Charlotte recalled the shooting on the museum steps. The victim and the shooter had worn uniforms from different parties.
After Frau Bernstein was gone, Max and Charlotte stared at one another for a moment. The only sound was the dog's breathing and the clattering of dishes in a distant, highceilinged kitchen. Red and brown figures drew her eye to a painting. The figures had their heads together as if haggling over a small green spot. The signature read Max Liebermann.
Max Liebermann.
"I'm named for him," Max said.
"Is it Berlin?"
"Jewish quarter in Amsterdam."
He approached, stood close to her now, and her longing for him filled the room to the ceiling. Afraid, she pulled back. But the space between them grew warm as his fingers moved over her shoulders. His mouth tasted of anisette.
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