The image filled in, her pencil shading in dimension, capturing the bend of his mouth, the curve of his hairline, the radiance in his eyes.
At the end of the message, Ivy stuffed her notepad in her purse, and she bumbled her way through the closing hymn. But now what? The thought of seeing him again...
Instead, she faced Mrs. Galais and asked about her plans for the day. Mrs. Galais chatted about having dinner with Mrs. Le Huquet, and Fern slipped into the aisle to talk to a friend. Ivy simply needed to stay in the pew long enough for the golden-haired man to leave.
“Good morning, Mr. Picot,” a man said from the aisle.
Mr. Picot? Charlie was only fifteen.
Ivy glanced behind her. Over Charlie’s shoulder, she saw a man with white-blond hair. And beside him ... her golden-haired man.
His gaze pulled her closer. His eyes shimmered in the most arresting shade of aquamarine, the same shade as the waters in St. Aubin’s Bay, not far from shore. How often had she tried to capture that color but failed? She could duplicate the shade, but not the luminous translucence. Now that same color shone in this man’s eyes.
Charlie was talking to the two men, but the words slipped by. Then Charlie glanced back at her. “Ivy, I’d like you to meet Bernardus Kroon and Gerrit van der Zee.”
Gerrit was his name. Gerrit, and the cord entwined once more.
“Gentlemen, this is my sister, Dr. Ivy Picot.” Charlie stepped into the aisle to allow the shaking of hands.
Gerrit van der Zee wore a uniform. A brown uniform with a khaki shirt and a black tie and a black belt. With black shoulder straps piped in red.
With a red swastika armband and another armband below it that read “Org. Todt.”
The organization that enslaved and beat and starved its workers.
The cord of connection snapped, recoiled, tangled into a knot. Ivy stifled a gasp. The sting of it.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” The first man extended a hand to her.
Something sad swam in the sea of Gerrit’s eyes, and he did not reach out to her. “It is indeed a pleasure, Dr. Picot.”
Ivy hated to be rude, but she refused to shake hands with German soldiers. She gave them a tight-lipped hint of a smile. “Come along, Charlie.”
“But Fern isn’t—”
“We’ll meet her at home.” She gripped Charlie’s arm and steered him past the two Nazis.
“Ivy, what are you doing? Don’t be rude.”
“They’re Germans,” she muttered.
“They’re Dutch.”
In the clear air outside, Ivy hauled in long breaths to cleanse her mind. Yes, van der Zee sounded Dutch. She continued her march home. “They wear German uniforms. You shouldn’t talk to them.”
Charlie wrested his arm free. “They come to my boat for inspections. I like them. They aren’t like the others.”
“No.” Ivy gave her head a series of tiny shakes to dislodge the stubborn sensation of connection. “No, they’re worse. Only volunteers are allowed to wear German uniforms. They’re collaborating with the enemy that occupied their country—and ours. Worse than collaborators. They’re traitors.”
“They’re not like—”
“I don’t want to hear another word about them.” Her voice sounded shrill. “You mustn’t talk to them unless it’s absolutely necessary.”
“I’m not a little boy.” His upper lip curled.
Ivy took slow breaths to calm down, to tease out her emotions from Charlie’s situation. “No, you aren’t. You’re a young man, and young men must be extra careful.”
“I understand.” Charlie’s expression melted into rueful resignation. “If I’m seen as a friend to them, the Picots will be seen as collaborators. That would be bad for the practice.”
