Chapter 27 Ingrid
Ingrid
The prospect of seeing her sister leaves Ingrid’s skin as warm as if she were relaxing in the sunshine by Gordon’s pool. She’s
in California for work, true. This time, though, perhaps a little more play.
When she reaches the white brick mansion, both Sowerby and Ada greet her at the door. She scoops up the terrier, who seems
pleased to see her again, then sets him free and looks to her sister.
“Why don’t I see a security guard or a gate around the property?”
Ada frowns. “Due to existing commitments, Mr. Williams can’t begin construction until the end of the year, and security comes
at night. Must you criticize me before you’ve even said hello?”
“I was asking, not criticizing,” Ingrid replies pointedly, but Ada is glancing toward the back door and clearly not paying
attention. Ingrid follows the quick look, her pulse hastening. If Ada is jittery and sensitive, something has happened. “What’s
the matter?”
“Nothing . . . I’m sorry for snapping at you.” An edge of tension remains in her tone, leaving concern lodged in Ingrid’s
chest.
Whatever is troubling her, clearly Ada is not going to say more. Stress due to the upcoming premiere, perhaps. If it were something worrisome, she would tell Ingrid, so Ingrid does her best to let the matter go.
“I brought this for you.”
She reaches into her luggage and pulls out a small pistol that, until now, she kept tucked in her nightstand drawer at home.
When they left Arnhem, Lars had given it to her and taught her how to use it throughout the long, arduous journey to America.
She never needed it.
God willing, Ada won’t either.
When Ingrid left for her first assignment, Lars had suggested she travel with the gun for additional safety. Even a few fellows
in her office had recommended similar means of protection. But she had not wanted to be reminded of the last time she had
carried this gun, so she had left it behind. For her sister’s safety, though, not even the past was enough to make her hesitate,
and she had promptly tucked the weapon into her luggage.
At the sight of the gun, Ada steps back. “For God’s sake, where did you—how did you—?” Then her wary stare transforms into
a frown. “Security isn’t enough, then? Now you think I need one of those?”
“Keep it for my peace of mind. Please.” She offers the gun to Ada, who makes no move to accept it. “You intend to speak out
again about Dietrich, don’t you? Even if I call Hattie and ask her to send the FBI to arrest him the moment he emerges, he
might find a way to get to you first. You said he won’t be predictable, so you’ve got to protect yourself.”
With a frustrated exhale, Ada gingerly accepts the weapon, then the ammunition Ingrid produces next. She listens and reluctantly
practices as Ingrid advises her on how to use it, then carries the gun into the library. Ingrid follows, watching as Ada tucks
it into a decorative cigar box on the mantel. So long as she has it, that’s enough.
When they return to the living room, Ingrid hears the back door open—Gordon coming in from the pool, most likely.
“Is Gordon here? I thought you said he had meetings all day.” Ingrid neither waits for an answer nor listens as Ada stammers something. She’s already on her way to greet him and thank him for allowing her to stay here.
As she goes, she hears a voice—not Gordon’s. A woman’s, bringing Ingrid to an immediate halt.
“Aleida, does the guesthouse have any—?”
The question abruptly stops when the speaker rounds the corner, and Ingrid is face-to-face with Constance de Vos.
“Ingrid?” The incredulous gasp is followed by a sob, then Mother’s arms are around her.
Tears prick Ingrid’s own eyes, so confused and twisted she can’t make sense of them. Relief that Mother wasn’t killed, shock
that she is here, aversion to her touch, fury that the war is now rushing back, overwhelming her, prompting her to pull free
from Mother’s grasp.
The hurt over the rejection is visible on Mother’s face even as her fiercely critical gaze scrapes over Ingrid, absorbing
every inch of her.
“How could you abandon your own mother? Your sister? All for your own selfish pursuits, political beliefs, and him.”
The pressure builds in Ingrid’s temples like it did that evening in 1938 when she brought Lars to dinner after Mother expressed
interest in meeting him. A kind man from a good Dutch family, a military man, a man falling in love with her, and she with
him. Not even Mother could find fault.
Except she did. Of course she did. The disapproving clicks of her tongue, the pitying glances, the dismayed sighs. Darling, I know you think me unreasonable, but in time you will be grateful. I want better for you. This infatuation will
fade, so there’s no use in putting off the inevitable. End it with him.
Mother’s disappointment should no longer cut so deeply. Ingrid is not a girl anymore. She’s a woman, a married, working woman. Yet she cannot subject herself to this again.
As Ada joins them, her face the picture of abject horror, Ingrid gives her sister no time to speak. “I couldn’t stay, Mother.
Not when Lars would have been forced to fight for them. I can’t expect you to understand when you never tried then and certainly
won’t now.”
Mother sighs, as though she too realizes exactly where this is going. Back to their usual arguments. “Darling, we can’t recover
from the war unless we give each other a fair chance.” Her eyes are bright, her voice soft, intensifying the discomfort rippling
through Ingrid’s body. “All I want is my girls. I found Aleida, and you can’t imagine my relief when she told me you were
alive too, and here you are.”
Every nerve inside Ingrid is on the verge of severing. She cannot do this, cannot accept Mother’s entreaty—and she has so
much to say to her sister. Because Ada did not warn Ingrid, did not prepare her, and now Mother is here. The woman whose political
beliefs Ingrid has never trusted, whose favor Ingrid could never earn. The woman who shared a bed with the man who tortured
her own daughter without her knowledge.
“Get out.” The command is low, threatening, then Ingrid’s voice rises as every nerve shatters. “Get out, get out, get out!”
Ada attempts to say something Ingrid fails to hear, but Mother has already stepped back with an unsteady breath.
She hurries out the way she came, through the back door, while Ada stares from her to Ingrid, visibly torn, then rushes after
Mother. When she’s gone, Ingrid slams the door behind her and locks it.
Her sister has just made a choice. She might have stayed with Ingrid and let Constance go. Instead, she walked out.
Ingrid can’t understand why, can’t sort out what to do, whether to apologize and give Mother a chance or to trust this feeling she has always had, the feeling that they cannot, will not ever reconcile.
All she knows are her own shaking hands and shuddering breaths until she hears the door failing to open.
Through the glass, Ingrid watches as Ada realizes it’s locked before she meets Ingrid’s gaze, scowling while her muffled voice comes from the other side.
“Let me in. You can’t lock me out of my own house.”
“Gordon’s house.”
“Ingrid.” Although Ingrid finally unlocks the door, she doesn’t soften her glare as Ada’s defense comes out in a rush. “I’m sorry.
I didn’t mean for this to happen.”
“You didn’t mean to lie to me? Because that feels like a rather deliberate decision.”
“She arrived unexpectedly—and it wasn’t a lie; I just didn’t know how to tell you.”
“You might have tried ‘Mother is here.’” Ingrid’s scowl deepens as she crosses her arms. “Instead you deliberately chose not
to say anything, and you told Mother I was alive.”
“She was upset, worried about you, it just . . . slipped out. No mother deserves to live like that, never knowing what happened
to her daughter.”
“When I’m the daughter in question, that is my decision,” Ingrid retorts. “And you thought I didn’t need to know she would
be staying here too? Or did you intend to talk to me, talk to her, make it all better?”
“She’s the only parent we’ve got, so until we know her position with certainty, we owe it to ourselves and to her to put forth
our best efforts.”
“We don’t owe her a goddamn thing! She’s not the mother you want her to be, Aleida. She never will be.”
Ada winces. But she must know it’s true, even if Constance de Vos is a better mother to Ada than she is to Ingrid. Even so,
at some point fantasy must give way to reality.
Ingrid returns to the foyer and picks up her bags. “I’ll be staying at the Biltmore.”
Ada grabs her forearm. “Don’t, please. Mother is in the guesthouse, and you’re upstairs, so you don’t have to be near one another.” Her voice wavers. “Please don’t leave.”
The request is almost enough to make Ingrid concede. The deafening quiet magnifies their unsteady breaths, both matched as
they once were in a small bedroom in Arnhem. Then Ingrid breaks Ada’s hold and lets the door close behind her.