Read Online Flight of Dreams by Ariel Lawhon - Free Book Online Page B

occurs to Emilie that she likes the sound very much and that she doesn’t hear it often enough.
    “I am curious about something, Herr Zabel.”
    “Yes?”
    “Why is it that I can’t spend ten minutes in your company without laughing?”
    There’s something about the look on his face, like he’s pleased with the whole world, like this is a private triumph. She wants to know what’s behind that look, but she is also aware that Max has revealed a lot about his feelings for her, and that she has given him little in the way of reciprocation. So she isn’t surprised when he brushes the question aside.
    “If you’re going to make a joke about my face, I’d like the chance to beg your mercy. My
Schwanz
has already shrunk an inch thanks to your last story. I’m not sure how much more of your honesty I can take.”
    Emilie sets a hand against his cheek. His skin is soft below the day’s worth of stubble. “Well,” she says, her voice just a notch above a whisper, “I’ve not been acquainted with the other, but I like your face just fine.”
    Max leans into her touch. The softness around his eyes and the curve of his mouth suggests he can’t help himself. “This is where I prove myself to be smarter than young Herr Becker.”
    “It’s not hard, but pray tell, how do you plan on doing that?”
    “By keeping my trousers zipped.”
    There is an easiness in the way she relates to Max that Emilie finds alarming. Easy anger. Easy laughter. Easy companionship. It has been a long time since Emilie has felt these things, and she does not know how to surrender to them. She meets Max’s steady gaze with all the bravery she can muster. “Now, what was it you wanted to show me?”
    “Cologne,” he says.

THE JOURNALIST
    D
amn German men and their cast-iron livers,
Gertrud thinks,
damn them all.
Leonhard included. The more she drinks, the more she talks, and the more she needs to pee. But she’s not the one who needs to talk, it’s Colonel Erdmann, and he’s zipped up tight, laughing at her with his eyes as he eats the last of his pastry.
    “I’m going to the bar,” she says abruptly. Gertrud pushes her plate away and stands up. She’s wobbly, but she steadies herself easily enough by holding on to the back of her chair. Leonhard and the colonel jump to their feet out of courtesy, both startled. “And you’re welcome to come with me.”
    “Where else would I go,
Liebchen
?” Leonhard asks. His tone is soft. Indulgent.
    She can think of a number of ways to answer that question—all of them impudent—but she says none of them. It’s one thing to be charming and pert and amusing in front of the colonel, but she will not be disrespectful to her husband. She won’t shame him. She’s tipsy, not stupid. Not only would it hurt Leonhard terribly—he is a man, after all, and his ego is nothing to toy with—but she would lose all the advantage she has built with Colonel Erdmann over dinner.
    “You will join us, Colonel?” he asks. “I assure you my wife is quite entertaining when she’s good and fully drunk.”
    “Entertaining? Or talkative?” The wry one-sided smirk suggests that the colonel is not as irritated by the prospect as he sounds.
    “They are often one and the same.”
    “In that case I’d be honored.”
    Leonhard tucks Gertrud’s hand beneath his arm. She leans into him, unstable, and he gives her a fond smile, but there is a warning glint in his eyes.
Do not push the colonel too far,
it says.
Play nice. Remember who you’re dealing with.
Their marriage is young, just two years old, but they’ve learned to read each other remarkably well in that time. To speak with the slightest movements. To communicate with little more than a drumming finger or a long stare. It is a rare gift in marriages, one they capitalize on often.
    Leonhard guides them out of the dining room, down the corridor, down the stairs, and onto B-deck. He pauses for a moment outside the toilets when Gertrud squeezes his arm to