Peter adjusted his glasses, and the glare concealed the blue. “Now the streets are safe, the people are happy, and there’s order in the land.”
American and British correspondents constantly complained about the tourists and students who saw the low unemployment and the new buildings and declared the Nazis weren’t as bad as the mean old newspapers said.
For some reason, she’d expected better from Peter Lang.
Evelyn’s hand rested flat by her side against her brocade skirt, and she rolled her fingers around her thumb. One, two, three, four. She would be charming and polite for the remainder of the evening, but there would be no second date.
FIVE
TUESDAY, APRIL 5, 1938
Peter strolled around the circular park in the middle of the roundabout. Colorful flowerbeds spread out in loops around a fountain, even and proportioned. No wonder Evelyn Brand liked the Gärtnerplatz.
Buildings with curved façades rimmed the park, painted in shades of pink and cream, and an elegant neoclassical theater sat in the seat of importance.
Only one café overlooked the plaza, its outside tables abandoned in the unseasonal cold weather. Peter checked his tie and opened the door.
A gentleman approached, small and trim, with gray seasoning his black hair. “Guten Morgen. Welcome to my café.”
“Good morning. I am looking for my friend.” There she was, her brunette head bent over a clacking portable typewriter.
“Ach,” the gentleman said. “Fräulein Brand? Come with me.”
Evelyn sat at a small square table, her back to the wall and papers in disorder around her.
“Fräulein Brand, I bring you a friend.” The café owner swept his arm toward Peter.
She raised her head, and her eyes swam into focus. “Herr Lang.”
Peter removed his hat and smiled. Unlike many Americans, Evelyn remembered the formality Germans used in public. “Good morning, Fräulein.”
Evelyn turned to the café owner and pressed her hand to her heart. “Why would I need another friend when I have you, Herr Gold?”
“Ach, but look at your Herr Lang.” Herr Gold clapped him on the shoulder. “See how tall he is, how his hair curls. Is he not a fine friend?”
Peter gave her what he hoped was a fine smile.
She patted her papers. “I would invite him to join me, but as you see . . .”
Herr Gold snapped a brown-eyed gaze to Peter. “Then I will be your friend. Please sit.”
“Thank you, mein Herr. You do me an honor.” Peter sat at the table beside Evelyn’s, his back also to the wall, and he set down his attaché case.
Herr Gold sat across from him and flapped his white apron over his lap. “So, my friend, please tell me why a good Münchner like you has never visited my café.”
“Because I am not from Munich. I am an American.”
“American?” Herr Gold pressed back in his chair. “You do not sound American.”
“My dear mother came from Munich.”
“Outstanding. She taught you well.” Then he gasped. “Ach! I sit here being your friend, and you have nothing to eat or drink. What would you like?”
“Coffee, please.”
“I am making fresh Krapfen. I will bring one, no charge, for my new friend.” Herr Gold hurried into the kitchen.
Peter slid his gaze to Evelyn, and she raised a half smile. Was she amused? Annoyed? A little of both?
He pointed with his thumb toward the kitchen. “Das ist Gemütlichkeit.”
Evelyn zipped her paper out of the typewriter and perused it. “Yes, Gemütlichkeit, the famous Bavarian hospitality.”
“It’s more than hospitality.” Peter switched into English. “It’s opening the home and the heart, inviting the stranger into the coziness.”
“Speaking of my gemütlich café, what brings you here?” Her tone was anything but cozy.
“You said this was a fine place to work, so I thought I’d give it a try. I have papers to grade.” He lifted his attaché case to the table. He’d also come to figure out why the electric connection with Evelyn had fizzled after the concert.
She rolled a new sheet of paper into the typewriter.
“What are you writing about?” he asked. “The concert?”
“I already turned that in. Even Norwood will like it. Now I’m working on the article about your fellow students.” She straightened the paper in the roller. “Yesterday I interviewed two more students and found what I needed.”
“Good.” He set his elbow on his attaché case. “Please tell me what George Norwood has done to wound you.”
“To wound me?” She riffled through the mess of papers. “To start, he sent me to Munich. All the other ANS correspondents are based in Berlin. That’s where the news is.”
“Hmm. Is that because you’re young?”
“Young?” She set aside a stack and picked up another. “Norwood must be close to your age, and you’re twenty-seven.”
“He’s a year older.” His fingers itched to straighten her mess, but he restrained himself.
“I’m twenty-six, and we have a new fellow, all of twenty-three. He’s in Berlin. And I’m here.”
“Because you’re a woman.”
Her gaze met his, and thin brown eyebrows lifted. “Yes.”
“I’m sorry. That isn’t right.”
Evelyn selected a paper. “If a man hunts down a lead, he’s called bold. I’m called pushy. If a man finds an unconventional way to get a story, he’s called clever. I’m scolded for breaking the rules.”
“That’s a shame.”
She frowned at the paper. “Don’t you dare breathe a word of this to your pal.”
Peter studied her in her brown tweed suit, her brown curls brushing her jaw, leaving her slender neck bare and somehow vulnerable. “May I tell George how polite and professional you were? How your questions were intelligent and reasonable?”
Her eyes widened, and sunlight through the window allowed him to admire the shade of brown—coffee with a splash of milk.
“For you, my friend.” Herr Gold set down a coffee cup and a plate with a Krapfen, a fragrant ball of fried dough sprinkled with powdered sugar.
“Thank you. Everything smells delicious.” After the café owner returned to the kitchen, Peter added a splash of milk to his coffee and held up the cup to Evelyn. “Cheers.”
She raised her cup and a genuine smile. “Cheers.”
No, two splashes of milk, and Peter added another splash to match her eyes.
Good. He’d restored the connection. He took a sip of coffee, rich and warm. “You said you enjoy hiking and that you’d like to see my car. Would you like to drive to Garmisch-Partenkirchen on Saturday? We could hike through the Partnach Gorge and have dinner at the Olympia Haus. The cheese spaetzle is excellent.”
“No, thank you.” Evelyn set down her cup and resumed typing.
“If you’re busy, we could go another day.”
“No, thank you.” She hit the carriage return lever and slid it across.
Hmm. He took a bite of the Krapfen, light and sweet. The problem wasn’t the activity. It wasn’t the day. It certainly wasn’t the spaetzle. Ah, it was the company.