For one brilliant day, he’d basked in the hope of having someone in his life again who would know him and like him.
The Lord did. Only the Lord.
9
MONDAY, APRIL21, 1941
Madame Villeneuve stormed out of the office, and Lucie laid her head on the paper-strewn desk, her mind reeling.
If she’d known Bernadette hadn’t paid April’s rent, she never would have purchased more stock. But how could she resist a print run of Shakespeare plays and sonnets?
Since it was Bernadette’s day off, Lucie couldn’t even ask why the rent hadn’t been paid.
The concierge had accepted partial payment—every centime in the cash box—but she’d threatened eviction. Apparently this was a continuing problem. And Lucie hadn’t known.
“You’re a ballerina,” Erma Greenblatt had said and not unkindly.
“Good thing she’s pretty,” Lucie’s third-grade teacher had said and quite unkindly.
Lucie burrowed her head into her crossed forearms. Numbers didn’t sing as words did. They didn’t dance like leaves and music. Numbers stood silent and rigid. Horrible, inscrutable things.
Now they mocked her. Because she hated them, they’d kill her dream, the Greenblatts’ dream. “I’m sorry, Hal. Sorry, Erma.”
“Hallo?” a man called from the store.
Lucie put on her performance face and left the hideous desk behind. “Oui? Bonjour.”
Lt. Emil Wattenberg stood with hat in hand. “Good day, Miss Girard.”
Her performance face kept steady. “Good day, Lieutenant.”
He gestured to the door with a concerned look. “Your concierge asked me to talk to you.”
“Is that so?” At the counter Lucie picked up a stack of her beautiful new books to shelve. Since the publisher had made the print run just for her, he’d never buy them back.
Wattenberg groaned. “She told me to make you pay, but I am only an office man.”
Now she knew where Madame Villeneuve’s sentiments lay—with the Germans and the Vichy and the collaborateurs. Lucie found space for the new books.
Heavy boots followed her. “She said you have not paid the...”
“Rent. The word you want is rent.” She gave him a pointed look.
Compassion bent his lips. “May I help? My family is rich.”
Lucie swept past him to retrieve more books. “That is not necessary.” The thought of a German paying her rent nauseated her, but she sent him a quick smile for his generosity.
“Then I will buy a book.”
Lucie nodded toward the shelves. “I can’t stop you.”
He sent her a curious look, then entered the fiction section.
Indeed, she couldn’t refuse service to anyone.
Except Paul Aubrey.
Her stomach twisted, and she pulled out a box of bookplates. She’d shown Paul the door because he took German money. And here she was, about to take German money.
