“No. Only to selling them.”
Paul kept his voice soothing. “Hold a sale. Mark those titles down 50 percent. You won’t make as much money as if you sold them full price, but you’ll make something. Notify your subscribers. You can sell lots of books in two weeks.”
“All right. But the rest. I can’t bear the thought of them being burned.”
“Can you store them in your apartment?”
Lucie’s gaze darted above Paul’s head. “I have room for one hundred, maybe two. Nowhere near all of them.”
“I have plenty of room at my house. I’ll store them.”
“You?” Her eyebrows rose to meet the brim of her hat. “You’d store banned books?”
Paul’s mouth tightened. Although he had to play a collaborator, there were limits to what he’d allow others to believe. “I may be an opportunist, Miss Girard, but I am not a fascist. I’m opposed to censorship. I’m opposed to restricting civil rights. And I’m vehemently opposed to antisemitism. Please do not equate my desire to make a profit with approval of oppression.”
Her eyes widened, and then her eyelids slipped shut. “I—I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”
“All forgiven.” He sighed. “On June 30, bring the books to my house. I’ll inventory them and give you a receipt. Then if the situation changes, we’ll restock your store.”
She opened pretty, shimmering eyes. “Thank you. You’re so kind to me. I’ve been nothing but mean to you, and you—”
“As I said, all forgiven.” He dropped her a wink. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment with Mr. Pendleton.”
“Oh?”
“You know as much as I do. Come on, butterscotch.” Hescooped Josie into his arms and smiled at Lucie. “Everything will be all right.”
“Thank you. I’ll go straight home and prepare for the sale.”
Paul resisted the urge to tell her he’d come and help. For the sake of her reputation, he needed to limit his time with her.
After he left the sanctuary, he crossed the courtyard to the church house and climbed to the fourth floor.
The housekeeper answered the door, gushed over Josie, and spirited her away to the kitchen, barely taking time to show Paul to the study.
Bookshelves lined the study walls, full of theological tomes abandoned when the pastor left Paris a year earlier.
Mr. Pendleton entered, a fair-haired man in his forties, and the men sat on opposite sides of the desk. After a few pleasantries, the church director’s face grew grim. “I find myself in a bind. I’m a musician, not a pastor, and situations like this...”
Dread settled heavy in Paul’s chest. “Is there some way I can help?”
The director leaned his forearms on the desk and frowned at his clasped hands. “Several members are opposed to your presence at church.”
“Opposed.” The word came out clipped.
“They say you sell military equipment to the Germans.”
“Trucks. I sell civilian trucks.”
Mr. Pendleton massaged his hands with his thumbs. “Your return has caused upheaval. Perhaps if you were repentant...”
Paul ran his fingers through his hair. “Repentant? Of selling a civilian product? Of employing eight hundred men? Is that a sin?”
Pained eyes lifted. “You collaborate with the enemy of God’s chosen people.”
“I don’t—” His eyes slammed shut. He couldn’t say more without endangering his missions. “Please, sir. I’ve lost so much. My wife, my friends. And this place...” His throatclogged, and he pressed his hand to his forehead, shielding his eyes. “I need this. So does Josie.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Aubrey.”
