He wiggled the knot of his forest-green tie and mirrored her smile.
“Or beige,” Lucie said. “Only happy colors.”
Her happiness flowed to the children, and Josie bounced inher seat as her stories came to life. Paul could watch the two of them all day, every day, forever.
“One day those mean rock-monsters came back to town—with fishing poles.” Lucie held up a pencil with a string dangling from it. “‘You beat us last time, Feenee,’ the rock-monsters cried, ‘but this time you can’t stop us. We’ll fish all the tuna out of your river so your kitty-cat friends can’t have any.’”
“Oh no!” The towhead popped up from his chair.
“Oh no, indeed.” Lucie motioned the child back to his seat. “Monsieur Meow loves his tuna fish.”
Paul didn’t have the heart to mention tuna swam in oceans, not rivers.
“Feenee was scared.” Lucie sprang to her toes and zigzagged backward with tiny steps, making her skirt swing around her knees. “But she was also brave. She couldn’t let the rock-monsters steal the tuna fish. So she went to her friend Monsieur Meow.”
Lucie twirled to a bookshelf, and when she twirled back, Monsieur Meow covered her other hand. “Monsieur Meow had an idea, and he ran off to gather the kitty-cats. Then Feenee went to the top of the hill. A road ran down the hill to the river, where those mean rock-monsters sat with their fishing poles. Then Feenee blew the horn on her head—Toot-toodle-oo! Can you say that, children? Toot-toodle-oo!”
The children called out, “Toot-toodle-oo!”
Josie grinned back at Paul, so he said it too—and his daughter giggled.
Lucie held up a bowl. “Then all the kitty-cats came out of the houses on that road, and each had a ball of colorful Feenee spaghetti hair.”
Monsieur Meow reached into the bowl and pulled out a bright green ball.
“What do you think the kitty-cats did? They did what kitty-cats do best—they batted those balls. And the balls rolled downthe hill.” Lucie poured out the bowl, and colorful balls rolled around.
The children squealed and grabbed at them.
Lucie swept her hand in front of her. “The balls smacked into the rock-monsters, knocked them into the river, and they were washed away. Hooray!”
Paul chuckled. Parisian color sweeping away Nazi gray.
If only Paris had a kitty-cat army.
Then again, who could command cats?
“Remember, boys and girls,” Lucie said. “Always help your friends. And look for bits of color. You never know when they’ll come in handy. Now, you may each take a ball home. I’m afraid they don’t bounce—just papier-mâché wrapped with fabric, but they’re colorful. And make sure you come back next week.”
The children picked out colors and ran to their parents. How many would be here next week?
The American flight from Paris continued, and last week Bentley Young had sent Alice to Lisbon to sail home.
“Isn’t it pretty, Daddy?” Josie cradled a walnut-sized ball of bright pink satin.
“Not as pretty as you.” He tweaked her chin. “Why don’t you pick up the extra balls and put them in the bowl for Miss Girard?”
“Okay. Can you hold this?”
“Sure.” Paul stared at the brilliant pink. Had he ever in his life touched anything that color?
After the families left, Lucie sent Bernadette home. Only two young women remained in the store, seated by the window.
Lucie came to Paul and motioned to a rack near the office. “Josie’s occupied with the balls. Stand here, where you can see Josie and I can see the door. Pretend you’re interested in the literary journals.”
Pretending would be required. He picked up a copy ofComœdia. “Do you recommend this?”
She shrugged. “It’s moderate for a journal allowed by the government. We don’t carry most of them—horrid, fascist, antisemitic rags.”
