Butterfly and the Violin (9781401690601) Page 29

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  My Dear William,

  I pray this letter finds you when you’re most ready to receive it.

  Take it from an old man; life is fragile. It’s meant to be lived in service, with an abundance of love, in the gracious guidance of a Savior who leads each step we tread in this journey of life.

  I’m sorry that you’re reading these words and I’m not able to tell you this until after I’m gone. But you’re clever. And a hard worker. You’ve grown into a fine man and I’m quite proud. But I also remember another William, a young man who talked often in his youth about the call upon his heart to become a minister. I remember the day that sixteen-year-old chap walked into my study with his Bible in hand, ready to tell the patriarchs of the Hanover clan that he had every intention of walking away from the family business in favor of walking toward a pulpit. I regret that your father and I rejected this path. I further regret that I remained silent and refrained from supporting this call upon your life. I aim to right that wrong now.

  I’ve asked Ms. Sophie Haurbech-Mason to be a witness to my wishes. If you’ve found her, then your smarts are exactly as I’d thought them to be. You’ve learned the story of Adele. I was indeed at Bergen-Belsen when the camp was liberated on April 15, 1945, and she was one of the prisoners who survived.

  The events of that day have changed me to my core. I suspect they’ve changed you too.

  You must know by now that the entirety of the Hanover estate is to be left to the owner of Adele’s painting. That owner is Sophie Haurbech-Mason.

  “So it’s true.” Sera stopped reading and looked up. “You’re to inherit everything.”

  Her face must have registered the shock, because Sophie leaned forward and nudged her hand with an aged fingertip.

  “Continue, my dear.”

  Sera obeyed, though the opinion she’d held of the sweet woman was in danger of fading if she was poised to take away everything William had fought so hard to keep.

  Whether out of obligation to the company or to honor your responsibilities to the family, I admire your resolve. As the painting still exists, and you’ve found it, you have but to ask for it. If it’s still what you want, you can take it home, run the company, and live your life.

  I give you the choice.

  But if, after learning of Adele’s story, you’ve changed your mind at all, then I ask you to consider what brought you to Ms. Haurbech-Mason’s door in the first place. If you choose it, this letter can free you, my boy. You can walk away from any sense of propriety with a heart that is full.

  Our lawyers have a copy of a new will outlining alternative wishes. I’ve taken careful steps to ensure that my last will and testament is executed in the manner you choose when the painting is found. As for the family assets, Ms. Haurbech-Mason will have sole discretion to disperse the Hanover funds. She’s smart and honest; she will ensure the family is looked after. The leadership of the company will be turned over to the board of directors, who will in their own best judgment appoint a successor as chief executive officer. And you, William, can finally walk away. Live the life you’ve always wanted with my blessing in it.

  Money, position, and power—we both know they are a ruse. There’s no lasting fulfillment in them, is there? I find shame that you learned this long before your foolish grandfather. I implore you to live your life for second chances, Will, because you shall always have one with Christ.

  Your loving grandfather,

  Edward William Hanover

  Sera held the letter in her hands, moved by the fact that the man had cared enough to leave such a legacy behind.

  “So Edward Hanover was there in Bergen-Belsen?”

  “Yes, he was there on the day of liberation.” Sophie nodded. “And he was there for the days afterward, when prisoners died from eating the food rations that had been given them. When disease still claimed victims. He was there, and I can tell you, the things he witnessed transformed him.”

  “I can’t imagine what all of them went through.”

  “It was impactful enough that he remained close with Adele. They were friends for the remainder of their lives.”

  “All because of that chance encounter . . .”

  Sophie shook her head. “There are no chance encounters with God. Adele brought Vladimir to my family. We’d hoped to all escape,” she said, her voice taking on a softness that comes with the remembrance of memories from long ago.

  “How did you survive the war?”

  Sophie looked to the mantel and smiled at the sea of faces staring out from the picture frames. “That is a story for another day, I think. But I had my own journey to take, just as Adele did, and we found each other after the war.”

  “How?”

  A smile warmed her face, spreading pleasant wrinkles from the corners of her eyes. “Edward. He intervened. He found me too, just like Adele’s painting.”

  Sera took a sip of her tea. So it was William’s grandfather who had been the connection all along.

  “I must tell you, Sophie, how sorry I am about what happened with the will being contested. Had I been able to prevent it, I would have.”

  “Life is a funny thing, my dear. We try not to take it for granted. The moment we do, it’s gone. Wiped away on a memory.” She shrugged delicate old shoulders. “Who knew I’d been named in a will to the tune of a hundred million dollars? I only agreed to help Edward because of our mutual affection for Adele. I did not expect him to have changed his will. That point we never discussed. I would have discouraged it. Perhaps that’s why he told me after the fact.”

  “But you discussed the other things in the letter?”

  She smiled over the rim of her delicate rosebud-sprayed teacup. “Yes. We discussed your William.”

  Sera found it difficult not to blush under the weight of the woman’s words.

  “He is a fine man, Sera.”

  “Yes,” she admitted, and swallowed hard over the lump of regret that had formed in her throat. “He is.”

  Oh Lord . . . I think I’ve made a terrible mistake . . .

  “We think we know what we want, don’t we? We always believe we know better than God. We have our entire journey plotted out. We may have even packed our bags and purchased a ticket, but God always has His own plans. And His plans are infinite in wisdom.” Sophie smiled on the last words and took a sip of tea. “He was here, you know.”

  Sera’s head snapped up. “Who? Not William.”

  “Yes. Earlier today. He showed up on my doorstep asking for you, interestingly enough.” She smiled over the rim of her teacup. “Seemed to think he’d find you here.”

  “And he read the letter.”

  Sophie nodded with a gentle air and replaced the cup in its saucer. “He did. Said he had to know for himself what happened to our Adele. Edward and I had a bet, you see.” She looked to the lofty ceiling above their heads and chuckled. “I guess you won.”

  Sera raised her eyebrows in question. “I don’t understand.”

  “Edward approached me with the idea of helping his grandson because he’d never forgotten what was truly important in life. God had anchored and steered him through everything. And he knew that his eldest grandson desired to devote his life to following God, but hadn’t been able to because of the demands of the family business. And when he’d gone to the family about his wishes, Edward hadn’t supported him. But time can heal a heart, can’t it? He realized that William would never leave the business without his grandfather’s blessing. Edward wanted to leave this world having done something about that.”

  Sera leaned forward to return the letter, hands trembling. “But he left the estate to you.”

  “He did.” Sophie appeared pleased. “William may have contested the will, but it turns out he didn’t have to. He had the choice all along. So he asked for enough to take care of his family. As for the rest—the stock, the assets for the family business, even the painting—he asked for nothing. He mentioned something about goi
ng back to an old career path he’d always been drawn to, exactly as Edward hoped he would. He told me to do with the money what I will. To perhaps give it away because it’s what his grandfather would have wanted. It’s what Adele and Vladimir would have wanted. Perhaps this money can give someone else a second chance?”

  Sera’s heart warmed just as tears misted her eyes. “Then it meant more than the money to him.”

  “Yes. And now, I believe your William hasn’t a job or a family fortune to claim. I’m not sure whether that matters to you, but he sounds remarkably similar to a penniless cellist Adele and I once knew.”

  Sera jumped up from the settee. In a flurry, she grabbed up her purse and damp trench coat and apologized, “I’m sorry, Miss Sophie. But I have to go.”

  “But you haven’t heard the rest of the story.”

  “I know . . . I want to! I need to know what happened to Vladimir. But . . .” Sera looked at the door and back to Sophie. “I need to find William.”

  “Yes, dear. That’s quite all right.” Sophie followed her to the door.

  “Did he give any indication as to where he was going?”

  “He said there was something he wanted to see before he flew back to America. A favorite piece of art?” Sophie winked.

  Sera’s heart leapt, and her body with it. She planted an impulsive kiss on the woman’s cheek and sailed out the door as Sophie’s charming laughter carried down the hall after her.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Sera was near to breathless when she walked up the stairs, having run from her taxi into the Musée de Louvre through the rain. It was late on a Friday—nearly closing time—and she worried he’d have already gone. But in the instant she rounded the corner, William was there. She could see him from behind in his usual jeans, his messenger bag slung so casually over his shoulder, his broad back to her.

  She stood there with tears in her eyes, looking at the scene. The Winged Nike of Samothrace was more beautiful in person. It was the way she’d always pictured it: magnificent and mysterious, free and beautiful as its every angle captured the light bouncing off the lofty cream walls. And it stunned her that while the ethereal sculpture reigned so majestically in the center of its grand portico, she hardly cared. The moment she’d always dreamed about was perfect because she couldn’t take her eyes off the man who stood in its shadow.

  She trotted up the stairs until she was standing close enough to reach out and touch his arm. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

  He slowly turned from the sculpture and connected his blue eyes with hers.

  “Sera.”

  She didn’t know what to say. She’d thought of possibly a hundred things she wanted to tell him on the way from Sophie’s apartment. How she was stupid and sorry and could he forgive her for being so hopelessly stubborn?

  She wanted him to be who he was, who he’d told her God had called him to be once, before money and expectations got in the way. But oddly, none of that seemed important. Not when he’d said her name so sweetly and was standing before her with a contented smile.

  “You’re here.” She smiled back and wiped some of the raindrops from her cheek. “You came all this way?”

  “Well, I couldn’t let you be in Paris all alone.” His voice was soft, forgiving. “Could I?”

  Though the crowds had thinned, there were other tourists still in the portico, some walking through and stopping to look at the statue while others breezed past the towering sculpture unaffected. A rather hurried older man walked in the space left between them and said, “Excusez-moi,” when he passed by and bumped her shoulder on his way down the stairs.

  They looked at each other and grinned.

  “It’s what I thought I always wanted, to come back to Paris. To be standing right in this very spot one day. To have this exact view. And I always thought if I found Adele’s painting, it would fill the void in my heart. But I wanted everything on my own terms. I didn’t want to wait on God, for His perfect timing. For His guidance . . .” She stood just inches from him. “And strength . . .” A pause, and she inched forward. “And a reason to trust my heart to someone again.”

  He nodded, a genuinely tender look on his face. “Me too.”

  “I know you didn’t take the money.”

  “No. I didn’t.”

  “I think I understand why,” she said. “Do you want to tell me?”

  “I’ve known all this time I’m not who I’m supposed to be. I haven’t been living the life God has called me to. I couldn’t take the money,” he admitted, and took a careful step forward, until the tips of his shoes just brushed hers. “Not if it forced me back into that life. And never if I lost my chance to have a new one.”

  She smiled, freeing her heart from the burden of the last two years, and allowed a tear to trail down and mix with the rain on her cheek.

  “Sera, my beautiful, gifted friend. You saw Omara’s painting as a child, didn’t you? On your last trip to Paris with your father?”

  “How did you know?”

  “Sophie mentioned that it had been lost after the war, until my grandfather found it a few years later. He sent it to Adele and she kept it all the years of her life. When Sophie said it was left in a gallery in Paris after Adele died, I put the two together. Now it makes more sense. I understand why it was so important to you. I know you’ve been living in the past, just as I have.” He reached up and brushed a tear off her cheek with the edge of his palm. “But I want a redefined future, a real one with the freedom to pursue God fully—and with you in it. Can you forgive me for breaking your trust?”

  “Yes—”

  “I know I’ve hurt you.” He kept on as if he hadn’t heard her. “That I’ve acted like a fool, and I know what’s between us has just started, so I don’t expect an answer right away . . . I don’t even know if I could move or where I’ll find a job, but . . .” William kept talking, rationalizing his thoughts aloud. “I’m not even sure what I’m trying to ask you . . . except that if it wasn’t for what happened, would you consider—”

  “Will?”

  He stopped and took a deep breath.

  “Yeah?”

  “I don’t care what the question is.” She bit her bottom lip. “My answer is yes.”

  William’s hands cupped the sides of her cheeks and he brushed her lips with his, connecting in a way she’d never thought possible. She melted into him, loving the familiarity when his arms wrapped around her. She felt somehow . . . home.

  He pulled back from the kiss and for a moment dropped his arms open at his sides. “You realize I have nothing now, right? I have an old Bible and my grandfather’s painting of an Austrian violinist. Beyond that, you’re going to get me. That’s it. Just William.”

  She stared up at the sculpture for a moment and smiled.

  Paris is the city of love. But this, Lord? This is all I want.

  Sera reached out to one of his waiting palms and laced her fingers with his. “Second chances, remember?”

  He nodded at the reminder and dropped a kiss to her temple.

  “Then she told you, about them. Adele and Vladimir?”

  “Yes . . . wait, no! I still haven’t heard what happened to Vladimir!” Sera looked up at her William. “I ran out the door to find you.”

  “You actually left without hearing the whole story? I’m flattered, Manhattan.”

  “You’ll tell me, won’t you?” She brushed a hand over his cheek, feeling the incredible weight of his arms around her as the winged marble statue stood watch over them.

  “Do you remember when I told you their love story must have ended more than seventy years ago?”

  She nodded.

  “Well, I can admit when I’m wrong.” He smiled and turned, taking her hand and walking slowly down the steps of the portico. “Are you ready for the best part?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  April 28, 1950

  Paris, France

  Adele?” The young woman spoke directly into her ear, the hint of
a smile in her voice.

  Adele’s eyes popped open.

  She sat in her little music shop, the wonderfully worn old building with the tall, street-facing windows and the sun streaming in to warm the aged walnut floors. She lowered the violin and bow to her lap and turned, spying her assistant just behind her with a mock scold on her face and eyes that were bright even from behind dark-rimmed glasses.

  Young Mariette leaned against the baby grand and tapped the toe of her spectator heel against the hardwood.

  Adele summoned the courage to ask, “What time is it?”

  The bow had touched strings, and Adele had found herself lost in the magic lull of her beloved music. She’d only meant to play for a moment, but what had begun as a few chords between appointments had morphed into a trip of memories . . . Her eyes had simply closed on their own, and her hands? They’d played without knowing.

  “It’s nearly noon.”

  “Noon?” Adele’s attention was ripped from the music. She rested the violin across her lap. “It can’t be . . . ,” she uttered as she checked her wristwatch. Sure enough. Ten minutes till. She was going to be late. Again.

  Flustered, Adele replaced her violin in its case and began the task of shoving haphazard sheets of music down into her canvas satchel.

  “Here. Let me.” Mariette took a stack out of her hands and began evening out the pages. Adele smiled, knowing her assistant’s methodical nature couldn’t stand for paper to be stuffed in a bag when there were at least thirty good seconds that could be used to right them. “I shouldn’t have let you play so long.”

  “No,” Adele said, shaking her head. “Mariette, it’s not your fault. A teacher should be on time without her younger but much wiser employee having to constantly check up on her. I don’t know what came over me.”

  Mariette looked at her with a softness as warm as the sun outside. “You were there again, weren’t you?”