“Nice?” He laughed. “It’s excellent. The store is inviting. When people come inside, they buy. You just need to bring them through your doors. The Children’s Hour was excellent. Keep that going. Set up other events. Tell your customers, encourage them to invite friends, spread the word in American institutions in town.”
His enthusiasm was contagious, and yet the whole thing left a sour taste in her mouth.
Paul cocked his head to one side. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m asking you to sell your grandmother. Business isn’t inherently evil. You provide goods that people want and need. In exchange, they pay you money so you can buy what you want and need.”
He made it sound innocent and simple. And maybe it was. “I see. I do.”
His smile grew, not gloating but rejoicing with her.
Why did agreeing with Paul Aubrey feel more dangerous than aiding the resistance?
16
SATURDAY, JUNE14, 1941
Nothing lonelier than a crowd like this.
With a drink in hand, Paul studied the “notables” sauntering through the ornate reception room in the German Institute in the Hôtel de Monaco, formerly the Polish Embassy.
In his years at Harvard, he’d perfected the appearance of imbibing without actually doing so. In a room swirling with German officers and administrators, French collaborators, and American opportunists, he needed his wits about him.
He passed a French soprano warbling a tune by the grand piano and a group praising German advances in Crete and Egypt. He gave the men a nod and passed by. Nothing that Jim Duffy didn’t already know.
Ladies in colorful gowns and men in tuxedos and uniforms filled the room decorated with painted ceilings and priceless artwork.
At society events Paul missed Simone more than ever. At even the dullest function, she’d be at his side, sparkling one moment, droll the next.
Today marked the first anniversary of the occupation of Paris. Tuesday would be the anniversary of Simone’s death.
Heaviness shoved his heart hard against his lungs, hindering his breathing.
He stepped to the window to collect himself. Books lay on a small carved table, and he picked one up—a volume of German poetry. Of course. The German Institute had been founded by Otto Abetz, the German ambassador to occupied France, to promote German culture in France. And to censor French culture.
Poetry. He set down the book and swirled his tumbler of amber liquid. At that moment, Lucie Girard was hosting a poetry reading. Even though Paul didn’t care for poetry, he’d still rather be at Green Leaf Books.
Paul gazed at the heavy blackout curtains as if he could see past them to the manicured gardens. In the past month he’d been helping with the bookstore, Lucie didn’t like him any better, but at least she accepted his business advice.
The office desk was now clean. Madame Martel gave him stony glares when he brought Josie to Children’s Hour, but he didn’t care.
“Paul darling!” Mary de la Chapelle swept up in a long silvery gown, and she offered him a cheek to kiss.
Paul complied, his nose filling with her sophisticated perfume. “Comtesse de la Chapelle, you look luminous.”
Well into her fifties, the blonde beauty, a former Philadelphia socialite, had married into French nobility after the last war. One sculpted eyebrow lifted, and she looked Paul up and down. “So debonair. If I were still in my prime...”
Paul laid his hand over his heart. “My dear lady, your prime lies in your future.”
The countess gave him an arch look, which if rumors were true, had lured many lovers into her snare. “Don’t let the count hear you talk like that.”
He took a mock sip of his beverage. “Any news from the States?”
She sniffed. “Those blasted British keep seizing our mail when it passes through Bermuda—off our very own ships. Still treating us Americans like wayward children. Have they forgotten we won our independence?”
“I wonder.”
