Beatrix reaches across the bed for a pillow and tosses it at Oliver’s head. He catches it and sits next to her. The mattress sinks, tilting her toward him. “We’re going south.”
“Brighton?” She doesn’t think they need a sleeper berth for that.
“London.” Oliver kisses her lips, giddy with excitement. “To Dover.” He kisses her again. “To Dunkirk.” Another kiss. “To Paris.”
Beatrix pulls away. “Paris?”
Oliver springs from the bed and pulls her toward the windows. He lifts the shade to reveal Platform 2 and a bold, illuminated sign. A yellow crescent moon hangs in an indigo sky with a scattering of white stars,The Night Ferryemblazoned across it in capital letters. Below it, their destination: Paris.
Her head swims, and she sinks onto the sofa. She has seen advertisements for theNight Ferryall along the underground. They will take the train to Dover, where it will be loaded inside a ferry heading overnight to Dunkirk. The next morning, the train will be placed back on its track and sent on its way to Paris. They never even need to get off.
“But it will take us nearly twelve hours to get there.” They’ll be lucky to make it to a hotel before he disappears on her.
Oliver sits next to her. “Twelve hours and you’re counting down already, aren’t you?”
She grimaces. He knows her too well.
He leans in. His eyes are practically sparkling. “You better restart your count. At three.”
Her guts twist. “Three hours? Is that all?” She didn’t mean to say it aloud. She should be grateful he is here with her. But three hours won’t get him halfway across the Channel, let alone to her birthday tomorrow.
He tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Three days.”
She’s dumbstruck.
Oliver grins. “I told you at St. Paul’s. I don’t want to miss a second of your birthday.”
“But—how?”
He leans back on the sofa. “Leave the logistics to me. Well, to Lucy.”
But Beatrix is already calculating the cost. Three entire days spent with her will take weeks of Oliver’s life to accomplish. “It’s too much time. I can’t accept.”
Oliver holds her gaze. “When was the last time you celebrated your birthday?”
She hesitates. He raises an eyebrow at her, waiting.
“Never,” she mumbles.
“Sorry, what was that?” he asks.
“I have never celebrated my birthday.”
“Then you’re right. I have made a terrible mistake,” he says gravely. “Three days in Paris are barely adequate to celebrate four hundred and seventy-nine birthdays. I’m going to have to get you a card, too.”
A smile twitches at the corners of her lips. “You’ll have a hard time finding one at the shops.”
Oliver laughs. “Are you suggesting I make you a card? Because not to brag, but I am pretty good with a box of crayons.”
Beatrix can’t help but laugh, too. Oliver pulls her close and kisses her on the temple. “Come to Paris with me,” he says, low in her ear.
She looks out the window at the crescent moon glowing on the sign,at the wordPariswritten beneath it. “Are you sure this is what you want?” she asks. She means,Are you sure you won’t regret this?
“Right now, spending three days in Paris with you is the only thing I want,” Oliver says, and the way he says it—like he has never been more certain of anything in his life—raises goose bumps across her skin.
“Me, too.”
July 19, 1960En route to Paris, France
