Joan’s eyes went cool. “Yes.”
“Why do you still...?” She knew better than to speak of their work.
Joan’s eyelids crimped at the mere allusion to that work. Then she scanned the shop with a languid gaze, took a little steel tray, and poured tablets into it. “I trust you.” Her words were almost lost amidst the rat-a-tat of tablets on steel.
Ivy’s throat ballooned over the thanks she should have expressed.
With a metal spatula, Joan scooted tablets in families of five into a chute attached to the side of the tray. “Her reputation serves as an excellent decoy.”
Decoy? Why, yes. Since the entire Picot family had been smeared as collaborators, no one would suspect Ivy of defying the Nazis.
Joan tipped the tray, and the tablets slid down the chute into a glass vial. She flicked up her gaze to Ivy. “She knows nothing.” Was that a statement or a question?
“Since she no longer works for the practice, I don’t discuss patients with her. Even when she did work with me, I only told her what she needed to know for scheduling and billing.”
Joan smoothed a label on the vial and handed it to Ivy. “Mr. Hooper will pay me later.”
Every word veiled, keeping up the appearances of an ordinary transaction.
Keeping up appearances? Ivy’s breath rushed in. Was Dr. Tipton part of the ring? He’d praised her in private for “her actions” but shamed her in public. If he were in the ring, that would make sense.
The question grew in her mouth, but she chewed it to bits. With the Germans, one arrest always led to a dozen. The less each of them knew about the others, the better.
“Is that all for today?” Joan asked.
“Yes.” Ivy tucked the vial in her bag. Her fingers brushed her sketch pad, and she pulled it out. “I have something else for you. A little sketch.”
She tore out the drawing and handed it to the chemist.
Joan stared at it, completely still, except her lips, which rolled in.
Ivy had drawn Joan at work, intent on turning wildflowers into healing medicine. A wisp of a smile hinted at the chemist’s satisfaction and enjoyment. Although Joan kept her hair neat, Ivy had drawn half a dozen curls floating free, and she’d used a splash of watercolor to bring out the auburn in those curls, a stroke of peach on her cheeks, spots of yellow on the flowers.
The drawing showed what Ivy saw in Joan—a woman who cared about her patients, a woman dedicated to her craft, but also a woman who lived outside the expectations of others.
Joan didn’t move, and the peach of her cheeks deepened.
Did she hate it? No one would call her a beautiful woman, and Ivy hadn’t hidden the pointiness of Joan’s chin. Fern had hated Ivy’s drawing with similar sharp lines, called it ugly, called Ivy cruel. “I—I’m—”
“You did this for me?” Joan’s voice faltered, her eyelashes fluttered, and her mouth edged up. “It’s rather—well, it’s rather nice, isn’t it?”
She liked it, and Ivy’s smile unfurled.
“I need to close shop.” Joan hefted her chin and spun away. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Joan de Ferrers, who knew only the poison of feminine relationships, didn’t know what to do with the sweetness.
“Yes,” Ivy said. “Tomorrow.”
Joan shot her a glance over her shoulder, the jerk of an unpracticed smile.
Ivy smiled back and departed. Gerrit had said art brought her life, like food for her mind and soul. Even more so when it nourished others.
chapter
17
St. Peter’s Parish
