“You don’t sell ... the underground press?” he asked in a voice as low as hers.
“They don’t distribute in stores.”
Paul didn’t want to waste their few minutes in semiprivate talking about journals. “How are you?”
“Missing you.”
They were isolated enough. Paul could embrace her, steal a kiss. But Lucie held herself stiff, and her gaze darted between journal and door. An embrace would be dangerously distracting.
He leaned closer until his arm met hers. “I miss you too.”
She turned her head enough to reveal a whisper of a smile. “Any news on our plans?”
“My contact is setting up a rendezvous in Orléans.” Bentley was his contact, a man Lucie knew—all the more reason not to reveal his name.
Lucie nodded, her attention on the door.
“Josie’s grandparents live in Orléans. I told Colonel Schiller I didn’t want Josie in an internment camp with me but living free with her grandparents. He granted me permission to take her to them if an internment order goes out.”
But Simone’s parents were the last people he’d want raising Josie. They’d been indifferent to Simone and had shown no interest in Josie the few times they’d seen her. Simone had weathered their neglect, but she was strong-willed and brash. Josie was sensitive and gentle, and she’d wither.
Lucie squinted out the window at a couple on the street, but they passed by. “I’m ready to leave. My bag is in the office. Monsieur Meow and Feenee live there when they aren’t performing.”
Paul resisted the urge to press a kiss to Lucie’s temple. How considerate of her. Josie would have been heartbroken if the puppets were abandoned.
Josie sat on the floor in her blue coat, lining up balls by color, and Paul nudged Lucie. “I love watching you with the children.”
Her face softened. “I do love them.”
She would be an incredible mother someday, and Paul prayed he could be the father.
The door opened, and Lucie eased away from Paul. An elderly couple entered.
“Bonjour,” she said. “May I help you?”
“Oui,” the gentleman said. “Do you have a French-English dictionary? My grandson is learning English.”
“Excuse me, sir,” Lucie said to Paul, then she glided off to a bookshelf near the cash register. She pressed up to her toes to reach the top shelf, one leg lifting to a thirty-degree angle behind her.
The lady raised her eyebrows in a curious way. How many booksellers danced on their toes?
“Voilà!” Lucie settled down to earth and described the dictionary to the couple.
Paul thumbed through the journal. At Green Leaf Books, he could almost forget the chaos in the world. On October 31, a German U-boat had sunk the destroyer USSReuben James, killing over one hundred American sailors. Even though the incident had led to nothing but diplomatic noise, Paul had come close to grabbing his daughter and Lucie and trekking off on his own.
But trying to cross the demarcation line without either official passes or resistance help would get all three of them shot. He had to wait and do it right.
At least the strike at Aubrey Automobiles had gone well. After a week of loud but toothless striking, Schiller had promised increased rations at the factory canteen. Moreau had faked reluctant concession, and the strike ended.
Not only had they deprived the Germans of a week’s worth of trucks, but Schiller saw Paul as an ally who stood up to labor’sdemands. Surely he’d never think Paul would engage in resistance activities with those same laborers.
After the couple left with the dictionary, Lucie chatted with the young ladies at the table by the window, then returned to Paul with her mesmerizing step.
He welcomed her back behind the journal. “I haven’t told you, but you inspired a new car design.”
“Me?”
“I call it the Aurabesque. All our car models start withAu.”
