She stood before him, assessing him. “The original owners were my dear friends, Hal and Erma Greenblatt, and Greenblatt meansgreen leaf. Also, Hal is fond of John Greenleaf Whittier’s poetry. Do you like poetry, Mr....”
Ah, now he was making progress. “Aubrey. Paul Aubrey.”
“Oh, that’s a fine name. Paul Aubrey.” She pronounced it slowly as if tasting each syllable. “That has a nice sound.”
“My parents say thank you.”
She tipped her head. “Do you like poetry, Mr. Aubrey?”
“I read as little poetry as possible to get through college and none since. Do you think less of me?” He gave her half a grin.
“Not at all. You look like the sort ... I can see you reading history, biography.”
Paul chuckled. “You’re in the right business. When I have time, that’s what I read.”
Miss Girard waved to the nonfiction section. “I hope you find something that interests you.”
He had, but not on a shelf. “What would you recommend?”
“Come with me. What eras are you interested in? Countries?”
Paul followed her. He hadn’t planned to buy a book for himself, but now he wanted several. “Do you have any on French history? As long as I’ve lived here, I don’t know much about this country.”
“Would you please hold him?” Miss Girard whispered. She removed the puppet and handed it to Paul. “Put him on, so he won’t look lifeless if your daughter comes over.”
“All right.” Paul slipped his hand into the cloth glove and studied the whiskered face. He hadn’t worn a puppet since grade school.
“How long have you lived in Paris?” Miss Girard’s fingers ran along book spines.
“Eight years. And you? Are you French?” Although she sounded American, she didn’t seem either American or French.
“I’m an American citizen, but I’ve lived here since I was nine. Paris is my true home.”
“It grows on you, even in today’s ... difficulties.”
Again she assessed him as if she saw each one of Paul’s difficulties. “You were brave to stay.”
“So were you.” Even more so for a single woman running a store for English speakers when English speakers fled in droves. A store far too empty for a Saturday.
He’d buy every book she showed him. “What do you recommend?” He gestured to the shelf. He still had the puppet on his hand, and he laughed.
She did too, lilting and lovely, and he wanted to hear more. He held up the puppet so it faced him. “My apologies, Monsieur Meow.”
“He forgives you because you brought him a new little friend. He’s thankful.”
“As am I.” If only he could talk with her all day, but she had a store to run. If only ... no, he should get to know her better. And it was too soon, not even a year since Simone passed away.
Yet hadn’t Simone pleaded with him to remarry and quickly,for Josie’s sake? For his own? He wasn’t ready for marriage yet, but he craved conversation and companionship. And this woman intrigued him.
Miss Girard pulled volumes off the shelf.
Paul stared at the puppet’s painted eyes and stripes. An idea formed. The wild, artistic Left Bank had to be infecting him. “What did you say, Monsieur Meow?” He put the puppet to his ear and wiggled it, as Miss Girard had done.
She turned back with a quizzical look.
Paul frowned at the puppet. “Oh no, I couldn’t. I just met her. She barely knows me.” He put the puppet back to his ear, and he stared into the distance, shaking his head. “No. I’m not that sort of man. No, Monsieur Meow. I’m a gentleman. I don’t want her to think I’m forward.”
Miss Girard’s mouth bent—in anticipation or suspicion?
