Josie giggled. “What’s candy ... corn?”
Poor little thing had never tasted any of the candy he used for nicknames. Paul described candy corn with his ears tuned to that German accent. He had no intention of leaving until after that man did. That jealous man.
Paul felt no jealousy in return. He’d never been the jealous sort anyway. And if Lucie had rebuffed Paul as a collaborator, a Nazi stood no chance at all. Most importantly, Lucie loved Paul and cared whether she fit in his future.
Josie giggled at the idea of candy crafted to look like a vegetable.
Paul intended to handcraft his future around the two ladies he loved.
33
FRIDAY, NOVEMBER21, 1941
Lucie had to be dreaming. How else could she smell the buttery scent of pastry?
Lying in bed, she opened her eyes. Golden light came from the kitchen, along with Marie-Claude and Véronique’s soft voices.
Lucie inhaled. Patisseries were forbidden to sell pastries to anyone but Germans. The French were allowed nothing but plain bread.
But the smell persisted. Penetrated. Tantalized.
Lucie pulled on her robe in the frosty apartment, stuffed her toes into her slippers, and padded into the kitchen. “What smells so good?”
Véronique sat at the table in her bathrobe. “Good morning. Would you like a croissant?”
“Croissant?”
Marie-Claude sat at the table in her stunning silver evening gown—from last night. She smirked and pointed to a pink pasteboard box. “Courtesy of Klaus von Behren.”
“Klaus?”
“Aren’t we glad he’s madly in love with Marie-Claude?” Véronique giggled and stroked a bowl full of at least a dozen eggs. “We can have omelettes for dinner.”
Eggs? Eggs were rationed, only two per month—if you could find them.
Numb, Lucie lowered herself into a chair. “When—when did this happen? With Klaus?”
Marie-Claude raised one artful eyebrow under disheveled black curls. “I talk about him all—oh, you are never here.”
Lucie squeezed her eyes shut and opened them, but her roommate still wore a smug smile and an evening gown at half past six in the morning. She’d just gotten home from a date with a German, and she didn’t look one mite guilty.
Véronique slipped a croissant onto a plate, golden and flaky. “How many times did he propose last night?”
“Every time he came up for air.”
Lucie clutched the knot of her bathrobe. “You’re marrying—”
“Heavens, no. He insists he’ll leave his wife for me, but I’m not foolish enough to fall for that lie. Besides, why would I leave the ballet to become a German hausfrau?”
“At least he takes you out and gives you food.” Véronique turned the box toward Lucie. “Croissant?”
The smell no longer tantalized. “No, thank you,” she said softly.
“No?” her roommates said together.
“I don’t want one.” She was hungry. Very hungry. But not for that, and she pushed back her chair. “Excuse me. I need to get dressed for work.”
Véronique stared at her. “You just asked what smelled so good.”
