He rose quickly as she approached, and although she had intended to treat this as a strictly professional meeting, before she knew it he had taken her hands and pulled her close to kiss her cheek. For a moment she froze, overcome by wistful longing, but then she pulled her hands free, murmured a greeting, and sat down. He managed a smile as he seated himself, but she could tell her coldness disappointed him.
“How have you been?” he asked, leaning forward and searching her face.
She remembered the intensity of his gaze, how it had once warmed every inch of her. “Well enough,” she said, scanning the menu. If she held his gaze too long, her resolve would evaporate like mist in sunlight. “Are you as busy as your letters suggest?”
“Busier. Have you been working on your novel?”
She was so surprised she laughed. “No. What novel?”
“The one you said you hope to write someday.”
“Well,someday.” She shook her head slightly and turned her wrist, a gesture signifying the folly of attempting to predict the future.
“But you have been writing, I hope.”
“Well—” She hesitated. “I jot down my thoughts and observations whenever inspiration strikes. Then I’m struck by the realization that one must actually accomplish something to merit a memoir, and that I’m a twenty-eight-year-old former prodigy with very little to show for all my early promise, and I fling down my pen and shove my papers away in disgust.”
His brow furrowed. “You’re much too hard on yourself. Keep it up, and whatever you do, don’t destroy whatever it is you’ve already written. There are always gems in the dross, waiting to be found and polished.”
She shrugged, eyes downcast, making no promises.
He craned his neck to catch her eye. “But you are working?”
“A bit of copywriting, some editing, tutoring university students in English. Enough to pay my bills and send a bit home to my parents each month. But it’s never enough.”
She glanced up as the waiter approached, grateful that her complaint had been cut off. After he left with their orders, she inquired about Adam’s current productions at the Staatstheater, determined to say nothing more about her diminishing prospects.
Soon she almost forgot that they were estranged. His tales of the theater were so fascinating, his obvious interest in her perspective so flattering, that her icy reserve melted, and once again she felt as exhilarated in his company as she had in Hamburg, as if they had been friends for ages but could always look forward to discovering something new, unexpected, and delightful in the other.
The afternoon passed too swiftly. Greta had stayed hours longer than she had intended and had drunk more coffee than was good for her, but when she glanced a third time at her wristwatch, Adam took her hand across the table. “Greta, darling,” he said, his hand warm and firm around hers. “My feelings for you haven’t changed. I love you.”
“Adam, please.” She glanced around, but to her relief, saw no one she knew. “Let’s not have this conversation here.”
“Agreed. Let me come home with you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Are you afraid we won’t talk?”
Afraid was not the word for it, not when she wanted more than anything to taste his mouth and feels his hands on her skin. “It wouldn’t be wise.”
“Perhaps not, but it would be wonderful.”
“Adam, you’re a married man. We could never be more than friends and colleagues.”
“Tell me you don’t love me and I’ll never again suggest we be more.”
She inhaled deeply and sat back in her chair, unwilling to lie.
“I knew it,” he said quietly, but with so much elation that he might as well have shouted.
“My feelings change nothing,” she said sharply. “You’re married. That’s the end of it.”
“Greta, I’m offering you my heart and asking for nothing in return but your love. What more do you want?”
What did she want? What shedidn’twant was to be his mistress, his young bit on the side, a cliché. She wanted a true partnership fueled by intellect and creativity, respect and desire. She wanted steadfast integrity, enduring faithfulness, love. She wanted what her friend Mildred had with Arvid, something true and real and lasting, not a stage prop, something that only served for the moment in the proper lighting if one did not examine it too closely.
“If you really want to be with me,” she said, “get a divorce.”
