Lucie stood and met his brown-eyed gaze, a manly version of his daughter’s. “The same.” Her assistant accomplished only a fraction of her work. The only tasks she completed without prompting were helping customers and manning the cash register. Even then, she wasn’t exactly approachable with a book in her face.
“It’s time,” Paul said, his voice somber.
The previous Saturday, he’d told her to fire Bernadette—or threaten to. She hated the idea, but he was right. A ballerina who didn’t dance would be cut from the ballet.
“You’re a strong woman. I know you can do it.”
Lucie glanced at Bernadette—decades older, better read—and completely disrespectful. Yes, it was time.
Bernadette inspected the leaves of the potted plant on the mantel, then whisked the pot away and set it in the window.
The signal to the resistance that it wasn’t safe to exchange messages!
“Excuse me.” Lucie held up a hand to Paul, accidentally brushing his arm, and she rushed to the window. “Why did you put the plant in the window?”
“It’s pale. It needs sunlight.”
“Not there.” She waved her hand over her artful display. “I—I arranged the window just so. The books, the summer leaves—”
Bernadette snatched up the plant, shoved open the door, and set the pot on the sidewalk.
The signal for the resistance to cease operations at the store permanently!
Lucie gathered the pot in her arms and fought to control her voice. “Someone could trip. I—I’ll put it in my apartment window for a few days.”
A dark glare, and Bernadette flounced back to her armchair. But she hadn’t entered the week’s sales and expenses into theledger, a task she was supposed to have completed the day before and the sole reason Lucie was paying her to stay after Children’s Hour.
Her indignation rose above her insecurities, and she set the plant back on the mantel. “Excuse me, Madame Martel. I need to speak with you in the office.”
Halfway into her seat, Bernadette sighed and rose.
Ignoring Paul at the table with Josie, Lucie entered the office. She stood beside the desk, blocked Bernadette’s path to Erma’s chair, and motioned to the chair in front.
Bernadette paused, then took her seat. “What is this about?”
After closing the door, Lucie claimed the seat and tone of authority. “When the Greenblatts left, you promised to keep the books and pay the bills. Since you don’t do these tasks, I need to let you go and hire someone who will.”
Bernadette’s mouth flopped open. “You—you want to fire me?”
“No. I want someone to do this job.”
“I—I’ve been with this store since the beginning, over twenty years. Why, you were but a child.” That look in her dark eyes was meant to intimidate. It always worked.
Not today. Lucie held up her chin. “It’s clear you’re no longer interested in working here. I’m sure you’ll be happier elsewhere.”
Bernadette’s chest heaved under her shapeless gray dress. “But—but you need me. I know more about modern literature than you do, about the journals, the writers.”
Lucie’s queasiness about her lack of education swirled up and threatened to drown her authority, but she forced it down. “The modern authors are banned. I need someone to do the books and bills.”
Bernadette’s eyebrows bunched together, and she shook her head, making her loose bun wobble. “I—I won’t be able to get another job. Not at my age.”
“I’m sorry, but I need someone—”
“I’m a widow. I need the job. I’ll do the work. I promise, I will. Only please, please don’t fire me.”
Lucie released a long sigh. “I know you’re capable, but—”
Bernadette’s breath puffed like a locomotive, and her eyes went wild. “I’ll do it. Everything you need. And then some. Only please. I can’t lose this job. I can’t.”
