She knew.
His mouth filled with that cold.
Lucie jutted out her chin. “I’m sorry, but I’ll have to ask you to leave. Your money isn’t welcome here.”
“I beg your pardon,” he said calmly, even as the chill spread.
She swept past him toward the door. “Dr. and Mrs. Young are my friends. Mrs. Young told me you lied to me.”
Paul marched close so he could keep his voice low, ice in his vocal cords. “I never lied to you.”
Lucie drew back, and her eyes widened as if shocked that he’d returned ice with ice. “You said you were an engineer.”
“I am.”
“You own a ... business.” She spat out the last word. “I saw your entry in the 1940Americans in Francedirectory. You own Aubrey Automobiles. You belong to the American Chamber of Commerce.”
“Yes. Nothing wrong with that.” Had she forgotten she owned a business as well?
“It’s wrong if you’re a collaborator.” The strength he’d admired turned on him. “It’s wrong if you sell trucks and tanks and airplane engines to the Germans.”
“Tanks? What? No. I only sell trucks. Delivery trucks for civilian use. I also sell to the French.”
“And the Germans.”
It was over before it had begun. “Yes.”
Her cheeks reddened, and her mouth curled. “How could you?”
Part of him wanted to tell the truth and have one other person know him for who he was. But to continue his work, he had to be seen as a collaborator. That overrode his desire for romance, for companionship, even for respect.
So he set his jaw and let the ice show. “If I closed, hundreds of men would lose good-paying jobs. Do you want that?”
One nostril flared, and she scanned him from head to foot. “It doesn’t hurt that you make a profit so you can buy fancy clothes and eat fancy dinners and live in the 16th arrondissement with fancy collaborating friends.”
She saw him as a coldhearted opportunist. Fine. He could play that role. He took a step closer. “Isn’t that why you own this store? To make a profit?”
Lucie flung open the door. “I care nothing about money. The purpose of this store is to enlighten minds.”
Paul strode through the door. “I wish you all the best, Miss Girard, with your ... business.” He tipped his hat to her. He’d never even had time to remove it.
His shoes pounded on the cobblestones. A single set of footsteps. That was how it had to be.
7
WEDNESDAY, APRIL9, 1941
Through the bookstore window, Lucie waved to her friends Jerzy Epstein and Charles Charbonnier. They were over an hour late, the darlings. She mouthed, “I’ll be right out.”
Lucie scurried to the office, past the American journalist choosing a novel, the French university student thumbing through the philosophy section, and Bernadette helping a French writer select a literary journal.
In the office Lucie put on her overcoat and a knit cap. The receipt from Monsieur Quinault lay where she’d set it over a week before. Bernadette hadn’t reconciled it with the bill, wherever that was.
Lucie pushed her bicycle out of the office and caught her assistant’s eye. “Thank you for minding the store this morning, Madame Martel.”
Bernadette looked over the writer’s shoulder. “I am happy to do so.”
Lucie’s hands rolled over the handlebars. “Perhaps it would be a good day to do the books.”
