If Theodor had been at that party masked and showed any interest, I would’ve gotten laid that night.
Surprised at that bizarre thought, I spring to my feet and check the water in the cup. It’s now reached the ideal temperature for tea. I dip the tea bag in it and return to my seat with the tin cup. While the tea is infusing, I nurse the warm cup in my hands.
“Do you mind if we read another letter from your phone to entertain ourselves?” Theodor asks. “Unless your battery is too low.”
I hand him the cup. “Spill the tea and I’ll hurt you.”
“Roger that.”
Pulling out my phone, I check the battery. “It’s fully charged.”
As I find the next letter, I wonder if it’ll be as hot as the ones we read in the restaurant. I hope I won’t blush.
This letter is from Simon to Elise in the summer of 1944. Even though he always asks her about their son, he never writes to him directly. Nor does he want her to show the boy his letters. Today a father wouldn’t be so distant, but I guess things were different eighty years ago.
From the way Simon talks about the bombing of German-occupied Chambéry by the Americans a couple of months earlier, I deduce he’s far away from home. But it’s hard to tell for sure. Just as in his previous letters, he’s intentionally vague about his whereabouts. Also, just as before, a good chunk of the letter is a declaration of his ardent, boundless, eternal love for his wife. And by “love,” he goes beyond the sentimental aspect of it.
When Theodor passes me the teacup, I don’t dare to glance at him.
“Drink before it grows cold,” he says.
I take a few sips, then return it to him. “Have some, too. I don’t know if it’s the tea itself, or the circumstances, but it tastes delicious.”
He drinks. “Oh, wow. You aren’t exaggerating.”
“I never do, Monsieur Theodor Delaroche.”
He passes me the cup.
While I savor more of the fragrant liquid, I feel his gaze on my face.
“Now that we’ve drunk from the same tin cup,” he says, “I think we can do away with ‘Monsieur Delaroche,’ and even with ‘Theodor.’”
“What should I call you then?”
“Theo. That’s what my friends and family call me.”
“Deal.” I shoot him a warning look. “Don’t you dare shorten me to Ellie, or Lise, or Elle, or any other variant. I only answer to Elise.”
“Understood.”
“Good.” Shifting in my seat, I return my attention to Simon’s letter.
There’s another story I want to tell you, mon amour. I had befriended an officer, a highborn man, very stiff upper lip. In short, nothing like your husband. Yesterday, before leaving the base, he petted Biscuit longer than usual. There was a funny, detached look on his face.
He walked right up to me and removed a pendant from around his neck.
“May I leave this with you for safekeeping?” he asked.
It was an old key, not gold or anything, but it had a beautifully crafted head.
“A souvenir?” I asked.
“A family heirloom,” he said. “If I don’t come back, will you keep it?”
“Don’t you want me to deliver it to your mother?” I asked.
He wasn’t married. His father had fallen during the Great War, and his brother had been executed three months ago.
