Chapter 15 INGA
I told myself I wouldn't care if he never came back. That I'd be fine.
That I didn't need him. That everything he had done—the food, the blankets, the clothes—had been a trick, a lure, a wolf's invitation dressed in kindness.
But the truth? The ugly, aching truth? When I opened that door and found Gideon standing there with a bouquet of flowers clenched awkwardly in his big hands, my heart nearly folded in on itself.
He came back. He apologized. Suddenly, something bright—something I thought had died inside me years ago—fluttered weakly to life. It terrified me.
I took the flowers because I didn't know what else to do with my hands.
It had been so long since I had seen flowers, real flowers that go into a vase.
Mother always had flowers around the house, well, before…
every Sunday, she would go to the flower shop and buy bouquets.
Some she would take to my grandma, some for our house.
She had always bought the most expensive, exotic ones, but they didn't compare to what Gideon brought me.
They were beautiful in the way only rare, impossible things are beautiful: colorful, fragile, smelling faintly like hope.
I put them in an old tin with water I'd fetched that morning, lugging the bucket over broken stairs and rubble like I'd done a thousand times before.
Gideon watched me closely, making me feel like every little thing I did mattered, which in turn made me tremble, because it had been so long since someone had watched me in a protective way.
For some reason, I didn't want him to see how hard life had been. But he saw it anyway. He always seemed to see too much. When I finally turned back to him, I expected awkward silence or some forced politeness.
Instead, he held out his hand and said, "Come with me?"
Like it was simple.
It wasn't.
But God, I wanted it to be.
So, I took his hand and allowed myself to be led instead of doing the leading. We walked a few blocks back to where the city was rebuilding itself, where life was beginning to restart as if the war had never happened. He took me to a restaurant. A real restaurant.
I'd walked past it before, its windows fogged with warmth, with life, with everything the ruins around it didn't have.
GIs brought their German girlfriends here.
Sometimes, French or English soldiers, too.
Women in pretty dresses, in brand-new nylons, laughing as if the world wasn't broken at the edges. I had never imagined stepping inside.
My breath caught the moment Gideon opened the door for me, and I was hit with the warmth and light. The sound of clinking glasses, the light tinkle of laughter. My gaze flicked over the white tablecloths and thick candles.
The aroma of food mingled with the smell of perfume and cologne. Another thing I hadn't encountered in years.
The food smelled so rich it made my head spin; so much, I swayed. Gideon's hand was instantly at my back, steady and gentle. "You okay?"
I nodded too fast. "Just… overwhelmed."
He pulled out a chair for me like a gentleman from a storybook.
I felt more out of place than I ever had in my life.
Memories of going to these kinds of places rushed me.
Inga, don't spill the juice. Inga, sit straight.
Inga, don't grab the bread. My mother's phantom voice was in my head, along with very distorted images of her and Father.
It had been so long, I barely remembered what they looked like.
Thankfully, the server appeared. His raised eyebrows were enough to dispel my trip down memory lane.
I didn't blame him. Gideon and I, we looked wrong together.
Me, in my patched dress and scuffed shoes.
Gideon, in his clean civilian clothes that still couldn't hide the way he carried himself like a soldier.
"Wine?" the server asked.
My eyes widened. I shook my head so hard my curls tugged at the pins. "No… water. Just water. Please."
"Still or sparkling?" he asked.
I didn't even know sparkling water still existed. "Still," I whispered.
Gideon smiled at me, warm, reassuring. He ordered a beer for himself.
When the server brought menus, I froze again. The prices—God. The cheapest thing was already an unthinkable amount. Enough to feed Klaus and Axel for a week.
"Gideon," I hissed under my breath. "This costs a fortune."
He shrugged easily. "Don't worry about it."
"I am worrying."
He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. "Then don't. Please. Let me do this for you."
The way he said it… softly, almost pleading… I felt my resistance wavering. After a short internal debate, I pointed to the simplest dish. "I'll have this."
Gideon shook his head and took the menu gently from my hands. "No. What's your favorite?"
"I don't have favorites," I lied.
He tilted his head, and I couldn't help it. Every time my parents took me to a restaurant, I had the same thing: "Wiener Schnitzel with pommes frites," I breathed.
Gideon smiled, "I have no idea what that is, but judging by your expression, it must be delicious. I'll have the same."
The tension eased out of my shoulders like steam. The waiter returned with our drink orders, took our food requests, and brought a basket filled with bread rolls. When Gideon lifted the napkin thrown over the basket, I nearly cried.
Real rolls with a hard crust. I could already taste how soft and yeasty it would be on the inside. The smell hit me, just like the revelation that they were still warm.
And butter.
Actual butter.
I tore one open, and inhaled—the yeasty, warm, sweetness. My vision blurred. I tried to hide how the first bite made me moan softly, but Gideon heard it.
He laughed quietly. "Feels good, doesn't it?"
I nodded helplessly.
He took a bite himself and blinked. "Damn. This is good."
"You've never had German bread before?" I asked, shocked.
"Nope. We've got white bread back home. Soft as pillows but no real flavor. This?" He gestured with the half-eaten roll. "This is something else."
We both laughed, and just like that, the heaviness lifted. And we began to talk. He asked about my childhood.
"It was good," I said slowly. "Before the war. Before everything changed. My father was an architect. He refused to work for… for the people in power. So he lost his job. We lost our home."
Gideon listened—really listened—not with pity, but with something like interest. "I didn't know any German refused the Reich."
I nodded, "Not many dared, but not everyone voted for him."
"Father was drafted quickly," I added. "At first, there were postcards, Reichenberg, Karlsbad, Prague…
all these pretty places he swore he'd take us someday.
Then he was wounded and came home for a few weeks.
" I feel a sad smile creep over my lips at the memory of it.
"That was when Klaus was conceived. After that, the cards came from farther east…
Kraków, Warsaw, Minsk. And then nothing. They just stopped."
"I'm sorry," he said softly.
I nodded once. Then, mercifully, he shifted the topic. "Montana," he said, answering an earlier question. "The land of big skies and wide-open spaces. There are cattle everywhere. You ever been chased by a cow?"
I blinked. I was a city brat. Through and through.
"No?" He laughed. "You're lucky. They're mean as hell."
I burst out laughing, more born from gladness to stop talking about my family than real amusement, but it lightened the atmosphere enough so I could enjoy myself again.
He told me about his family ranch. About his father, who could lasso anything that moved.
His mother, who made pies so good he once ate three of them and threw up behind the barn.
His sister, who tried to ride a horse backward at age five because it looked easier that way. "
I laughed so hard my sides hurt. Earning me a stern glance from a woman across from me. I didn't care. I hadn't laughed like that in years.
Maybe ever.
When the food came—piping hot pommes frites and a large Wiener Schnitzel, so large, it didn't fully fit on the plate. I felt dizzy again. Gideon pointed at the pommes frites.
"French fries," he drew his brows together as if he had made the discovery of the year, and I laughed.
"We call it pommes for short," I explained, tapping my finger against one to gauge how hot it was.
"And this?" He pointed at the breaded, fried meat.
"Could be anything," I winked, "It's supposed to be veal, but…" I shrugged conspiratorially, "sometimes, it's made from pork, beef, chicken…" I left it dangling there, watching him grin.
He moved his knife back and forward, "You almost had me." He cut off a piece and ate it. "Definitely veal," he proclaimed.
I snickered, then sobered and took my first bite of a real Schnitzel in years. I closed my eyes and allowed the oily breadcrumbs to dissolve in my mouth. I moaned when I started to chew. "So good."
"Good." Gideon watched me intently with a strange expression on his face that I couldn't place; it looked almost pained.
"What?" I asked with my mouth full, forgetting my manners.
"You," his eyes darkened, "I could watch you for days."
Heat rose into my cheeks, and I looked down. "Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't be too nice to me."
He reached across the table and placed his thumb underneath my chin, "You deserve nice. Hell, you deserve more than nice, Inga. Let me help you."
With the taste of veal in my mouth, and the aroma of yeasty bread in the warm air, it was all too easy to return his gaze, to lower my defenses. And suddenly I wanted this. I wanted someone to take care of me. To be nice to me.
"Okay."
"Okay?" He looked shocked.
I couldn't help but laugh. "Okay. You may be nice to me."
"Alright." As if to make sure I didn't rescind, he focused on his food, cut another bite, and placed it in his mouth. God, this man was actually sexy eating. My blush deepened. I had no idea where that thought came from. It seemed that by lowering my defenses, I had opened the floodgates.
Our conversation slowed as the food soothed something deep inside me, hunger, yes, but something spiritual too. An ache I hadn't known I carried until it began to fade.
And all the while, Gideon watched me, as if seeing me happy made him happy too.
Our lunch was topped off with a slice of real cheesecake, and this time, Gideon openly admitted that this was the best cheesecake he'd ever had. I couldn't help it, but I chuckled, "Maybe one day I'll make you some cheesecake. One that will leave this one in the dust."
He finished what was left of mine, wiped his mouth with a napkin, leaned back, and shocked both of us by saying, "Darlin', even if it is only half as good as this one, I'll marry you."