Ivy still stood, her hands in stiff knobs at her sides.
Gerrit’s insides contracted to a writhing lump. “I apologize, Dr. Picot. I wouldn’t have accepted the invitation if I’d known.”
Charlie’s face approached the shade of Fern’s dress. “I promise, I didn’t—”
“I know, Charlie.” Ivy didn’t remove her stony gaze from her sister’s face.
Charlie huffed. “Fern, why would you do such a—”
“Oh dear.” Fern lowered herself to her chair with a flat smile. “We mustn’t argue in front of guests, Charlie. Please do be seated.”
What had Gerrit walked into? Had Fern arranged this behind her sister’s back? For what reason? Well, he wouldn’t be a part of it.
He directed a polite smile to his hostess. “Thank you again for the invitation, but I must decline.”
“Nonsense.” Fern patted the table. “Charlie is allowed to invite his friends, isn’t he, Ivy? Dad and Mum loved to show hospitality to strangers, and we couldn’t turn away a guest on Christmas Day. Poor Gerrit has nowhere else to go.”
Gerrit’s left foot edged toward the door. “Actually, I could—”
“Please be seated, Gerrit.” Fern patted the table again. “Ivy, doesn’t the rector say we should love our enemies and pray for those who persecute us?”
Gerrit winced and stiffened.
Ivy’s mouth formed a taut little circle, and spots of red darkened her round cheeks. A quick intake of air, and she thumped down into her chair.
For months, Gerrit had longed to spend time with Ivy. But not like this.
He sat, but inside he erected a wall facing Fern Le Corre, a woman who bent words and people. He’d been bent and so had Charlie, but something told him Ivy was the intended target.
“Please excuse the informality. Charlie, would you please passthe roast pork?” Fern picked up a bowl of parsnips and carrots. “I’m afraid this is simple fare. Although I was able to purchase the traditional pork, I couldn’t make thepodin d’Noué—the Christmas pudding. However, I made a rather nice blancmange.”
When the dishes came Gerrit’s way, he took small portions. The islanders faced strict rationing, while he was fed well at his billet. Besides, the fuming tension in the room stole his appetite.
After Charlie spoke a blessing, Mrs. Galais sliced her pork and sent Gerrit a sweet smile. “I am glad you’re here, dear Gerrit. I’ve wanted to become better acquainted, but Sunday mornings fly by.”
“They do.” He didn’t have to force a smile. Mrs. Galais and Bernardus were the only people on this island who made him feel like his old self. Not the resistance warrior Charlie saw, nor the dutiful Nazi the OT men saw, nor the slimy collaborator everyone else saw. Just himself.
“Where are you from in the Netherlands?” Mrs. Galais asked. “Do you have family?”
Gerrit swallowed a bite of potato, appropriately salted, even though salt was rationed. “Amsterdam. My parents live there with my two younger sisters. Fine girls. I miss them.”
“I can see.” Mrs. Galais wore her silver hair back in a knot. “Do you have a wife? Children? A sweetheart?”
“None, I’m afraid.” That wouldn’t change anytime soon, if ever, and he sliced his pork with more vigor than required. “How about you, Mrs. Galais? Have you always lived in Jersey?”
“Oh yes. Like the Picots, I come from old Norman stock.”
“And your family?”
“My precious husband passed away ten years ago. I have one daughter, Edna, and two grandsons. They’re away fighting for England.”
“You must be proud.” Gerrit lifted a forkful of parsnip and paused. He hadn’t seen Mrs. Galais with a woman Edna’s age. “Does your daughter live in Jersey?”
A shadow passed over Mrs. Galais’s hazel eyes. “I’m afraid sheand her husband were deported to Germany in September. Frank was born in England.”
“Oh no. I’m sorry to hear that.” Silence pressed hard over the table, and Gerrit didn’t know how to lift it.
“I have a question, Mr. van der Zee.” Ivy had spoken. To him. Although her gaze was intent on the rhythm of fork and knife on her plate.
