He ducked. Scooted a few inches away.
Zelie let her fingers fall. He was old enough to understand—so she would tell him. Be honest about the reasons for all of this. “I need you to come with me.” This time she didn’t pose it as a question—she stated it in the same tone of voice she used to dole out instructions to her agents. “We leave in half an hour.”
Before he could object, she pushed back to her feet, waved at Elise, and let herself into the kitchen.
When Zelie was a child, she couldn’t ever remember finding her mother in the kitchen, unless she was checking on something with their chef. When Maman had said they’d be staying at thefarmhouse on the property and she’d be cooking their meals, Zelie had been dubious.
But Lizette Bridou, despite her finishing school education and years as the pampered wife of a diplomat, looked perfectly at home in the kitchen, an apron over her outdated dress and her hands white with the flour she kneaded into bread dough.
Zelie leaned against the workbench, far enough away to avoid the fine cloud that went whooshing out with each new punch. “Where did you learn to do that? I couldn’t bake a loaf of bread to save my life.”
Maman sent her a teasing smile. “Of course you could, if someone showed you once—and you paid attention. I learned while you and Antoine were both off at school. The days were too empty, the house too quiet. I discovered I love baking. Bread, pastries... you know, all the things so difficult to come by these days with the rations.”
Zelie watched the ease with which her mother stretched and pressed the dough. “You never did it when we were home.”
“Well, it wasn’t exactly acceptable for a woman of my position, was it? And besides, when you were home, I wanted to be withyou, not in the kitchen.” She sent a pointed look outside.
Zelie bristled. “I was only coming in to ask for the list of things you need from town. Blaise and I are going to do your errand running for you.”
Maman’s gaze flicked her way. “You don’t have to do that. I can go, you should—”
“No. I need a bit of time with Blaise, just the two of us.” She straightened, lifted her chin.
Her mother chuckled. “When did you get so good at giving orders?”
June,she thought but wouldn’t say. But that wasn’t quite true, was it? She’d been the one giving most of the orders long before Navarre left for Algeria. But while her mother knew what she wasabout, Zelie had decided long ago not to burden her with too many details. So she went for the lighter answer and winked. “I learned from the best, Maman.”
Laughter spilled. “You never listened to me a day in your life.”
“Of course I did!” She paused, tilted her head. “Eventually. Most of the time.”
“Some of the time. After trying your own way first.” Maman flicked a speck of precious flour at her and then, when piano notes wound through the air like a breeze, she let out a happy breath. “I miss hearing you play.”
Zelie laughed and reached for the mug of coffee she hadn’t finished earlier. It was cold, but never mind that. She wasn’t about to let it go to waste. “You’re not hearing menow. Though Marcel is an improvement, to be sure.”
“If I were to close my eyes—and if you weren’t here talking to me—I could convince myself it’s you.” She closed her eyes in demonstration and gave the dough under her hands a pat, then reached for a towel to drape over it. “He’s in love with you, you know.”
Zelie choked on the sip she’d been swallowing. She set the mug down before she dropped it and coughed the fluid from her protesting lungs.
Maman, of course, stood on and watched her with a smirk. “You can’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”
A thump of her fist upon her chest didn’t actuallyhelp, but it at least presented a visual excuse for her lack of answer.
Maman waited her out. As Maman always did.
At least this time the watering of her eyes wasn’t from emotion. Zelie coughed once more and wiped away the moisture. “It isn’t like that.”
Maman gave a ladylike snort. She moved to the sink and used the old pump to wash her hands. “If you’re going to start lying to yourself, Zelie, I’ll have to come to Marseille and shake some sense into you.”
She would, too. “I’m not lying to myself. I... yes, I know he looks at me in a certain way, but it’s not love, not like you mean. We’re friends. I’m his boss.” He prayed for her every day. Knew what to play on Wednesday nights to lure her into singing. Had taken to sending records home with her of pieces she mentioned loving. “That’s all.”
How many times had her mother sent her that look? The one that said,I don’t believe you for a second. Try again.
Zelie moved to one of the hard chairs and sank onto it. “Men always look at me like that. It doesn’t mean anything.”
Another of the looks. “Navarre? Henri? Lucien? Haveanyof the men you work with looked at you like that?”
Her brows knit. “Now that you mention it, no.”
