Your Perfect Year(125)
“I’m so glad you’re in!” she said. “It’s me, Hannah Marx. Can you spare me a little of your time? I know it’s Christmas, but it’s very important and I—”
“Of course I’ve got time. Do come in!”
Sarasvati smiled at Hannah and opened her apartment door wide.
69
Jonathan
Thursday, December 27, 5:28 p.m.
Jonathan’s cell phone rang, but he couldn’t be bothered to rise from his chair and go over to his desk to see who was calling. It couldn’t be Hannah—he’d allocated a special ringtone to her. He wasn’t interested in any other caller; he was too busy.
He was totally immersed in the climax of a manuscript he was eager to publish as part of next autumn’s list: My Heart Is So Cold, a debut by a gifted young author who had Jonathan totally under her spell.
A few months ago he wouldn’t have picked up such a novel, let alone read it, on the basis of the title alone, but now he was swept away by the characters and the twists and turns the author had contrived. What a book! What a story! Epic! A story as . . . as . . . yes, as exciting as life itself.
For this was something Jonathan now knew: life produced the most amazing stories. He only had to think of himself. And of Hannah, who hadn’t been in touch since he had left her his Christmas present, and he sadly acknowledged never would now. It broke his heart—and not because he would never acquire the rights to Hannah’s Laugh. No, it broke his heart that he would probably never again be in the presence of Hannah’s laugh.
He sighed and settled back into My Heart Is So Cold. A little later, his thoughts began to wander again, just as the story was building up to the grand finale, when the main character had to confront the shocking extent of her lover’s betrayal.
This time he found himself thinking not of Hannah, but of his father. Just as Renate Krug had asked, he hadn’t spoken to Wolfgang about what he’d discovered in Italy. He had decided to let it lie, that it was enough for him to know it himself. And so knowing, to explain his emotional failings and exorcise them. Which might not get him anywhere with Hannah, but maybe would help in the rest of his life. Or at least with the publishing business—the number of advance orders from the spring/summer list he had put together with Leopold was looking really promising.
Jonathan hardly felt any resentment toward his esteemed father now. No, what he felt for Wolfgang Grief was pity. After all, the old man had to live with himself—not to mention, in his more lucid moments, come to terms with the awareness of how his mind was deteriorating. It was moving to see how Renate Krug cared for him. Jonathan had suggested she take early retirement, so his former assistant was now free to play “Sofia” and visit the Sonnenhof every day if she chose.
His cell phone rang again. Sullenly, he put the manuscript aside and got up. Who could be so stubborn as to keep calling on a day like this during the holidays? It had better be important, or else . . .
“Hello, Jonathan. This is Lisa, Hannah’s friend.” Her voice was a whisper.
Oh. It was important.
“Um, yes?” he said, his heart thumping.
“We’re on Marie-Jonas Square in Eppendorf,” she said, so quietly that he could hardly hear.
“So?”
“At the Christmas market!”
“I’m not getting you.”
“Look in the diary, you idiot!”
For a moment, Jonathan had no idea what Hannah’s friend was implying, but then he grabbed the blue Filofax that lay on his desk. Opened it up to December 27.
The best time for bratwurst at the Christmas market is AFTER Christmas. All the stress of the holidays is over, and you finally have time to reflect. That’s why you should get down to Marie-Jonas Square in Eppendorf at five o’clock. If you refuse, I’m going to chain you to the children’s carousel and leave you to spin around and around until you agree that Christmas markets are wonderful!
“Are you saying I should come?” Jonathan asked, his voice shaking.
“Ah, so you’re not as stupid as Hannah makes out. Yes, dummy!”
“But Hannah doesn’t want to see me. I—”
“Nonsense! She even made a special trip to Sarasvati for a tarot reading because of you. I’m afraid the good lady only told her something like ‘What will be, will be.’ Huh! It looks like it’s up to me to make sure that something will finally happen between you two!”
“Do you think that’s what Hannah wants?”
An unladylike groan. “Yesterday, I went to the trouble of getting hold of Hannah’s cell phone, looking up your number, and dragging her reluctantly out here so fate can finally have its way and I don’t have to listen to her hideous whining a moment longer. So get your goddamn publisher’s ass down here! And make it quick!”
“Okay, I’m on my way.” Jonathan hung up.
And then he dashed off. Just as he was. He stumbled down the stairs in jeans, T-shirt, and slippers, tore open the door, and ran out into the early darkness of the December day.
Because right at that moment, Jonathan N. Grief cared nothing about the cold.
EPILOGUE
Hannah
Monday, December 31, 6:28 p.m.
“Well, great!” Lisa said as she upended the last child’s seat on one of the little tables so that she and Hannah could sweep away the final traces of the devastation left behind after the day’s Little Rascals session. They had put on a New Year’s Eve party for the kids, including a wild streamer-and-confetti battle. “Only five and a half hours until the new year!”