“That won’t work.” Lucie glanced past him. “It’s Madame Martel’s day off. She only came in to help during Children’s Hour. Now I need to mind the store.”
Indeed, parents roamed with books that needed to be rung up. “Are you open tomorrow?”
“On Sunday? No.”
“Perfect. Could I come by after church—with Josie?”
Lucie stared at the desk, her mouth tight. “Only if you bring Josie.”
His tiny chaperone. “Thank you for what you did for her today.”
“It was a pleasure. She has a gift.”
“A gift.” Paul rubbed the back of his neck and chuckled. “Too bad it won’t be useful when she grows up.”
“Useful?” Fire burned in her hazel eyes, but Paul preferred it to ice somehow. “Isn’t that typical of you bourgeoisie? A gift is only good if it makes money.”
He grinned. “Isn’t that typical of you artistes? No gift that actually makes money is good.”
“Say what you want.” She matched his smile. “I have the Lord on my side.”
This could be interesting. He leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. “Please elaborate.”
She matched his posture, leaning against the wall on the far side of the doorway. “Not everything God created is useful, but it’s all good. He didn’t have to create beauty, but he did. He didn’t have to create color, but he did. He didn’t have to create music, but he did. None of it useful. Then he created us in his creative image with the ability to make beauty and color and music. It might not be useful, but it’s good.”
“Good...” he whispered. On the floor, his little girl sat surrounded by blocks and children. Children who accepted her.
Maybe her gift was useful after all.
15
SUNDAY, MAY11, 1941
Seated at her little green table, Lucie chewed the last bite of the ham sandwich Paul Aubrey had brought. He might not be fat, as so many collabos were, but he certainly ate well.
She sneaked a glance to her office, where Paul rustled papers. His cook’s elderly mother lived in the country, where food was more plentiful, and the cook stocked the Aubrey pantry so Josie had enough cheese and meat to grow.
On the floor, Josie lined up the wooden animals by color, her Feenee stories exhausted over lunch.
Did that cook’s mother know she was paid with German money?
Lucie forced the morsel down her throat. This morning at church, Alice Young told Lucie she’d seen Paul coming out of Maxim’s restaurant with two German officers. Paul didn’t just sell to them because he had to—he sought out their business and dined with them.
Was Lucie a hypocrite for accepting his help? For eating his sandwich? Maybe, but keeping the store open kept resistance messages flowing.
She grinned and wiped her mouth. What would Herr Aubrey say to that?
A chair scuffed, then Mr. Collaborator leaned against the doorjamb in his white shirt, silk tie, and dark gray trousers and suit vest. “I’ve gone through what I can. Ready for a business lesson?”
Lucie groaned. Why couldn’t he wave a magic business wand and make it go away? “I suppose so.”
Paul glanced past her to Josie. “All right, jujube. You have plenty of toys and books.”
The little girl nodded and made two monkeys talk to each other.
Lucie straightened the jacket of her golden-brown suit and joined Paul in the office.
He pulled a chair to the end of the desk for her, sat behind the desk, and tapped his pen on a notepad. “In a nutshell, your store is wounded, but not mortally.”
