Instead, Wattenberg stackedTwo Citieson top ofBarnaby. “I will buy both.”
Inside, she groaned. What could she say that wouldn’t sound suspicious? Nothing. She headed for the cash register. She couldn’t retrieve the book, but maybe she could retrieve the message. But how?
Behind the counter, she took the books from him. She bobbledthem, let them slide through her fingers and thump to the floor. “Oh dear! How clumsy of me. I’m sorry.”
She dropped to her knees, leaned over the books, thumbed through for the note—found it, facing page twenty. Twenty, twenty, she pounded into her memory. She set the note on the shelf.
Clucking her tongue, she made a show of dusting off the books as she stood. “I apologize, Lieutenant.”
Paul Aubrey stood behind the Nazi, his fedora and his smile tilted at the same rakish angle. “Good day, Miss Girard. I’ll go find Josie. I see you’re busy with a customer.” His eyes sparkled as he said the last word.
Oh, she’d hear it later for selling to a German. And she’d deserve it. “Thank you, sir.” She poured syrup into her voice.
Wattenberg glanced after Paul. “Who is that?” he said in a tight voice.
Oh my. He was jealous. It wouldn’t be wise to reveal anything about Paul to a man who might consider him a rival. She rang up the books and assumed a casual tone. “The father of one of the children.”
Wattenberg frowned. “Does his wife know how friendly he is with pretty young women?”
If he knew Paul was a widower, things would be even worse. “You think he’s flirting?” Lucie said with a chuckle. “No, he’s just an American. It’s how we are. That’ll be twelve francs.”
After the German paid and departed, Lucie sank behind the desk and pinned the loose note between books. The résistant who picked it up would be perplexed, and Lucie wouldn’t be able to explain.
Maybe she should risk sending another message to Renard to tell him of his colleague’s behavior. When the Otto List had changed, she’d tucked a note to him inside a journal. He’d looked furious when she’d handed him the journal, but she had to tell him many of the titles they used would disappear.
Lucie headed toward the children’s section and passed Bernadette, who had actually risen from her armchair to straighten the rack of literary journals by the fireplace.
At the little green table, Paul sat in a too-small chair while Josie pretended to read to him.
So precious, and her heart squeezed, trying to squeeze out all she knew about Paul, leaving only what she felt.
He glanced up to her with a laughing grin.
She understood why one couldn’t always refuse to sell to the Germans, but she wouldn’t admit it. “Don’t say anything.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it ... Fräulein.”
She gave him her most withering glare, but he just kept grinning.
Josie stood and tugged on Lucie’s pink practice skirt. “Miss Gee-jard? Why don’t you love my daddy?”
“Pardon?” Lucie spluttered out while Paul gasped, “Josie!”
“Why not?” Little pink lips twisted. “He’s smart and he’s nice and he’s handsome. Don’t you think?”
She did think, but she couldn’t let Josie—or Paul—know.
Paul stood and took Josie’s hand with a new shade of pink in his cheeks. “I apologize, Miss Girard. Someone told her recently about remarriage, and she’s been—”
“That’s all right.” Lucie knelt in front of the little girl. “Sweet Josie. I’m honored you’d want me as your mother. But if I were, who would run Green Leaf Books?”
“Oh.” Josie’s big brown eyes gazed around the store. “You can’t do both?”
Not in Paul Aubrey’s world. In that world, wives joined the American Women’s Club and the Chamber of Commerce auxiliary. They attended luncheons and auctions and fashion shows. They didn’t run Left Bank bookstores.
“No, sweetie,” Lucie said. Even if Paul weren’t a collaborator, they wouldn’t belong together, and something ached inside.
“How are things at the store this week?” Paul shifted his feet and the topic, tilting his head toward Bernadette.
