Free Shadows Over Paradise by Isabel Wolff Page A

could ever take away.”
    Klara’s flat occupied the upper floor of the barn. It had a high, raftered ceiling with skylights and a galley kitchen.
    Klara put the bowl on the counter, then began to rinse the fruit and vegetables. I was enjoying being with her but wondered whether she was ever going to sit down and start the interview.
    “I used to live in the farmhouse,” she was saying. “I moved out after my husband died so that Henry and Beth could have it. But this flat suits me quite well. My bedroom and bathroom are downstairs, and this is my living and dining area.”
    “It’s wonderfully light.” A floor-to-ceiling unit was crammedwith books; I peered at the shelves. There were orange-and-green Penguin Classics, a complete set of Dickens in maroon leather bindings, and novels by Daphne du Maurier, Jane Austen, Georgette Heyer and the Brontës. There were some Dutch titles
—Max Havelaar
was one I vaguely recognized—and several biographies. “You read a lot, Klara.”
    “I do. And I’m lucky in that my eyesight’s still good—
afkloppen
. Touch wood.” She rapped on a cupboard and then untied her apron. “I’d much rather read than watch TV, though I do have a small television in my bedroom.”
    On the bottom shelf were a couple of dozen Virago Modern Classics. “You like Elizabeth Taylor,” I said. “She’s my favorite writer in the world.”
    “Mine too,” Klara responded warmly. “My dearest friend, Jane, was a terrific reader, and she introduced me to her books. I used to adore
Sleeping Beauty
, but now that I’m old, it’s
Mrs. Palfrey at the Claremont
.”
    “I love that one too,” I said, feeling sad for Klara that her best friend had died.
    “Please excuse the clutter,” she said, changing the subject.
    “I hadn’t noticed. But it’s a lovely flat. And you can see the sea.” Now I glanced at the wooden dresser; on it were rows of blue-and-white china plates decorated with flowers, peacocks, and boats. “Is that Delft?”
    Klara lifted up the kettle. “It is. It’s from my grandparents’ home.”
    “Which was where?”
    “In Rotterdam, which is where I was born—I’m a Rotterdammer.” She filled the kettle. “Coffee?”
    “I’d love some. In fact I need some—I’m incredibly tired.”
    Klara studied my face. “Didn’t you sleep well, my dear?”
    “Not really, no. I … was just excited from the trip,” I lied.
    “I hope it’s not the bed.”
    “Oh, the bed’s very comfortable, Klara; but I never sleep well, wherever I am. My internal alarm goes off at an unspeakable hour.”
    A look of sympathy crossed Klara’s face. “What a nuisance. So what do you do when that happens? Read?”
    “Yes, sometimes, or listen to the radio. Usually I get up and work.”
    “Well, I’m sorry you have that problem. I shall pick some valerian for you and dry it; it helps.”
    “Thank you. That’s kind.” I felt a little flustered by Klara’s concern.
    She opened the fridge, took out a Victoria sponge, and put it on the kitchen counter. “You’ll have some cake.” I realized that this wasn’t so much an invitation as a command.
    “Yes, please—just a small piece.”
    “It needs a little caster sugar on the top.” She sprinkled some on, then got a knife out of the drawer.
    “It looks delicious. May I look at your pictures, Klara?”
    She glanced up from her cake cutting. “Of course.”
    Arrayed on the sideboard were photos of Klara with her husband, and of Henry and Vincent. I stared at them avidly. I always love being with clients in their homes—it gives me a strong sense of who they are before we even begin the interviews. Then, once they start to talk, I feel as though I’m right inside their head; plunged into their thoughts and memories. It’s as close as I can get to being someone else.
    Amongst the snaps were some formal portraits in silverframes. It wasn’t hard to guess who the people in these ones were—Klara’s parents on their wedding day;