The Butterfly and the Violin (31 page)

Adele had shut her eyes to many things since her arrival; they burned with memories now.

“Did you hear me?”

Adele stifled a cough. “Invisible. Yes.”

“Your heart is still beautiful, child,” Omara declared, and lovingly placed the instrument in her hands. “We will play indoors today, to stay in out of the rain. And you must rest as much as possible. Understand?”

She nodded.

Adele’s hand circled around the neck of the violin and she felt the smoothness of the polished wood against her skin. It was such a contrast to the rough wood of her plank bed, its abrasive look and musty, diseased smell putrid to her senses. Her violin was so fine in contrast, so reminiscent of life before Auschwitz . . .

“I cannot do this,” Adele whispered, shuddering as she cradled the violin to her chest and lowered her face to hide a flow of uncontrolled tears. “It’s agonizing!”

“You must.” Omara grabbed her by the wrist, not painfully so, but enough that it caught Adele’s full attention. She pulled her arm down so that it was hidden between them.

“No! If death is going to take me, then I pray God allows it. After all of this—
I welcome it
.” Tears cut a path across the dirt on her face, and Adele imagined the tiny trails of water leaving her cheekbones looking striped. “It is of my choosing this way. I still have control over one thing at least.”

“Adele.” Omara’s shoulders straightened, looking as though a rod had been placed against her back, giving her added strength. “When one enters the camp, there is a gate with a message across the road. What does it say?”

Adele closed her eyes, unable to answer.

“Answer me,” Omara insisted, shaking the hand that encased her wrist.

“Arbeit Macht Frei.”
Adele repeated the cruel message, her heart wishing to expel the words on a sob but her body not even able to produce enough strength to move beyond shedding silent tears.

“And you know what it means?”

“Yes.” She could have spat at the ground each time she was forced to look at the cruel words affixed to the iron gate. “Work will set you free.”

“And so it shall.”

Adele shook her head, knowing that Omara was right, but praying to God that she’d not hate her gift because of it. “I’ll not think of playing in that way.”

“You must. Because one day we will be free. And we become free by living despite what they do to us. We live by working, and we work for God.”

“But the children! Those poor souls stepping from the train . . . they’re innocent! Why should I live, just because I can play? Can we not exchange our lives for theirs, Omara?”

“You know it doesn’t work that way, Adele,” she said, her hand releasing the hold on Adele’s wrist. She dropped her voice to a much softer whisper. “They’d only kill us both.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Present day

Two weeks later

S
era spent most of her Monday morning pacing in the back office.

Michael Turner was the last person she’d ever expected to see on the front step of her gallery that night. Yet there he’d appeared, once again popping up in her life with a request to talk. After more than a year of no contact at all. And after a promising week she’d spent with a completely different man, who had stepped onto a plane for California without any idea her former fiancé had stepped back into her life but moments after he’d wrapped her in a good-bye kiss.

She looked at the antique clock on the gallery’s back wall.

Noon.

How long had she been pacing? She looked over at the stool William had so casually sat on when they’d talked about Paris. She remembered his smile, tender and open. His hand, reaching out to connect with hers. She could almost picture the Bible on the worktable, with its worn and cracking binding making her heart melt for the time he’d spent studying the words within it.

Was she crazy to have pause about giving her heart to someone new?

“What am I doing?” she said aloud, stopping in her pacing to stare out the rain-speckled back windows, as if the overcast spring sky and the brick buildings in the alley would offer any kind of answer.

“You’re driving yourself crazy, that’s what.” Sera didn’t have to turn around to know that Penny was walking in her direction. She could hear the click of her assistant’s heels as she moved from the doorway to the center of the room.

“You’re a mess in a business suit,” Penny noted, her voice softening as she approached. She placed a mug down on the desk at her side. “Brought you some coffee.”

“How long have you been standing there?” she asked, unwilling to turn around and show her assistant that a few stray tears had escaped and gathered around her lower lids. She wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand.

“Long enough.” Sera felt the warmth of Penny’s hand as it lifted her own, leaving a scrap of paper in her palm. “Here.”

She looked up, surprised that the pink notepaper had nothing but a telephone number scrawled in black ink. “What is it?”

“It’s the number for Stahlworth and Martin.”

“Stahlworth and Martin. Who are they?”

“His lawyers. They called this morning. Something about the painting.”

“Did they say what they want?”

“No. I assumed it was something to do with payment for the gallery’s involvement in the search. I saw you pacing a hole in the floor back here, so I said you’d call them back.” Penny sighed. “You can’t keep ignoring it, Sera.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The fact that he hasn’t called in two weeks.” Penny plopped down in one of the chairs opposite the desk and sighed. “Because believe me, I know what it feels like to be jilted by a guy. It hurts when they don’t call.”

Sera doubted that seriously. “Penn, you have more dates than anyone I know. How could you understand?”

Penny folded her arms across her chest and sank back a little deeper into the chair. “That’s why I understand, Sera.”

Sera took a step closer and looked down at her always bubbly friend, whose eyes were brimming with tears. “Penn?”

She shook her head. “It’s nothing.”

“This is something,” Sera said, and swiped a tissue from the box on the desk. She knelt down by her assistant’s side and dabbed at a tear that had slid down her dimpled cheek. “What’s the matter? Tell me.”

Her assistant’s voice almost squeaked out, “I don’t want you to be hurt like I’ve been. You can still be lonely even when your social calendar is full.”

“Penn—”

When Sera tried to cut in, she shook her head. “No—hear me out. Someone needs to tell you to pick up that phone. If he hasn’t called you, then find out why. Something’s changed in you these last weeks and I think it’s because of him. You’re not the same since you got off that plane from California.”

Sera tried to lighten the moment by laughing it off. “Oh, I don’t know. I’m still as neurotic about the painting as I ever was.”

“That’s not what I mean. This isn’t about losing your dad, or a painting. I think you care about this guy.”

“And what if I did?” She blinked. “You think I could have a future with William Hanover?”

“Don’t you? Because I’ve seen the way he looked at you. And it’s something I’ve never received from any man, not in all the dates I’ve had.” Penny raised an eyebrow. “Are you willing to let your chance at happiness go without a fight? Or are you still hooked on the reemerged Michael Turner?”

Sera tugged at a stray lock of hair that had fallen across her forehead and tucked it behind her ear. “You don’t know what
you’re talking about, Penn. I shouldn’t have told you that Michael stopped by the gallery. You can’t possibly understand how confusing this all is.”

“I think I can, Sera. And believe me, I’ve looked all over Manhattan for anything that comes close to fitting William’s mold. Integrity. Hardworking. A Christian man with a fierce love for his family and a smile I’ve only seen him offer when you walk in a room.” Penny reached across the desk and retrieved Sera’s cell phone, then dropped it in her palm. “So he’s got some flaws. That makes him human. But regardless, guys of his pedigree just don’t exist. You can’t keep ignoring the truth because you’re afraid of what might happen when you surrender your control. If you do that, you’ll end up like your weepy assistant here.” She tossed her tissue in the wastebasket and gave a hint of a smile. “And she has sworn off men. Except William Hanover. She’s a fan of him for her friend Sera.”

“You really think I should call?”

Penny tilted her head to one side. “You’re asking me? I would have called the guy two weeks ago, for better or for worse.”

“I’m going to have to tell William about the painting—that I’ve seen it. It wasn’t a lie, but it feels like that now. I should have told him everything from the beginning.”

“And if you do now, you’ll be forced to trust him.” Penny finished the thought with her take on the obvious. “I told you—you’ve been different these last few weeks. You’ve opened your heart to the possibility of love again. You’ve opened your heart back to God. I’ve noticed it in you. And it’s beautiful, Sera. It makes me want to hope there’s someone out there who might offer me more than Chinese takeout and a drink at the local bar.”

Sera patted the strawberry blond waves that tipped Penny’s shoulders. “You’re worth it, Penn. I hope you know that.”

She smiled, a soft curve of the lips that twinkled of hope and
hurts that were hidden behind a usually sunny disposition. “Let’s take care of your life first, huh? Then we can work on mine.”

“Sweet friend,” Sera said, wrapping her in a hug. “There’s nothing to work on in you. God made you perfect.”

Penny hugged her back, whispering close to her ear, “How can we know what might happen, Sera, unless we give God a chance to work? You could miss out on love in your life because you’re playing it safe. Do you think that’s what Adele did? Play it safe?”

“I don’t know.”

“There’s only one way to find out. Tap into that strength you have. It’s already there.” Penny pulled back, then rose and began walking toward the office door. “You just haven’t summoned it in a while.”

Strength.
Sera took a deep breath.
I thought I had it once, in
droves. Do I have any left?

“I’ll leave you alone.”

“Penn?” Sera caught her assistant just as she was about to close the glass door.

“Yeah?” she said, leaning back with her hand on the antique brass knob.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” she noted softly, her bobbed curls bouncing off her shoulders as she walked through the door. “At least not now. Just remember me at Christmas-bonus time.”

The door closed with a soft
click,
and Sera was left alone. With her phone in one hand and the piece of paper burning a hole in the other, she exhaled long and low.

Well, Lord. This is it—time to trust.

“Stahlworth and Martin. How may I direct your call?”

“Yes. This is Sera James,” she answered, refusing to fumble over the syllables even though she felt the annoyance of butterflies
wreaking havoc on her insides. “From the Sera James Gallery in New York. I’m returning a call from this morning.”

“I’ll connect you with Mr. Stahlworth. One moment, please.”

Sera bit the corner of her thumbnail while she waited for the secretary to connect her to the law partner’s phone line. She inhaled deep, then exhaled as her feet began their usual pacing across the back of the office. It wasn’t a moment before a gravelly voice came on the line.

“Miss James. Thank you for returning my call.”

“Yes, Mr. Stahlworth. I’m not sure what this is about. I’d have expected Mr. Hanover to call me directly. He usually does.”

“Well, he asked that we handle the formalities from this point on.”

“Formalities?” Sera paused. It wasn’t a word she’d hoped to hear.

“Well, to arrange for payment, of course. Even though you weren’t the one to locate the painting, Mr. Hanover has instructed us to pay you a base fee of ten thousand dollars, for your trouble. And then we’ll make arrangements for the wire transfer when the inheritance is settled with the courts. I understand that your rate is one percent of the estimated value of the find.”