Josie beamed up at Paul. “Please, Daddy?”
His mouth hung open. He longed to let her play, but even more he longed to shield her from rejection.
“Come along, girls.” Betty Hartman came up behind her daughters. “It’s time to leave.”
The older girl hugged Josie’s shoulders. “This is Josie. She was at Children’s Hour. Remember the puppet show?Shewrote the story.”
Betty speared Paul with an accusing, indignant glare, as if the Feenee story were Paul’s nefarious plot to lure children into evil.
It was so ludicrous, he almost laughed. Instead he gave his former friend a slight smile and shrug. Could he help it if his daughter was adorable?
“Come along, girls.” Her tone cut off discussion.
The girls whined, hugged Josie, and followed their mother.
Josie grinned at Paul. “They’re my friends.”
Not for long, but Paul returned her smile.
Holding Josie’s hand, Paul ambled down the aisle, well behind the other worshipers.
Lucie Girard stood a few rows back wearing an olive green suit. She beckoned to him.
He must have been mistaken. “Me?” he mouthed.
She nodded, beckoned again, and frowned. Not an angry frown, but fretful. Had the poetry reading gone poorly? Or was it something he’d said?
Paul turned down her row, and Josie flung herself at Lucie’s legs. “Miss Gee-jard!”
“Hello, Josie.” But Lucie glued her gaze on Paul. “May I ask your advice?”
“Of course.” Tension flowed from his shoulders. At least he hadn’t done something to endanger Josie’s one true friendship. “The poetry reading?”
“It went well.” She sat on the pew and pulled Josie onto her lap, but her forehead furrowed.
Paul set his Bible and hat in his lap. “I’m glad.”
Her hazel eyes swam with worry. “I found out the Germans are adding to the Otto List.”
“The Otto List?”
“The list of books banned for sale in France. It’s named after Otto Abetz, the German ambassador to Paris.”
Paul murmured his understanding. He didn’t dare mention he’d attended Abetz’s party the night before, even conversed with the man.
Lucie drew in a shaky breath. “On July 1, they’re adding all books by British or American authors published after 1870.”
Paul’s mouth fell open. “After 1870? That has to be—”
“A quarter, maybe half my stock. I haven’t had time to check.”
“I like your flower.” Josie touched a golden brooch pinned to Lucie’s shoulder.
Lucie held up one hand, a gentle reminder to the child not to interrupt. “I don’t know what to do. In two weeks, they’ll confiscate the books. I can’t afford that.” Her voice trembled, and her gaze stretched down into his heart.
If only he could take her in his arms and tell her he’d never let the store close. But that fact needed to remain secret.
He kept both hands clamped on his hat and Bible. “Does the ban apply to private ownership of the books?”
