The Point of Vanishing - Maryka Biaggio (large ebook reader TXT) 📗

But she decided that airing her objections would likely backfire and turn Barbara more secretive. Plus, Barbara was no doubt torn up over the loss of her beloved grandmother, and Helen wanted to see her through that.

“Well, it’s been just the two of us for so long now, having a wonderful time. It’s only natural.” Barbara scrunched a cheek. “Only please don’t pester him about his future and all that business.”

“All right.” But she wanted to know. “Can I just ask you, then?”

“Oh, Mother.”

“I can see you’re taken with each other. Shouldn’t I get to know him?”

Barbara shrugged. “He’s got a job offer from Polaroid, and they want him back in Boston by October.”

“That’s wonderful. And such a prestigious company.”

“I guess,” said Barbara.

“You’re not happy for him?”

“Oh, it’s corking for him. Only I’d like to stay longer. Find some work here.”

“That’s not likely, with all the hardship and inflation.” She reached out and patted Barbara’s hand. “Enjoy it while you can. It’s probably the last big adventure of your youth—for both of you.”

Barbara tucked in her lips.

Helen sipped some beer and eased the thick-glassed stein onto the table. “Bar, we should talk about Grandma Ding.”

Barbara stiffened. “Why? Does something need to be decided?”

“No, everything’s taken care of. Your Uncle Thomas and I sorted her things. What little money she left me I’m using for this trip.” God, losing her mother had been wrenching. Was there any connection as primal as that between mother and daughter? Her mother had cared for her from infancy, just as she was caring for her daughters. Now she wanted to comfort Barbara and give her the one thing she could still provide—a mother’s unfailing love.

“I can’t talk about Ding. It’s hard to even think about her.”

“I know. I hated telling you by letter, not being with you.” Losing her husband and then her mother had made Helen realize: Everyone is ultimately alone. She’d found a way to embrace her burden of solitude and responsibility and even eke some private freedom from it. She wanted to teach Barbara how she might get over the loss of her father once and for all.

Barbara said, “It’s not as if I was alone.”

“But Nick never knew her.”

Barbara thrust out her chin. “Maybe it was better that way.”

“I mean, you didn’t have someone to talk to about her. Like we can do.”

“I don’t want to talk about her.”

“That’s what people do, Bar. They share their memories. It helps get over the loss.” At least, that’s what her mother had done after her father died. That and reassure her and her brother she’d take care of them.

Barbara dropped her gaze. “It leaves me feeling dreary. And helpless.”

“It’s part of life, Bar. That sadness. Losing people we love.”

“Well, I don’t want to dwell on it. I just don’t.”

Helen reached out and stroked her arm.

“Don’t, Mother,” said Barbara, shaking off her hand. “Can’t we talk about something else?”

Helen pulled back. “Yes, of course.”

Barbara wasn’t making it easy for Helen to mother her—even now, after she’d once again left Sabra with the Meserveys. Not that Sabra minded. She’d proven more resilient and carefree than Barbara had ever been. In truth, Barbara needed mothering more than Sabra, who readily transferred her affection from one caretaker to another. Yes, that’d stung Helen at first, but she took solace in knowing one of her daughters had weathered Wilson’s abandonment.

✭

The next day, on their way to find Albert Künstler, owner of the cottage, the three of them struck out on a tour of Freiburg. Helen had saved the best sites for this day. Although she didn’t approve of Nick and Barbara posing as husband and wife, she’d resolved to set aside her qualms for the sake of harmony. She hoped to break through Nick’s stolid mien or, at the least, coax him into easy conversation. He had a wide mouth; when he talked, it seemed to move on hinges. Demonstrative, he was not.

So she was pleased when Barbara and Nick took to tallying Freiburg’s many charms: the men’s leather shorts and feathered felt hats; the lacy spire of the cathedral; the ubiquitous red geraniums in window pots; and the colorful market at Münsterplatz.

They arrived at Herr Künstler’s compact grocery and dry goods store with a German-English dictionary in hand. Künstler was a man of middle age, with a mere ring of sandy hair and bulgy blue eyes. His movements were jerky and hesitating as if fueled by sputtering uncertainty.

Between the man’s halting English and her rusty German, Helen confirmed that he did indeed own the brown cottage in Altenweg. He’d built it himself, and it was for rent—at two marks a day. Yes, he’d consider renting to them.

“I keep one room,” he said in German. “A bedroom upstairs.”

Helen translated for Barbara and Nick, who nodded.

She turned to Herr Künstler. “That’s fine.”

He’d prepare a lease, and they could review it the very next day.

Upon their return, they found Herr Künstler tending to a rail-thin woman at the counter. He chattered away, pointing out one item after another on the shelves behind him, apparently suggesting additional purchases. Each time the woman protested, pushing her coins toward him. After a few more attempts, he gave up, plunked the coins into a drawer, and bid her Auf Wiedersehen.

Helen, Barbara, and Nick gathered over the shop’s counter, and Herr Künstler presented them with the lease. They reviewed the language, often referring to their dictionary, and asked Herr Künstler to clarify confusing passages. No, he explained, they mustn’t dig in the garden or keep rabbits or dogs. They must pay in advance by the week. He and his sweetheart would spend Saturdays and Sundays there.

They arranged it just so. He’d personally drive them and their belongings there in his car the next day. They’d all get settled in together, him for his brief holiday, and them for their two months in the Schwarzwald. But first, he declared, they would need supplies. He sold them all manner of goods—flour, sugar, sausages, prunes,