Your Perfect Year(118)
So Simon had tried. He had sent his book to a publishing house and received a rejection. Not a pleasant experience, but probably not out of the ordinary. After all, she was personally . . . acquainted with the publisher himself and she still hadn’t heard from the editor at Grief & Son Books, and was no longer hoping for an enthusiastically positive reply—it was all taking far too long for that. Good news traveled fast.
Hannah turned the page and found a rejection from another publisher. And another. And another. And on the last page in the binder, another. Was this why Simon had never told her about his novel? Was he ashamed of it? And had all these rejections robbed him of his courage to send the manuscript out again, or start another novel? Maybe. But . . . what did four or five rejections matter? There were so many publishers out there.
She was about to close the binder when she noticed she had missed another sheet right at the back. It was folded up tightly, so not immediately visible. Hannah smoothed it out.
She frowned when she saw the letterhead.
Grief & Son Books?
Jonathan—Monday, September 24
“Get out of my way right now, or I won’t be responsible for the consequences!”
Jonathan startled as he heard the loud, agitated voice coming through to him from Renate Krug’s reception desk. It was Hannah!
“Got to go. I’ll call you back,” he said in a strangled voice to the agent he was on the phone with, and hung up.
At the same moment, his office door flew open and an angry—no, an infuriated and enraged Hannah stormed in. Renate Krug was at her heels, stammering out helplessly, “I’m sorry, Herr Grief, the lady just—”
“It’s fine, Frau Krug,” he said. “I know Hannah Marx, it’s okay. Please will you leave us?”
Renate Krug hovered in the doorway for a few perplexed seconds, no doubt debating whether it was right to withdraw or whether she should call the police. He could understand it. Hannah’s eyes sparked with murderous rage, and even Jonathan was afraid. He had no idea what had caused it. So he had kissed her. Maybe that had been a step too far for her, but this reaction was a little over the top!
“Hannah,” he said in a soothing voice, rising from his chair as soon as his assistant had left the office. “What’s the matter?”
“You!” she flung at him.
“Me?” he asked in confusion, moving to approach her.
She yelled at him at such a pitch that he froze to the spot.
“You asshole! You monster! You coward! You evil, evil man!” Her voice shook the frosted glass in his office door.
“Hannah,” he said again. “I’m sorry, but I don’t understand—”
“You don’t?” In three strides she was by his desk, glaring at him in disgust. She slapped a sheet of paper down on the desk with a bang.
Jonathan glanced at it and began to shake. He wanted to say something, but he knew there was nothing he could say. He collapsed inside. It had happened. Hannah had found that dreadful letter.
“You really are the worst,” she said, quietly but all too clearly. “Not only did you lie to me. You were probably laughing your head off the whole time at me and my dead boyfriend with his writing ambitions—”
“Hannah!”
“Shut up!” she yelled. “You destroyed someone’s life. You took a man’s hope away just for fun. You trampled all over him and left him broken, for no reason!”
“I—”
“I said shut up!” She hadn’t said it, she’d yelled it. She lowered her voice again. “I never, ever want to see you again in my life. Never! Just to make it perfectly clear: I’m about to turn around and leave this office. I don’t want to hear another word from you.”
Jonathan swallowed hard but remained silent. What could he say? That he knew himself how horribly unacceptable his behavior had been? And yes, how unforgivable?
“If I can leave you with one last piece of advice, so you might have the tiniest chance of not going to hell: make your inner inventory. And do it right! I don’t know anyone in the world who needs it more than you do.”
Before he could react, she marched out of his office, tearing the door open with such force that it slammed against the wall and knocked off a chunk of plaster. Another bang told Jonathan that Hannah had left Renate Krug’s reception area.
A second later, his assistant peeped fearfully around the corner.
“Is everything all right, Herr Grief?”
He didn’t reply, but sank slowly back down into his chair.
No. Nothing was all right.
Hannah—Monday, September 24
During the journey home, Hannah did nothing but cry and cry and cry. Interspersed with beating her steering wheel angrily. And refusing every one of the fifteen or so calls she received between Blankenese and Lokstedt.
She swore she would never speak to him again. Not ever. Jonathan Grief was dead to her.
65
Jonathan
Tuesday, October 2, 11:08 a.m.
When Jonathan landed at Amerigo Vespucci Airport in Florence, he was nervous. Very nervous. Very, very, very nervous.
To be precise, Jonathan N. Grief was so nervous that even as he entered the arrivals terminal, he wondered whether it wouldn’t be better to make for the nearest free bench and wait with his carry-on bag until the next flight back to Hamburg that evening.