifted the corners of her
lips as she lifted the flowers to her nose and breathed deeply. She loved the smell of lavender.
This
was a really nice gesture, she
thought. She’d really only had one
experience with Benedikt Breslau, and he’d played the bumbling idiot pretty
well. It had been pretty adorable,
actually, but seeing him like this, sensitive and dashing, was totally
different, and she wondered who the real Benedikt was. She realized, with some surprise, that she
wouldn’t really mind him sticking around, popping up randomly in her life. She could use another friend, especially when
Germany felt so big and sometimes she felt so small and lonely.
As long as he didn’t try any funny
business.
She was sure, one day, Benedikt
Breslau would make one woman a very happy wife.
But that could never be her, and she hoped he didn’t ever start to think
it would—or could—be.
‡ ‡ ‡
He
watched from across the street, in the shadows, as Grace emerged from the
Philharmoniker Internationale’s historic theater, this time, alone, violin case
in one hand and a bouquet of lilies in the other. His venomous anger stretched taut every
muscle in his body, but he refused to let himself take action. His anger was all he knew anymore. Besides, much as he’d like to take out his
revenge on her, he had to know who else she’d told, who else might be after
him. Them. It was only then that he could use her, one
more tool in his arsenal of revenge. It
had long been dark out, and he watched as she walked to the nearest Hamburg
U-Bahn entrance, and he let her go.
She had a new friend. He’d be watching him much more closely from
now on. He would have said the only
useful tool Grace Saint-Dreyfus had at her disposure was her big mouth, but, uncannily,
she always managed to find herself in their backyard, and that was how he knew
she was trouble. Her “plan” didn’t look
like any plan at all—it never did—and yet, somehow, it always got her the
results she wanted—and needed. So if
Grace was befriending a footballer, even if it seemed innocent and backwards,
there was one thing he knew.
He knew it was a ruse.
It wasn’t backwards, and somehow, it played into her diabolical plan,
and somehow, that footballer would be their demise.
There was only one reason Grace
Saint-Dreyfus would follow them to Hamburg, and it wasn’t the prestigious job
offer. She played the part very
well—wounded girl starting afresh, completely unawares. He didn’t buy it for a second. If there was one person in the world who
could sabotage their plans, it was that girl, and he couldn’t let his eye off
of her for a second.
How
much did the footballer know? If she
chose to align herself with Benedikt Breslau, it wasn’t for his chaste romance
and American manners, or even his world-sized heart or awkwardly winsome
personality. She had a purpose in using
Breslau, and he would figure out what it was.
Involving a footballer, though—taking
risks with such a national icon—could make things a lot worse for them, and
suddenly, he saw her logic behind it—or, at least, a portion of it. They’d have to be a lot more careful, from
here on out. Grace Saint-Dreyfus and her
footballer were trouble.
He’d bet all his money on it.
