26
Voilà!” At the cash register Bernadette opened the box from Monsieur Quinault.
Lucie pulled out a postcard announcing a reading by Saint-Yves of John Greenleaf Whittier’sSnow-Boundin early October. “They turned out beautifully. Now we need to mail them to our subscribers.”
“I will do that, and—see!—we can also hand them to our customers.” She set a stack on the desk. “Now, come look. I have entered this week’s expenses and income into the books.”
Three young ladies entered the store, and Lucie greeted them. Then she faced Bernadette. “After they leave.”
“Very good. See? We need each other, like Hal and Erma.” Bernadette bustled toward the office.
Lucie smiled as she pulled out paper to plan the book reading. In the month and a half since Lucie had threatened to fire her, Bernadette had been the model of efficiency and diligence. Bills paid, papers filed, books tidy.
Yes, they did need each other.
Lucie nibbled on the end of her pen. On Sunday, Edmund Pendleton had read Scripture about how the church needed allthe different gifts working together. Her gaze had flown to the dark-haired man in the front row with his very different gifts.
She’d been praying to find out what God said about Paul. Maybe Mr. Pendleton’s message was the answer.
Or was it? Lucie frowned around the end of her pen. She could make peace with Paul being a wealthy businessman, but not with how readily he associated with the Germans. “It’s excellent for business,” he’d said. Cool and brusque.
“Hello, Lucie.” Paul Aubrey stood in front of her.
Her pen clattered to the desk, and she scrambled to grab it. “Hello. It—it’s Friday.”
“Yes, it is.”
It had made sense in her head. “You come on Saturdays.”
“I—I’m looking for a book.” He gazed around, his eyebrows pinched together.
What book couldn’t wait until tomorrow? And why did he look nervous? Her heart tugged toward him, but she had to remember who he was at the core.
Paul glanced over his shoulder to the young ladies, who chatted at a table by the window. Then he leaned closer to Lucie, his expression grave, questioning ... hopeful? “I’m looking forThe Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, the first volume. It’s on hold.”
On hold? The only books on hold were for résistants. AndDecline and Fallwas one of them. A coincidence. A strange coincidence. She couldn’t give the book—and its message—to Paul.
“Let’s see if I have a copy.” She headed out from behind the desk.
Paul laid his hand on her arm. “No. It’s on hold. I called for it this morning.”
He’d done no such thing, and she stared at him.
His gaze intensified, with a lift of his eyebrows for emphasis, and he squeezed her arm.
He was a collaborator. Not a résistant. The message wasn’t for him.
“It’s—on—hold,” he said, low and firm.
Her breath jolted in her lungs, and she stepped back, breaking his grip and his gaze. This was why they had code phrases.
On went her performance face, and she scanned the titles under the desk. “I love Edward Gibbon’s writing.”
“I do too. His use of language is sublime.”
The most recent code, and she locked her gaze on him. “Sublime?”
Paul gave her a slow nod. “Sublime.”
