She straightened her shoulders and approached the older woman. “Madame Martel? I was wondering if you’d paid July’s rent yet.”
Bernadette didn’t look up from her book. “It’s still June.”
“It’s June 30. We agreed the rent would be paid by the end of the month.”
“It’s due tomorrow. I’ll pay it then.”
Lucie gripped her hands together. She’d have to remind her again tomorrow. On page one of her notebook, capital lettersdeclared, “RENT MUST BE PAID!” But what if Lucie forgot to open her calendar? On July2, Madame Villeneuve would storm in, threatening eviction.
“All right, then,” Lucie said. “I’ll pay it myself.”
Bernadette murmured and rounded the bookcase into nonfiction.
With her lips pressed tight, Lucie marched into the office. She followed Paul’s advice—she stated expectations, provided time, and checked up. Still, Bernadette only completed half her tasks.
Lucie opened the cashbox, pulled out the rent money, and stuffed the francs in her skirt pocket. With the store empty, now was a good time to leave.
She harrumphed and strode outside. Now would have been a good time for Bernadette to have left too.
Lucie stepped through theporte cochèreinto the courtyard. Madame Villeneuve swept the steps in front of her apartment.
“Bonjour, madame. I am here to pay the rent.”
The tiny concierge stopped sweeping and raised her iron-gray head with a confused expression. “It has already been paid.”
Bernadette forgot she’d paid? But if she’d paid, why was the rent money still in the cashbox? “Madame Martel paid?”
“No. The same man who paid in May and June.”
“Man?” Lucie gasped. “What man?”
“He wishes to remain anonymous.” The concierge brushed dust from her gray apron. “That is fine with me. The rent is paid.”
A man? Last month Bernadette had said the rent was taken care of—was this what she’d meant? Lucie refused to have some man pay her rent and expect who-knew-what from her. “Who is he? I must know.”
“I will not tell you.” She thrust up her narrow chin. “I will not let you tell him to stop.”
“Then you must tell him to stop. I won’t have it. I have the money.”
Madame Villeneuve’s chin lowered. A sly smile rose, and she resumed sweeping. “Very well. Next month I will tell him, and you may pay.”
Why, that little cheat. She planned to say nothing to the man and collect double rent.
“Never mind.” Lucie hurried back to the store. It had to be Wattenberg. He’d offered, and his interest in her was clear, if undeclared. She absolutely could not allow a German to pay her rent.
Paul? Lucie paused outside her store and stroked the deep green paint. Paul knew her financial situation, but he also knew it was improving. Besides, he was a pull-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps man. An opportunist, not a philanthropist.
It had to be Wattenberg.
Inside the store, Bernadette’s feather duster hovered in the vicinity of a shelf as the store assistant turned pages in her book.
Lucie pulled herself taller, although she could never approach Bernadette’s height. “Madame Villeneuve said an anonymous man paid our rent. He also paid in May and June.”
“Yes, she told me,” Bernadette said in a nonchalant tone.
“You didn’t tell me.”
“Why would I?” Another page flipped. “It has to do with money. The rent was paid. That’s all that matters.”
