Willem
WILLEM LAID DOWN the menu and looked at his watch.
“Are you ready to order?” the waitress asked, pushing her flaxen hair behind an ear with creepily long fingers—long fingers like Louisa’s. He self-consciously dropped his own hands out of sight under the table.
“Not yet. I’m waiting for someone.”
“No problem, sir.”
Anneliese might have forgotten their date or changed her mind. Maybe she was simply running late. He took out his phone, stared at it for a few moments, and shoved it back into his pocket. Calling might make him come across as anxious.
Laughter and clapping erupted at a long table in the back. It was a family dinner, judging by the ages, ranging from a baby to an elderly man in a wheelchair.
Five more minutes. If Anneliese didn’t show up or phone by eight thirty, he would leave.
Black-and-white photos of Sophia Loren hung on the walls. Candles flickered in glass holders. The decor was romantic without being formal. The restaurant was perfect for a first date—if she showed up.
At one minute past the deadline, Anneliese walked through the door, and their eyes met. He couldn’t move, or even breathe. The din of the restaurant died. She drifted toward him in a thin white blouse over black velvet palazzo pants.
He rose to his feet and pulled out a chair.
“Sorry I’m late.”
“Apology accepted,” he said, willing to forgive her anything now that she was here.
She gave him a shy smile. “I drank too much last night.”
“It was a party.”
“I insulted your profession.”
“No offense taken.”
She sat down, and they ordered dinner and a bottle of Italian red.
The conversation wound around safe subjects. She was vegetarian—not on moral or environmental grounds, but because she disliked the taste of meat. He craved a good steak once or twice a week. They both liked art-house films and classic rock. Her dark eyes widened and narrowed as she spoke, like punctuation marks. Her left front tooth had a slightly jagged edge.
Halfway through their second bottle, the infant at the table in the back started screaming. A woman jumped up, clapped the baby over her shoulder, and jogged toward the restroom. A face at the big table caught Willem’s eye: Dr. Jeanette Bruin. Willem wanted to sink through his chair, but he gave a polite nod and cursed to himself. This was the family reunion she had mentioned.
“See someone you know?” Anneliese asked.
“An acquaintance.”
He recalled their evening together after the conference had ended. If only he had left it at drinks in the hotel bar or dinner at the Indonesian restaurant. He shouldn’t have gone back to her room and raised her expectations. She was a sensitive, intelligent woman, and he had wounded her, his honesty too late, the timing brutal. The least he could have done was have dinner with her this week and parted as respected colleagues.
Over tiramisu and coffee, Anneliese giggled and laid down her spoon. “I’ve drunk too much again.”
She must know he was smitten; he felt transparent. “It was excellent wine,” he said.
“There’s something I want to ask you.”
He smiled. “Anything.”
“Was Louisa Veldkamp, the pianist, your mother?”
His smile slipped. No one had asked him the question in years. “Yes, she was.”
“Did they ever find her?”
“No, her body was swept out to sea.”
“I’m sorry.” She twisted the corner of her napkin. “My first piano book was Veldkamp’s Piano for Beginners, Level 1. I completed all the lessons through level twelve.”
“Do you still play?”
“No. Not in years.”
“And now you’re a beginner writer,” he said, remembering their conversation at Katja’s party.
“Yes, but writing is harder work than I ever imagined. I might give it up.”
He laughed.
“Are you and Katja close?” Anneliese asked.
“Not especially.”
“But she’s married to your father.”
“That’s true.”
She looked at him with dark, unblinking eyes.
“Is there something you want to know about Katja?” he asked.
“She’s a wonderful writer. I want to know everything.”
He laughed. “I’ll answer three questions.”
Anneliese chewed on her lip. “In the workshop, she said a writer needs a trusted first reader. Who is hers?”
“Hendrik, I guess. She dedicated The Blue Bridge to him, and she always thanks him for his support in the acknowledgments at the back of her novels.” Hendrik believed in and encouraged Katja, maybe the reason she married him. Of course, the Veldkamp money may have entered the equation too.
Anneliese pondered for a few moments. “Does she have any children?”
He fell silent, recalling Anneliese’s grilling of Katja’s old friend from her university days. Privacy was important to the family, not just to Katja. He felt himself close up.
“No,” he said at last.
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. You’ll have to ask her.”
“Since you didn’t answer my last question, I get another one.”
“But I did answer. Now it’s my turn.”
She grinned. “That’s fair.”
“Tell me about your childhood.”
“There’s nothing much to tell. I grew up in a village in Drenthe. Neighbors looked out for one another. Kids walked to school, even the younger ones. There was a forest to explore. Clean air. Plenty of kids to play with. Soccer teams. Horseback riding.”
“Sounds idyllic.”
Anneliese smiled, the candlelight glinting off the front tooth with the jagged edge.
Just then, Willem saw the diners at the big table stand up and move toward the entrance—except for one. He swore under his breath as Jeanette weaved unsteadily around the tables toward him. In his memory, she was an attractive woman with short blonde hair and a lush figure, but tonight she looked untidy and middle-aged.
She loomed drunkenly over them, her thighs pressing against the edge of the table.
“Hello, Willem. What a coincidence,” she said, her voice slurred. Her gold choker fit snugly into the folds of her neck and her dress strained across her breasts and hips.
“Was the family reunion a success?” he asked.
“Yes, thank you for recommending the restaurant.”
“I did?”
“Yes, in the hotel bar. That was a lovely night. Too bad about the next morning. No hard feelings. Eh?”
Willem forced a smile.
“Who’s your little friend?” Jeanette asked, her condescending tone reminding him of Louisa.
“Anneliese, meet Jeanette Bruin. Jeanette is a psychotherapist in London.”
“It’s Dr. Bruin. And what do you do, honey?” Jeanette asked.
“I’m a novelist.”
Willem straightened up.
“You look too young to be a novelist,” Jeanette said.
“You sound like my mother. She says anyone under thirty looks like a teenager.”
Jeanette’s face reddened.
Willem was almost amused—but not quite—by the women’s jabs at each other. He glanced toward the entrance, hoping Jeanette’s family would come to the rescue, and was relieved to see the woman with the baby, waving.
“Jeanette, a woman’s trying to get your attention.”
She turned. “My sister. I have to go. Willem, call me.”
“I will,” he said, so she could save face.
As soon as she departed, the waitress approached and announced the kitchen was closing. Willem paid the bill, and they walked outside into the cool night air.
“Why did you say you were a novelist?” Willem asked.
“She was so full of herself. How do you know her?”
“We met at a mental health care conference.”
“Are you two … together?”
“No.”
“That’s my bicycle,” Anneliese said, pointing to a rusty heap with a warped basket on the front.
“I’ll ride with you.”
“You don’t have to. My apartment is just on the other side of the Rijnstraat.”
“I want to make sure you get home safely.”
Willem wondered if he should kiss her or not, whether she would invite him inside, and what might happen if she did. He thought of Jeanette and their drunken love-making, the tumble of limbs and soft flesh—satisfying a physical need, but little more. He didn’t want it to be like that with Anneliese.
Her street was lined with acacia trees. The old apartment buildings had tiny windows, arched doorways, and geometric architectural elements. After she locked her bicycle, he walked her to the front door, where they stood staring at each other for a few moments. The urgency between them was tangible. His heart pounded. Just when he leaned forward to kiss her, she thanked him for dinner, stepped over the threshold, and closed the door.
He gaped at the solid-looking hardwood door a few inches from his face. Six tiny windows at the top and a vent at the bottom. Behind it would be a steep staircase rising to the upper floors. He had seen dozens of apartments in buildings like this one. Was Anneliese jealous of Jeanette? Did she feel insecure because she didn’t have letters after her name?
He retreated to the sidewalk, where he peered up at the building and waited. A few seconds later, a window on the third floor lit up.
He cycled along the Churchilllaan, brooding over Jeanette Bruin. She didn’t handle rejection well, and he was partly to blame. He would call her when she was back in London, and apologize.
He cycled past the darkened sports complex and stopped at the traffic light that was blinking yellow.
His thoughts turned to Anneliese’s idyllic childhood in a village with ordinary, middle-class parents. The picture she had painted was too rosy, or maybe he was projecting, because his own childhood had ended in a nightmare. Then it came to him. Anneliese hadn’t mentioned the brother who had killed himself while under a psychiatrist’s care. She had a secret. In his experience, most people did.
His phone vibrated in his pocket. Not a patient at this hour, he hoped, but he couldn’t answer fast enough when he saw the caller ID.
“Jurriaan? Are you okay?”
“The window,” he sobbed.
“What about it?”
“They broke it.”
“I’ll be there in ten.”