Her roommate blinked. “Well, no.”
“Ballerinas like to eat, no? So do poets. But Saint-Yves’s books are banned, and he cannot be published. At least I can pay him a pittance to read someone else’s poems.”
Véronique nudged her fellow dancer. “Lucie had to rent chairs too.”
“I did.” And yes, the store would keep part of the proceeds. Lucie had resisted Paul’s suggestion to charge admission, but she didn’t regret doing so. The fee was a trifle, and Bernadette was busy ringing up purchases.
Edward and Betty Hartman caught Lucie’s eye over Marie-Claude’s shoulder.
Lucie excused herself and joined the American lawyer and his pretty redheaded wife. “Thank you for coming, Mr. and Mrs. Hartman.”
Edward’s smile bent his sandy mustache. “We’re glad you sent the reminder card. We’d forgotten we had a store subscription. If I hadn’t come in to renew, I wouldn’t have heard about the poetry reading.”
Betty leaned on her husband’s arm. “And I never would have known about the Children’s Hour. Margie and Annie had a wonderful time today.”
“They’re a delight.” Over a dozen children had attended this afternoon.
Betty laughed, low and musical. “The reminder card was darling. ‘Don’t let your green leaf fall,’ and that darling cartoon leaf and the darling expression on his face as he fell.”
Madame Martel would have made a snippy comment about Betty’s need for a thesaurus, but Lucie thanked her. Lucie had designed those cards years ago for Hal and Erma, but she’d forgotten about them. Only when Paul discovered how many subscriptions had lapsed did she remember them.
Lucie’s tongue tickled, eager to tell the Hartmans that the idea to mail the cards and the idea for the poetry reading had come from a man they snubbed every Sunday.
But Paul wouldn’t want that. Once he’d stated, with a pained expression, that he didn’t want his reputation to harm the store.
Betty went on and on about how her daughters had gone on and on about Children’s Hour, and Lucie smiled on and on.
When Paul had dropped off Josie that afternoon, Lucie commented how happy the girl was to see the other children.
Paul had looked surprised. “She’s happy to see you. You read her like a book. I—I can’t even crack the cover.”
Such sadness, such regret in those handsome brown eyes, so Lucie kept her tone soft. “Her gifts come from the Lord as surely as yours do. When you truly accept that ...”
“I’m trying,” he’d said.
She knew he was. Oh, why did he have to be so appealing? How could he be kind and honorable in some ways and despicable in others?
After Children’s Hour, she’d reminded him he was welcome at the poetry reading, but he’d said he had another engagement. In a tight voice.
Lucie’s mind conjured up the worst names—Otto von Stülpnagel and Otto Abetz and Pierre Laval. “I don’t want to know about it, do I?” she’d asked.
“No,” Paul had said. “You do not.”
Laughter arose behind her, and Charles Charbonnier and Geneviève Plessis grabbed Lucie’s arms and pulled her away from the Hartmans.
“Excuse me,” Lucie called back to the couple, and they smiled and waved her away.
Charles and Geneviève released her by the front window.
“What are you doing?” Lucie said with a teasing smile.
Geneviève pressed the back of her hand to her forehead and heaved a sigh straight from one of her theatrical performances at the Comédie Française. “Rescuing you from pretentious Americans.”
Lucie gave the brunette a mock glare and set her hands on her hips. “Have you forgotten I’m American?”
“Oh, but you do not have a pretentious bone in your body.”
“And a fine body it is.” Charles leered at her legs.
