Lucie’s mouth opened, ready to recite the titles on hold, but a dark sensation niggled inside and pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth. The title was the opening step in the choreographed dance of code phrases.
She gave him a patient smile and turned the phone to him. “Why don’t you ask your wife the title?” Although few Parisians had phones at home.
That long jaw edged from side to side. “We don’t have a phone. Tell me the titles you have. I’ll recognize it.”
Prickles raced up her arms. What if he wasn’t a résistant but an informant? What if he’d been watching the store and had seen the exchange of books?
She refused to get ruffled, so she kept her patient smile in place. “Why don’t you ask her at home and return later? You don’t want to buy the wrong book.”
Annoyance flickered in his dark eyes. “Read the titles. I’ll know it.”
The worst thing she could do was tell him the titles. He could choose any one and intercept a message.
She slid the telephone back in place, her heart thumping. She absolutely could not give him any of the books. Each was reserved for a specific person.
Lucie shot him a smile. “What’s your name, sir?”
“My name?”
“Yes, sir. Each is labeled with a name.” A lie, but if he was genuine, he could find out the title at home and return.
The man’s gaze skittered about. “Jean. My name is Jean.”
The most common men’s name in France. She murmured and shook her head. “I don’t have a book for a Jean.”
That jaw thrust out. “Read the titles.”
“Your wife’s name? Your surname?” She batted her eyelashes, as innocent as could be.
His chest heaved.
She kept smiling.
“Stupid woman.” With a loud grunt, he marched to the door. “See if I ever shop here again.”
As soon as he disappeared from sight, she sagged against the desk and her breath poured out. No, he’d never return. But someone else might.
Time to end this forever. She rushed to the mantel, grabbed the plant, and flung open the front door.
Across the street strolled the young résistante in her bright, abstract-print turban. She met Lucie’s gaze, and her eyes widened.
Was Lucie being hasty? Impulsive? Cowardly in the face of danger that others endured without flinching?
Before she did anything permanent, she needed another talk with Renard. With shaky steps, she backed up.
For at least another day, she’d keep the plant inside.
32
SATURDAY, NOVEMBER8, 1941
Paul leaned against the wall outside Lucie’s office. Since none of the families attending Children’s Hour today knew him, he felt no need to banish himself.
Standing before the children in her pink skirt and a thick gray sweater, Lucie held up the Feenee puppet. “Feenee loves spaghetti. One day she ate so much spaghetti that it made her hair grow and grow. So she cut her hair and wound it into balls and gave them to the kitty-cats to play with. Which color do you think Monsieur Meow chose?”
“Vert!”a little blond boy called, one of only four children present. “Green.”
“Right.” Lucie fingered a green curl on Feenee’s head. “Some were pink and some purple and some yellow. Only the brightest colors. Nothing dull like brown or gray or...” She sent Paul a mischievous smile.
