Chapter 49 Ingrid
Ingrid
The war crimes case will be moving forward. This morning, Ingrid spoke with Hattie, who confirmed that the FBI is gathering
evidence and said that Mother and Dietrich will likely be taken back to Europe for trial. This is what she always wanted out
of a career in government: the opportunity to bring justice.
An opportunity she thought she was pursuing all along.
In a booth at Chasen’s, a deep ache settles in Ingrid’s chest as she looks to Lars, then Vince, Ada, and Gordon while the
five enjoy lobster Newburg, prime rib, and breaded veal cutlets. Some of these brilliantly talented people might never work
in film again, in part thanks to her.
She can still see Minnie Musgrave’s recent headline: “The Huntress of Hollywood Surrenders Her Pitchfork.” An article praising
Ingrid and Ada for combining forces to bring a Nazi war criminal to justice, yes, but that doesn’t change the moniker Mrs.
Musgrave so gleefully attached to her.
Following dinner, they return to Gordon’s, where the men retire to the living room, drinks in hand, followed by Sowerby—never one to be left out. Meanwhile, Ada leads Ingrid to the library. There, the little robin rests atop Ada’s copy of The Secret Garden.
She pulls the negatives from the book, tucks them into an envelope, and offers them to Ingrid. “Will you give these to Hattie?”
“You’re certain you want to testify, should it come to that?”
She nods and presses a hand to her chest, her next breath unsteady even as her jaw remains resolutely set. “How many women
received this same brand and didn’t live to tell of it? I’ve got to do it. For myself and for them.”
Ingrid picks up the tattered copy of The Secret Garden.
How Ada adored this story. How often Ingrid teased her, asking, Are you reading that silly book again?
To which Ada’s cheeky reply was usually, No one likes boring old political tomes except you.
Ingrid smiles at the memories and opens the book.
“Can I convince you to read it this time?”
She chuckles. “I might consider it.”
This novel is Ada’s world, one of fairy tales and magic. So different from her own. Yet if Ada belongs here, perhaps Ingrid
does too. Where one belongs, so does the other.
“About the case . . . these things take quite a while, so I can’t say with certainty when anything more will happen.” She
closes the book. “The trial might not yield the results we want. Or, at the very least, the results might be unsatisfactory.”
“I know,” Ada says quietly. She picks up the robin figurine—no longer bugged, simply a decorative piece—and brushes a finger
over its wing, then she sets it on the shelf. Ingrid recognizes this look from when they were girls, when Ada lost herself
in a story or piece of music or dance, in the emotions the piece evoked.
“I never heard what happened to her. Madame Bellamy. She might have survived, or she might have been caught again.” Ada’s next breath trembles before she looks to Ingrid.
“We’ve got to try our best for the sake of every victim who never received the justice they deserved. Even if our best is not enough.”
If only Ingrid could assure Ada that it would be enough. If only one could profess with complete certainty that the law would
hold true, justice would be achieved, the guilty would pay for every crime, and every victim would be honored. Yet in no world
can one find complete certainty. One can only cling to the hope that justice will prevail, whether by magic or by law.
Perhaps their two worlds aren’t so different, after all.
They will try their best. Except Ingrid’s best can’t give her more power, more ability to make a difference. Justice might
fail.
But they will try, then she will move forward, this time with both her sister and her husband by her side. Then, wherever
careers and life take them, maybe it won’t be in accordance with Ingrid’s carefully laid plans. And maybe that will be all
right.
Later that evening, in Gordon’s guest room, Ingrid adjusts the pillows propped against the headboard and finishes her chamomile
tea without taking her eyes off the pages illuminated by the lamplight’s soft glow. The bed creaks as Lars rolls over to face
her.
“I hope you’re enjoying your book more than I’m enjoying my attempts to sleep with your light on,” he teases, then he props
himself up to peer at the contents. “You’re reading fiction? Willingly?”
“You’re as irritating as Aleida,” she says indignantly, to which he chuckles.
On Ada’s insistence, she took The Secret Garden to bed with her, accompanied by strict instructions not to bend the pages.
Never mind that it’s been read countless times and spirited from one continent to another.
The pages are already in pitiful condition.
Still, Ingrid has decided to read a little, just to humor Ada in the morning when she will inevitably ask after Ingrid’s progress.
“After I finish this chapter, I’ll turn off the lamp,” she says.
He mumbles in agreement before rolling over. Away from her. Away from the light, really, the rational part of herself clarifies.
Except it wasn’t so long ago that their nights were spent back-to-back with empty space stretching between them. Barely a
word or touch, neither breaching the invisible barrier keeping them apart. She twirls the wedding ring on her finger and swallows
the sudden lump in her throat.
“Lars?” She waits until he gives a little grunt of acknowledgment. “We’re all right, aren’t we?”
This time he sits up and looks at her for a long moment. “We’re all right, schatje,” he agrees softly.
She brushes her fingers through the thick blond locks and over the fine features that captured her heart years ago and hold
it to this day. Then he draws her nearer until his lips find hers, and she settles into the comfort of every truth, every
reassurance. He is the boy who once brought warmth to her cheeks, now the man who brings peace to her soul. They are all right.
When he settles again, he takes her hand, warm and secure as she reads the rest of her chapter. Once finished, she glances
at Lars—eyes closed, his hand still in hers. If not asleep, convincingly faking. In which case he certainly won’t mind if
she reads a little longer.