“After the arabesque.” The shape of her lips as she smiled inspired other thoughts as well.
Paul turned his attention to the safety of the journal. “I’ve always considered form the least important part of car design. Sure, the body should be attractive, but it mainly serves to contain the engine and passengers. However, with this model the form came first. Now I’m designing a car to fit it. Form and function go together. They always have. I can use this concept to build better cars.”
Her face took on a dreamy look. “Art and engineering working together.”
“Because of you.” His voice rasped. “I love you so much.”
The two young ladies entered the nonfiction area, only fifteen feet away, and they perused a bookshelf.
Lucie edged away and studied the journal. “You mustn’t talk that way.”
The truth strangled his heart. No, he mustn’t talk that way, not in a world where they couldn’t be seen together outside this store, where every sentence needed to be in code, where either one of them could be arrested and shot.
“No,” he said in his lowest voice. “That kind of talk is for another world. Not ours.”
Lucie sighed and watched her customers browse. “You can imagine such a world, can’t you?”
“I can.”
She raised eyes brimming with idealistic determination. “If you can imagine it, you can work for it. And if you work for it, someday you might be able to achieve it.”
Paul lost himself in her enthusiasm. If you couldn’t imagine it, sketch it, plan it, it would never come to pass. Wasn’t that what the resistance was doing? Daring to imagine a world without rock-monsters? Daring to roll colorful balls downhill? Even if they failed, at least they’d dared.
The two women selected a book and returned to their table.
“Paul? What do you imagine when you return to Massachusetts?” Her voice sounded thin. She wasn’t asking about building cars.
It was too early, far too early, but vulnerability in her eyes broke down his inhibitions. “I imagine us. As a family.”
She squeezed her eyes shut. “Do you? Can you imagine me in your world?”
Paul’s stomach muscles tightened. “I can’t imagine it without you.”
“Can you see me as a bourgeois wife, going to luncheons and sitting on committees and whatever else women do in your world? I don’t fit there.”
“I hope not.”
She gaped at him.
Paul tipped up half a smile. “Simone was a race car driver. She didn’t sit on committees, although she was always busy. I don’t know what I’d do with what you call a bourgeois wife.”
“But you have ... functions. Didn’t Simone have to attend with you?”
“She survived. You would too. You’re friendly and charming and knowledgeable about the arts.” Paul lowered his voice to a murmur. “Who wouldn’t love you?”
“Excuse me, Miss Girard.” A male voice with a thick German accent.
Paul schooled himself not to startle and look guilty, and he looked up as if unperturbed.
That skinny German officer stood before them in his gray overcoat. Frowning.
“Good day, Lieutenant,” Lucie said in a lukewarm tone Paul knew well. “May I help you?”
“You are”—he narrowed his eyes at Paul—“occupied.”
“Please.” Paul smiled at Lucie and motioned to the officer. “Thank you for recommending this journal, Miss Girard. I’ll see how many books my daughter has picked out.”
He joined Josie at the little green table. “What are you reading, candy corn?”
