23. Dallas #2
Greta was aghast; Otto never seemed to understand when to keep family conversations private.
“It’s true all right,” Bob said. “He’s a bad egg.”
“You don’t know that,” Betsy said sternly. “Can we be Christian about this, please?”
Bob shook his head. “If I have anything to say in the matter, that whole family will get run out of town. I don’t know why you insist on giving them the benefit of the doubt.”
“Innocent until proven guilty,” Betsy said. “That’s why.” She leaned toward her husband, and Greta watched as she whispered something in his ear.
Bob glared at her and stood up. “I think I’ll get something a little stronger. Anyone want a little tequila?”
No one answered, and he skulked off. The toddler in Lisa’s lap reached his little hand onto his mom’s plate, put his palm flat in the barbecue sauce, and then smeared it all over the skirt of Greta’s dress.
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” Lisa said. She handed her son over to her husband and grabbed a napkin, getting to her feet. “No, your beautiful dress!”
“It’s fine,” Greta said. “It’s my own fault for wearing silk to a pool party.” She laughed as though she found the situation funny, which she did not.
Lisa dipped her napkin in water and handed it to Greta.
“Thank you,” Greta said, standing up as well, “but I’ll go fix myself up.
” She walked away from the table, hoping sweat hadn’t darkened the back of her dress.
She made her way inside, past the baseball enthusiasts, to the ladies’ room.
In the bathroom, she leaned against the gold velvet-flocked wallpaper and closed her eyes, hating everything about this party.
Then she looked in the mirror to assess the damage.
She wiped the thick red sauce off her skirt as best she could.
And then— why not? —she stepped out of her shoes, lifted up the skirt of her dress, and pulled off her sheer stockings, stuffing them in her handbag.
She used a tissue to fix her running eyeliner and to dab the sweat from her hairline and décolletage. She reapplied her lipstick.
She wanted to kill Otto.
Stepping her bare feet back into her shoes, she took a deep breath and opened the bathroom door, walking right into Bob, his glass filled almost to the top with tequila.
“If it makes you feel any better,” he said conspiratorially, “I hate this party too.”
“Not at all,” said Greta, stepping away from him. “I just wish I’d known—”
“If it were up to me,” he said, “and I got a chance to take out a woman like you, with a sexy accent and wearing a dress like that ?” His eyes scanned her from her shoes all the way up to her cleavage, “we’d be drinking Dom and eating raw oysters at the Mansion. You’re too gorgeous for this shit.”
His breath was boozy. Greta took a step back.
“Instead,” he said, “I guess we’ll have to make the best of things. I’ll be admiring you from afar.” He winked and walked away.
Greta wished she’d told him off. Emmi probably would have.
The people at the table had swapped out in the brief time Greta had been gone, and someone else was sitting in her chair. No one, not even Otto, moved to make room for her. She wished Emmi were there with her.
Greta wandered across the yard, the heels of her shoes sinking into the grass.
She walked toward what she thought was a tennis court, but as she got closer she could see it was smaller, and the players were using paddles rather than rackets.
Pickleball! She smiled, sorry she couldn’t send a picture of this scene to Adam.
It was still light out when they left. Otto hummed as he drove, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel.
Greta had taken off her shoes and was rubbing the balls of her feet. “I was dressed for a night at the opera,” she said, “not the circus.”
“I’m sorry about that,” Otto said. “But Troy and Kristy are very good hosts, oder ?”
“They certainly have a high tolerance for mayhem,” Greta said. “I had a hard time hearing anyone over the music, the children were running wild, and there was no silverware.”
“There was no need for silverware.”
Greta turned to him. “You hate eating with your hands.”
“I am in Rome,” he said, looking at himself in the rearview mirror, “doing as the Romans.”
Greta’s stomach grumbled. She felt sorry for herself.
“It would be nice for us to make a party, yes?” said Otto. “In a few weeks? We could use the Holts’ grill.”
“We don’t know how to grill,” Greta said.
“I will learn,” said Otto. “We could host a Bavarian Biergarten party. Oktoberfest in Sommer . Sausages and Kartoffelsalat . Fun, yes?”
Otto did not cook and had never shown any interest in cooking. He had never wanted to invite his colleagues over to their apartment. Greta felt she was losing control of her life.
“It is a nice life to be made here,” he said. “Don’t you agree?”
She supposed it was, for some people.
Emmi had texted that she had just left for her party when they got back from theirs.
Greta got out of her stained dress, took a quick shower, and put on a nightgown.
Then she climbed into bed, getting as close to Otto as she could, draping one arm across his body to get his attention.
It seemed only fair that something good should come out of this otherwise miserable night. She’d shaved her legs after all.
He held her hand but was otherwise still.
“Otto?”
“ Ja? ”
“I’m glad we’re sleeping in the same bed again.”
Otto sighed. “I have Bauchschmerzen ,” he said. “I think I ate too much.”
Greta had barely eaten anything. She rolled away from him, frustrated, and stared up at the ceiling in the dark, missing the noises her apartment made at night, the radiators knocking and the floors creaking.
On the night table, her phone lit up, and she reached over to see she’d gotten a message from Adam.
Hey G! Just saying hi again. Haven’t heard from u I’m heading to NYC soon but want you to know yr apt is in great hands. Lucy is awesome. Hope you’re having fun in TX.
Greta hated how bitter she felt. Was he sleeping with Lucy? Bettina had certainly thought so. Poor Mason , she thought, locked up in his biosphere, having no idea.
Greta ignored Adam’s text.
She wished she could sleep, but she was too agitated.
She had plenty of reasons to be awake and restless.
Emmi was at a party with kids she didn’t know and was leaving Dallas in only two days.
Her mother was gallivanting around New York City with a crush on a bad boy.
And then there was the issue of the Vermeer.
If only she could know for sure, if only she could do a bit of digging herself.
What she needed, what she really wanted…
She nudged Otto. “ Schl?fst du schon? ”
“I’m awake,” he said groggily.
“I was thinking,” she said, “I’d really like to go to New York with Emmi.”
He rubbed his face. “Hmmm.”
She sat up. “I could help her get settled, Otto. And while I’m there, I’ll check on my mom. Win-win,” she added. “Maybe you’d like to go with me?”
“I can’t go anywhere,” he said, “but I think it’s eine gute Idee. You should go.”
“It will be expensive,” she said.
“Yes, of course,” he said, and yawned, “New York is always teuer . But we can manage. And you will have big fun.”
The idea of a trip to New York was giving Greta butterflies, and she felt too energized to sleep. She kissed Otto on the cheek, got out of bed, and went to the kitchen to get her laptop, hoping there was still an open seat on Emmi’s flight.