Kris scanned the floor of the bookstore that was a London landmark, the rows of books, and the center table where Trevor Allen sat with copies of the book he had co-authored with CB Ross. The line was backed out the door in spite of the cold weather. They had made the Christmas holiday launch.
SEVEN DAYS, an inside look at the first Gulf War, from someone who had been embedded with the military, ate, slept, and moved with them, with Cate's inimitable style of story-telling that took readers into the lives of those who were there, along with a searing look at decisions that were made through the eyes of the main character.
The collaboration with Trevor had been one of those rare moments in life, an opportunity for someone who ironically had served with coalition forces during that time and had experienced many of those same moments.
The book was on the bestseller lists on presale numbers even before it was released, then launched in New York two weeks before. Several signings had been set up, coordinated through their New York publicist. Trevor had returned just in time for the launch in the UK and Europe.
“The van just arrived,” Jewel announced, her face flushed as she reached Kris.
“They'll bring more books in straight away.”
Just one of the glitches that sometimes went with a book-signing, those behind-the-scenes details that sometimes fell through the cracks. This time it was a delayed delivery from the distributor. But in that unflappable way he had, that reminded her so much of Cate, Trevor had soldiered on, chatting with people who had come to buy that last release from a favorite author, deftly handling questions about the collaboration, listening to customers’ stories about a son, a daughter, a husband, or brother who had served during that time, and others who still served.
The investigation into Cate's death had been closed two months earlier, and Diana Jodion was hard at work on the final restoration of the tapestry. Negotiations for a book about the search for the Raveneau Tapestry, had just finished. It was on the preliminary schedule for the following year. That would keep Kris busy.
She had lived out of a hotel for the first few months, then rented a flat in Chelsea. It made it easier for those trips over to see Diana at the university, and then over to France.
She had gone over last fall to visit Albert and Valentine. It was apple season, and she had helped Valentine at the roadside stand, selling apples and some of her apple pastries. Her website was doing well, and a market in Arras, along with three bakeries, had committed to carry her apple products.
Those trips to the French countryside had filled the weekends when she wasn't working overtime or heading off to one of the book fairs to promote Cate's book. She'd needed that, to lose herself in the countryside, to heal, Albert called it, even though the cast was off and her arm had healed a long time ago,leaving only a hairline scar where they took out the pin a few weeks earlier.
She had returned to the farmhouse, and then walked through the orchards, trying to understand who Micheleine was, what had it taken for a young girl to join the Resistance and then go off to fight a brutal enemy.
Like so many during the war, she had simply disappeared, a number among so many numbers of casualties. But her impact had been enormous. Albert was the last connection to her, someone who had known her during that time.
“She was like most young people,” he told her as they had walked together through the orchards on another trip, the apple crop finally in, red and gold leaves drifting down around them.
“Idealistic, passionate, in the beginning. Later, after she had seen and done some of those things, the last time...I noticed a change in her,” he spoke, then stopped to remember, pulling those memories out of decades past.
“There was a sadness too. I think she knew she would not be coming back.”
“Why did she go back when she could have been safe with Angeline and their mother, and the war was almost over,” she had asked, wanting to understand, needing to understand.
He thought about that as they walked that fall day.
“Faith,” he finally answered. Just that one word. Then he had explained, “She had enormous faith. She knew what she must do, that she could not hide and let others go as her father and brothers had gone in the early years. It was the same with the tapestry,” he had continued.
“She knew that she must save it from falling into Nazi hands. To lose it would have been to lose not only an important part of our history, but part of herself. She fought for what she believed in, like the young woman in the tapestry, yes?” He had paused again, and looked at her.
“Not unlike your search to find the reason your friend died, that brought you here. And it was the same for your brother, I think.” He had reached out then and touched her cheek.
“Something he believed in, that was part of him.” He had pointed to himself then.
“I understand this, and your friend, James Morgan, he also understands.”
They had continued to walk through the orchard. Albert was silent for a long time, then he was thoughtful.
“I think we do not need a church to pray in. I have prayed in the forest as a boy, and here in this orchard. God hears us wherever we are. But I think if we lose our faith, then we lose ourselves.”
She thought about that afterward, in the quiet sounds of the farmhouse, Valentine talking with her grandfather as she put more wood on the fire, Ju-Ju snoring at Albert's feet as he smoked his pipe.
Was that what it was like for Isabel Raveneau, a story that had played out against the backdrop of another war in another time and place? For Micheleine hundreds of years later, then for her brother, and James Morgan?
In a world where everything had sped up—communication, instant answers on the internet, reality programs that in reality showed lives no one could identify with, where the meaning of everyday life depended on the next sound-bite or video from the media to make choices and decisions—what were the things that mattered?
Faith in a higher power? God?
Diana had said much the same thing in those quiet after-hours at the university where the tapestry was taken after it was found, after the student photographers, professors from the historical department, and restoration experts had gone home for the day.
