With a huff, Quinault departed, passing Véronique and Marie-Claude.
Lucie’s roommates gaped after him, then entered the office.
“Oh, my pet, what are you doing in here?” Marie-Claude wrinkled her nose at the papers. “With ... this?”
Véronique beckoned. “Come, come.”
“You mustn’t worry.” Lucie waved her hands over the desk with a flourish. “I shall turn this all into papier-mâché and sculpt with it.”
Véronique took Lucie’s hand and drew her out from behind the desk. “We don’t have practice at the ballet today. We’re going to the cinema, where we’ll flirt with the soldiers, then pretend not to understand a word they say.”
“Thank you for the invitation, but I have to mind the store.”
Marie-Claude gave Lucie a teasing look. “While you mind the store, mind you don’t turn bourgeois.”
“This is the only turning I do.” Lucie sprang onto pointe in her brown oxfords, her feet tight together, then spun in asoutenuturn and blew a kiss to her friends.
No danger that she’d ever turn bourgeois.
4
SATURDAY, APRIL5, 1941
Paul’s pencil swooped over the paper. Only when designing cars at his mahogany desk at home did he feel like his real self.
Someday he would build this model he called the Autonomy, a nimble two-seater based on the Audacity race car. Since 1915, Dad’s business had revolved around the stately Authority and the elegant Aurora. Although they’d been one of the few luxury carmakers to survive the Depression, Paul wanted to expand their line. Future success lay with serving bankers and physicians as well as business tycoons and movie stars.
Sure would beat his current work manufacturing delivery trucks. Since gasoline permits were only available to a privileged few, the trucks ran on wood gas. External wood-burninggazogènegenerators fed wood gas to modified engines. Paul privately called the model the Au-ful.
Saturday morning sunshine spilled over the desk as Paul sketched the Autonomy’s engine compartment.
“Da-deeee.” Josie’s little voice rose before him with plaintiveness that said she’d already spoken his name several times.
He glanced across his desk to his four-year-old. “Hello, jelly bean.”
She giggled, lighting up brown eyes the same shade as Paul’s. Madame Coudray had pinned a yellow side bow in Josie’s chin-length brown curls.
Paul wound one finger into a curl, the only feature she’d inherited from her mother. “What’s up?”
“Want to see my Feenee story?” Josie plopped a lopsided booklet of crayon drawings onto Paul’s desk.
His stomach soured. He ought to praise her work. That’s what fathers did. But Josie’s stories were odd. All about a strange creature she called Feenee.
Paul handed back the booklet. “Maybe tonight. Daddy’s working.”
“Oh.” Light drained from her eyes.
His chest squeezed, but he needed to point the child to more acceptable pursuits.
In the doorway Madame Coudray gave Josie a gentle smile. “You did not finish your breakfast. We must not waste food.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Josie slipped away.
Paul raised one finger to bid the nanny to stay, then motioned for her to have a seat. “Have you noticed more of these Feenee stories? I’m concerned.”
Well into her sixties, the nanny sat stiff and thin as a poker. She folded her hands in her lap and studied them. “May I speak plainly, Monsieur Aubrey?”
“Yes, please.” Not only did the woman spend far more time with Josie than Paul did, but she’d raised Simone as well.
