Read Online Pictures of the Past by Deby Eisenberg - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Deby Eisenberg
Tags: Fiction, Historical
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once they were led past the maître d’s stand in a dimly lit alcove, it opened into the most elegantly appointed space, with an adjacent sunroom of glass panes and wrought iron moldings.
He was greeted with a strong hand patting the top of his shoulder in a friendly gesture. “Hello, young Mr. Woodmere.” He recognized immediately his father’s friend and colleague, Emanuel Berger. With his thick German accent, he was exactly as his father had described, not tall, perhaps five feet eight, and with a full build that might have seemed plump, if not contained by the perfect fit of a finely tailored suit, which gave him a distinguished appearance. He had a broad moustache and thick hair, both black, with graying strands. His face had a friendly character, handsome, but with the lines of the trials of life.
Taylor had taken time to prepare himself to address each man at the conference with an individual comment. But just as he was beginning to inquire about the business climate in Berlin, Emanuel’s attention shifted away from Taylor. Now Emanuel held out his hand to a young lady who had just entered the room. Perhaps because of his own movements or perhaps alerted by the sweet floral hints of her perfume, Emanuel could see immediately that Taylor’s attention was diverted, as well. Beneath the shade of his moustache, Emanuel’s broad smile was evident. He was used to this reaction. “And may I introduce to you my daughter, Sarah.”
Taylor felt as if someone had pulled on his heart, as if he were frozen, mesmerized by her beautiful face, paralyzed by the brilliance of her blond hair, which was embellished by a topaz rhinestone comb, lifting one side of her coiffure in a stylish curl to reveal a small, perfect ear.
“Sarah, I would like you to meet Mr. Taylor Woodmere, from Chicago.”
She held out her hand to him, but he did not see it. He could only focus on the shimmering blue pools of her eyes. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Woodmere. I am Sarah Berger.” When he did not respond, she said, “I apologize. Is my English perhaps unintelligible?”
He was shaken from his trance by the soft, pleasing touch of her hand. “Oh no, my God, you…I mean your English…is perfect.” Taking her hand without moving his gaze from her eyes, he repeated, “Yes, perfect.”
Emanuel, sensing he had become invisible, laughed, and seamlessly moved to another circle of colleagues.
“I am glad you think it is perfect,” Sarah said. “At home we have an English tutor…for Papa and Mama and me. Father has insisted on that since I was twelve years old. He wants us to be able to travel to England and feel as at home as we do in France, because we know French. Here my family has not just business associates, but friends and relatives, and so we come often.”
He was compelled to extend this brief introduction into a lengthy conversation and so a barrage of topics sped through his brain, but in an unbelievably incoherent pattern, leaving him embarrassed and speechless for perhaps the first time in his life. He, who had been garrulous even as a toddler and had developed into a master conversationalist, a decorated debater in college, was momentarily incapable of formulating a single sentence that might initiate even the most mundane response about the fair weather.
It was Emanuel Berger, returning to them, who finally broke through Taylor’s dreamlike fugue to introduce him to other colleagues, and Sarah excused herself to allow her father to be the focus once more.
“Mr. Woodmere,” he said, approaching with two other distinguished gentlemen.
But Taylor, after a brief frown, an involuntary reaction to Sarah’s quick departure, responded respectfully, “Please, Herr Berger, I would be most comfortable as Taylor.”
“Oh, yes—that casual, American style surfaces already.”
“Perhaps that—but I will need everyone to see me as an individual and judge, themselves, if I am a worthy substitute for my father and
He was greeted with a strong hand patting the top of his shoulder in a friendly gesture. “Hello, young Mr. Woodmere.” He recognized immediately his father’s friend and colleague, Emanuel Berger. With his thick German accent, he was exactly as his father had described, not tall, perhaps five feet eight, and with a full build that might have seemed plump, if not contained by the perfect fit of a finely tailored suit, which gave him a distinguished appearance. He had a broad moustache and thick hair, both black, with graying strands. His face had a friendly character, handsome, but with the lines of the trials of life.
Taylor had taken time to prepare himself to address each man at the conference with an individual comment. But just as he was beginning to inquire about the business climate in Berlin, Emanuel’s attention shifted away from Taylor. Now Emanuel held out his hand to a young lady who had just entered the room. Perhaps because of his own movements or perhaps alerted by the sweet floral hints of her perfume, Emanuel could see immediately that Taylor’s attention was diverted, as well. Beneath the shade of his moustache, Emanuel’s broad smile was evident. He was used to this reaction. “And may I introduce to you my daughter, Sarah.”
Taylor felt as if someone had pulled on his heart, as if he were frozen, mesmerized by her beautiful face, paralyzed by the brilliance of her blond hair, which was embellished by a topaz rhinestone comb, lifting one side of her coiffure in a stylish curl to reveal a small, perfect ear.
“Sarah, I would like you to meet Mr. Taylor Woodmere, from Chicago.”
She held out her hand to him, but he did not see it. He could only focus on the shimmering blue pools of her eyes. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Woodmere. I am Sarah Berger.” When he did not respond, she said, “I apologize. Is my English perhaps unintelligible?”
He was shaken from his trance by the soft, pleasing touch of her hand. “Oh no, my God, you…I mean your English…is perfect.” Taking her hand without moving his gaze from her eyes, he repeated, “Yes, perfect.”
Emanuel, sensing he had become invisible, laughed, and seamlessly moved to another circle of colleagues.
“I am glad you think it is perfect,” Sarah said. “At home we have an English tutor…for Papa and Mama and me. Father has insisted on that since I was twelve years old. He wants us to be able to travel to England and feel as at home as we do in France, because we know French. Here my family has not just business associates, but friends and relatives, and so we come often.”
He was compelled to extend this brief introduction into a lengthy conversation and so a barrage of topics sped through his brain, but in an unbelievably incoherent pattern, leaving him embarrassed and speechless for perhaps the first time in his life. He, who had been garrulous even as a toddler and had developed into a master conversationalist, a decorated debater in college, was momentarily incapable of formulating a single sentence that might initiate even the most mundane response about the fair weather.
It was Emanuel Berger, returning to them, who finally broke through Taylor’s dreamlike fugue to introduce him to other colleagues, and Sarah excused herself to allow her father to be the focus once more.
“Mr. Woodmere,” he said, approaching with two other distinguished gentlemen.
But Taylor, after a brief frown, an involuntary reaction to Sarah’s quick departure, responded respectfully, “Please, Herr Berger, I would be most comfortable as Taylor.”
“Oh, yes—that casual, American style surfaces already.”
“Perhaps that—but I will need everyone to see me as an individual and judge, themselves, if I am a worthy substitute for my father and
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