Today she’d had only one customer and one phone call—and both had come at the same time, forcing her to neglect the phone.
Perhaps she could burn books for fuel, but how could she when she’d dedicated herself to keeping books out of the fire? At least Bernadette had sequestered several hundred volumes in her cramped apartment.
Lucie rubbed her gloved hands together. It was 16:30. She wouldn’t close until nineteen hours, when she could escape her freezing bookstore to her freezing apartment.
The song on the radio ended, and the announcer came on, his voice frenzied. Those brash Americans had attacked too many German ships while escorting those treacherous British convoys. Hitler had no choice but to declare war on the United States.
Lucie’s breath poured out in a strange mix of alarm and relief.
Today. They’d leave today.
Her bag, coat, and hat were in the office, ready to go, andshe forced her whirling mind to remember the checklist. First, call Paul in case he hadn’t heard the news at work.
Lucie rushed to the counter and dialed Paul’s office. His secretary answered.
“Bonjour,” Lucie said. “I am calling from Green Leaf Books. Please tell Monsieur Aubrey that a copy ofThe Last of the Mohicanshas come in.”
“Thank you,” the secretary said with a note of humor. “He’s eager to read it. He told me to tell him immediately if you called.”
Good. That meant he’d receive the message. Lucie thanked her and said goodbye.
If only they had the rendezvous information. They’d have to hide in a hotel in Orléans, and Paul would have to call his contact daily until they had the information. Not only were phone calls risky, but without false papers, they’d have to register in their own names.
Next on the checklist. Lucie swept the potted plant off the mantel, shoved the door open, and set the plant on the sidewalk. The signal to Renard and friends to shut down the letter box at Green Leaf Books.
Such a shame to set the plant outside in weather like this. She’d told Renard to change the signal, but he’d refused.
Lucie fluffed the plant’s leaves. “I hope someone adopts you, you dear thing. You’ve served me well.”
Back inside, Lucie grabbed the books behind the cash register so she could burn the remaining notes. Six messages to résistants that would never be delivered.
She set the books in front of the fireplace and stoked the embers. “Come on. You need to do your duty for your nation, same as the plant has.”
Lucie pulled the note from the first book and poked it into the fireplace. Wispy flames curled around the edge, and she dropped it.
“Good afternoon, Miss Girard.” Lt. Emil Wattenberg stood in the doorway, frowning at the sidewalk. “Why is your plant outside?”
Lucie’s heart seized. Oh no! She hadn’t locked the door. It was on her checklist. How could she have forgotten?
She sprang to her feet and onto stage. With the same lukewarm smile she always wore for him, she eased away from the fireplace and the books. “Haven’t you heard potted plants need an occasional shock of cold to stimulate growth?” Almost as fantastical a story as a girl with wings and hair that changed color.
Wattenberg removed his peaked cap and gave her an amused smile. “It is so cold in here, you do not need to take it outside. Have you no heat?”
Lucie crossed the store into the center bay and straightened the nonfiction books. “Parisians receive no coal, as you know, and very little firewood.”
“Hmm. I am good with fires.” He strode into the store.
Lucie sucked in a breath. She couldn’t have stopped him even if she had the words.
He squatted before the fireplace, the skirt of his gray army overcoat fanning around him. “The fire is not built well. If you ... are you burning books?” His voice rose in dismay.
As if his own countrymen weren’t responsible for burning millions of volumes. But this was no time to be plucky. “No, just scraps of paper. But don’t worry about me. I’m used to the cold.”
“Strange.” He jabbed the poker into the fireplace. “The letters on this paper. No, not letters. What is the word?”
A sick feeling wormed in Lucie’s stomach. Symbols. The word he wanted was symbols. But she had to sound innocent, distract him. “I make little drawings when I’m bored.”
“This is a man’s writing.” He pulled out the scrap, only singed around the edges.
