“I was glad to see that. We don’t get out much, and people find her ... odd.”
“Odd? Oh, I hope so. She’s four.” Lucie let delicious memories of being four wash over her. “Isn’t it a delightful age? Society will mold her into an acceptable shape, but now—now she’s the most purely Josie she’ll ever be, the Josie God created. What were you like at four, Paul?”
“Me? I don’t remember being four.” He sat back and squinted at the ceiling. “But at five and six, I was traipsing through the woods with my brother and our friends, building forts and treehouses.”
“You’re still building.”
“I am.” He lifted a broad hand. “But without mud under my fingernails.”
Over dinner, Lucie coaxed more stories out of him, of growing up near Boston, acting out Revolutionary War battles, losing his older brother to the Spanish Flu, and turning his love of building into an engineering degree from Harvard.
She talked about dancing and about the interesting people she’d met through the ballet and the bookstore.
The more they talked, the more Paul relaxed. With a serious expression, he was a good-looking man with average features. But his smile was extraordinary, communicating both confidence and humility, a touch of mischief, and a genuine interest in others. In her.
The waiter came to their table. “It is one hour before the curfew.”
“It is?” Paul looked at his watch. “I can’t believe it. Time has flown.”
After Paul paid the bill, he walked Lucie to the entrance and helped her with her coat. “May I walk you home? It’s after dark.”
“That would be nice. I live above the bookstore.” Outside, she took his arm, and they strolled down the street in the crisp cold.
His coat had a nice cut. Engineers made more money than artistic sorts, but at least they weren’t part of the snootybeau mondeset.
Paul lifted his chin to the night, the stars snuffed by clouds, the lights snuffed by war. “It seems strange to end an evening in Paris without music and dancing and talking into the night.”
“Oh, this isn’t really Paris. It’s only a dim shadow.”
“True.” His voice sank low.
She was supposed to be cheering him up. “On the bright side, a curfew makes it easier to wake up in time for church.”
Paul chuckled. “It does. Where do you attend?”
“The American Church.”
“Hmm. Simone and I used to attend there.”
She didn’t remember seeing him there, but attendance had been high before the war and people did gravitate to their customary seats.
But why did he no longer attend? Did he blame God for his wife’s death? Or had he stopped attending when the pastor returned to America? “Mr. Pendleton insists he doesn’t actually give sermons, but his ‘talks’ are very good. And his organ-playing is divine.”
“I agree. I went for a while after ... but it was difficult.”
She watched his shifting emotions in the dim light. “It must be difficult to have everyone feel sorry for you all the time.”
Paul turned to her, his eyes full of gratitude, sadness, and something almost sardonic. “It is.”
“Here’s my building.” She released his arm. “Thank you for a wonderful evening.”
“Thank you for the wonderful company. Will I see you tomorrow in church?”
Yet another purpose to the evening, and her smile grew. “You will.”
SUNDAY, APRIL6, 1941
Edmund Pendleton, the organist and director of the church, said the benediction, and Lucie peeked over the dark wood pews. Far to the front, Paul Aubrey sat with Josie.
