For a long while, Lucie assessed the panic on the older woman’s face, the sincerity. Bernadette had grown lazy, but with good management—and a healthy dose of fear—the diligent worker might return.
Lucie sighed. “All right. If you promise.”
“I promise.” She sprang to her feet. “I’ll do the books this minute. And every day from now on. You’ll never have to ask me twice.”
“Thank you.” Lucie didn’t offer a smile, only a look that said she’d be watching.
Then she left the office and shut the door so Bernadette could do her job for once.
Paul got up from his tiny chair and stepped close. “Well?”
Lucie’s hands shook, and she clamped them together. “It was awful.”
“But how did it go?” He stood closer than ever, close enough to show flecks of gold and green in his eyes.
“I threatened to fire her,” she whispered. “She promised to do her job. She’s doing the books right now.”
A proud smile transformed his face—not the patronizing pride of a teacher, but the congenial pride of a friend. “I knew you could do it.”
Lucie shuddered. “I never want to do it again.”
“But now you know you can.”
She did, and she had him to thank, this puzzling contradiction of a man, a man who saw more in her than she saw in herself. “Thank you,” she breathed out.
He chuckled. “Ah, you know me. It was a simple mercenary act. I like this store, and I want it to remain open. Come on, lollypop. Ready to go?”
Josie whined, but she took Paul’s hand.
Lucie studied him with a strange rush of fondness. Mercenary, maybe. But there was nothing simple about him.
22
FRIDAY, AUGUST8, 1941
In the boiler house behind the assembly building, Maurice Boucheron shined his flashlight inside the boiler circulating pump. “As you can see, messieurs, the rotary blades are worn down.”
Paul translated to Colonel Schiller, but he didn’t relay the truth—the part was worn down because Boucheron had been throwing in sand.
“The pump came from America,” Paul said. “Of course, we can’t receive shipments from the US, so we ordered a new pump from Germany. Over a month ago.”
Schiller clasped his hands behind his back and frowned. “It was shipped last week, but terrorists derailed the train. The boxcar fell down an embankment into a river. Everything was lost or ruined.”
Recently the papers had reported sabotage of rail lines and locomotives. Paul huffed as if thecheminotresistance disgusted him rather than delighted him.
Then he crossed his arms. “Boucheron is not just my maintenance and repair foreman—he’s my best mechanic. He says the boiler has to be shut down. That’ll leave only one boiler, half the steam we need to run the factory.”
“No need to tell me this month’s shipment will be delayed,” Schiller said. “It cannot be helped.”
“No, it can’t.” And fewer Aubrey trucks would carry German troops through the Ukraine.
Paul led Schiller back inside the assembly building and toward the employee entrance, which led to the parking lot.
“Have you heard—” A hiss of compressed gas interrupted the German commissioner. “Have you heard the Berlin Philharmonic will be in town next month?”
“I’ve heard.” Paul nodded to three workers stoking the fires in the enamel drying oven. “I hope to attend.”
“I’ll get tickets for you. Shall I get two? Any beautiful ladies in your life?”
