Marcel stood and pushed the bench back underneath the keyboard. “How do you remember every contact in Alliance, even the ones you’ve never met before?”
“Touché.” Since they were the only ones left in the room, she let the tips of her fingers brush over his wrist as she turned toward the exit.
He let her get nearly to the door before snagging her by the waist, spinning her around, and pressing her to the wall—out of sight of anyone in the hallway—with a spark of mischief in his eyes and a matching grin on his lips.
“I love you,” he murmured a moment before his mouth claimed hers.
Her head swam as she kissed him, like it had every other time. A reminder that there was still joy, even in a world of sorrow. Still light, even in a world of darkness. Still music, even in a world of silence. It didn’t last long, that kiss, but it would buoy her up until he came back from Rouen. “You know,” she whispered when he’d put a breath of space between them, “I love the notes you leave me. But I do believe I like hearing it even more from your lips.”
Those lips kissed her again. “I love you.” Again. “I love you.” Again. “I love you.”
She’d honestly believed she’d never say those words to a man again. But for him, they tasted like music on her tongue. “I love you.” She couldn’t resist one more kiss.
And couldn’t regret it, even when a familiar throat clearing had Marcel easing back a step. Zelie looked over to find Marguerite half in the door, grinning like an absolute imp.
Her friend lifted a finger. “I’ll say it once, then my lips are sealed. Itoldyou so.”
Zelie didn’t mind at all.
Twenty-Five
1 OCTOBER 1942
PARIS, FRANCE
Marcel had already been sitting on the bench, newspaper open, fifteen minutes before Vivi strolled by, a tote on her arm. She didn’t so much as look his way, and he glanced up only as long as he had at every other passerby, then back down at his newspaper.
A guard stopped her before the doors of the old fortress. “Business?”
“I’m here to get my son’s laundry.”
“His name?”
“Lucien Vallet.” She said it without a hitch, as if that were the name she’dalwaysgiven when someone asked her son’s name.
“Papers?”
She dug them out—not her real papers, of course, but the ones Zelie’s forger had given her.
“I don’t see your name on the list of relatives.”
They’d known this would be a problem, hence why those papers didn’t list her as Vivianne Vallet, but rather Vivianne Curie. It gave her a good reason to huff and say, “Can I be blamed if yourlist is incomplete? All these months my boy has been held in Free France, and could I get a pass to go and see him, make sure he had food and clean clothes? No.Denied, they said every time.Denied, denied, denied.Now finally he is here, and will you deny me now too, when everyoneelseis let in to clean their family’s clothes?”
The idea was to overwhelm the guard with her chatter, and given the fellow’s huff, she was succeeding.
“Pardon,madame. I am only doing my job. Your name is not on my list, and you do not even have the same surname.”
“And now I’ll be punished for remarrying after my saint of a first husband, my Lucien’s father, went to the angels? Is that a crime in your country? Idiocy! Why would I try to sneak in here to wash astranger’sunderwear, hm? Is it not enough that I’ve buried two of my five children, a husband, and now my son is arrested and has been held for nearly ayearwithout trial? For what, I ask you? No one will even tell me that! I only even know he’sherebecause a friend of his in the south let me know he was finally,finallycoming close to home again.”
“All right, calm down,madame. Let me check with my superior.”
Good. Marcel pressed his lips against a grin and flipped a sheet of newsprint. Much of the time, individual Germans could be counted on to be decent human beings. Lothar was a perfect example, as was that Luftwaffe officer outside Cannes.
Since a few pedestrians were doing the same, he peeked over his shoulder at Vivi.
She didn’t break character, just stood there with a flush of anger in her cheeks, a wooden-soled shoe tapping in impatience, and her arms crossed in determination.
Perfect. He’d known as soon as Zelie asked him to do this that he was going to need help—he couldn’t claim to be Lucien’s brother, there was too much risk of someone recognizing him from his posters.
