“I didn’t... I didn’t really know anyone made mac-n-cheese except from the box. The bright orange kind, with powder.”
“Well, now you know,” Maxine said, scooping a steaming spoonful onto Cady’s plate. “My mama made it for us all the time. Sometimes she’d put a little bacon or chicken in there, or add peas and carrots to get us to eat vegetables. Whatever she felt like—that’s the beauty of a go-to recipe. Try it.”
Cady could barely eat for the lump in her throat. She put down her fork, willing herself not to cry, but it didn’t work. A little hiccup escaped, and then she put her head in her hands and sniffled.
Maxine said nothing. When Cady looked up, Maxine had a bemused look on her face and the whisper of a smile.
“It’s nothing special, child. I just mix macaroni with a couple of different cheeses and a little cream. Would you like me to teach you how?”
After that, they spent many hours together in the kitchen, trying new recipes and perfecting Cady’s “go-to” dishes. They shucked corn, fried chicken, made cornmeal pizza and fresh-tossed salads from whatever was in season at the farmers market. Maxine encouraged Cady to try foods she’d never eaten before, like eggplant—which was not related in any way to eggs, she discovered to her surprise—and persimmons, figs, and fish that wasn’t tuna and didn’t come from a can.
The first dinner Cady made for Maxine all by herself was a simple vegetable stir-fry. Maxine couldn’t stop exclaiming about how delicious it was. Cady, her eyes on her plate, was embarrassed but pleased to the tips of her toes.
When they finished, Maxine put down her fork with a sigh and said, “Cady, if I can get through all the paperwork and the bureaucratic nonsense, would you like to come and live with me?”
And once again, Cady burst into tears.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
1944
PARIS
Fabrice
Paris was nearly emptied of young, healthy men. Almost two million were prisoners of war; others fled with General de Gaulle and the Free French to London; thousands more were missing or hiding. Fabrice was often stopped and questioned, his papers demanded. But he was young enough to escape suspicion, and he had blond hair, which the Nazis idolized.
Still, women and girls could more easily move through the city, so they were the primary couriers, carrying weapons and incriminating documents.
Members of the Résistance were not the only ones who showed bravery. A young music student named Vivou Chevrillon played her violin outside the wall of a Compiègne concentration camp, hoping her friend inside would recognize the song. A gallery owner named Jeanne Bucher defiantly showed the work of Kandinsky and other despised abstract artists, many of whom were Jewish.
But most citizens resisted in more prosaic ways. By managing to get enough to eat, Parisians demonstrated they would not be starved into submission. At the theater or in the movies whenever a banquet scenecame on, the audience would cheer. Also, since no one knew who could be trusted, food became the constant—and only truly safe—topic of conversation: What can you find to eat? Where can you find it? How can you make dubious ingredients appetizing?
Fabrice’s new friends would taunt and tease one another with descriptions of their favorite meals and menus. Paulette loved to recite recipes from her hometown:truite Provençal, daube—a kind of traditional stew—tapenade,pan bagnat.
Fabrice didn’t care what she spoke about; he cherished the lilt of her voice. He listened, rapt, as she talked about picking bouquets ofmuguets—lilies of the valley—in the forests surrounding her village. Paulette had an entrancing way of tilting her head when she paid attention, and she would do this when listening to Fabrice, as though trying to figure him out.
He felt accepted by her, as though she understood him. His parents called him “moody,” implying that his seesaw emotions were troubling and wrong. But Paulette seemed undaunted when he was miserable one moment and euphoric the next.
“You are an intelligent, passionate young man,” she said with an endearing shrug. “That is the way of it.C’est normal.”
Also, though his parents had discouraged his fervent love of words, Paulette assured him his writings were playing a part in history, in the rescue of La Belle France. Fabrice thrilled at her comments, and while he printed pamphlet after pamphlet, virtually asleep on his feet, he would imagine what it would be like to take her into his arms, to be able to claim her, to make a home together.
Sometimes Fabrice would go by the doctor’s office, hoping to catch a glimpse of her, even though he was supposed to keep his distance from Dr. Duhamel except when absolutely necessary.
One night they shared a flacon of wine with Claude and the Belgian in the back room of the printshop. When the others left, Fabrice found his courage. He leaned in toward Paulette.
She shook her head, pulling back. “You are very young,mon petit garçon.”
“I’m notthatyoung,” he whispered in return. Perhaps it was the fervor in his voice, his absolute conviction. Perhaps it was the wine. But whatever the reason, she reached one graceful hand to him and ran her long finger across his smooth cheek where the whiskers did not yet grow. The pad of her finger left a trail of tingling heat on his skin.
She dropped her hand and blew out a long breath.
“It is because of this war,” Paulette said. She gave him a shaky smile, but her sky blue eyes were filled with sorrow.
“Whatis because of this war?” Fabrice asked in a quiet voice, searching her face.
“That you are having these feelings. We are a generation out of place, Fabrice. Our childhoods have been robbed, ripped from our hands as surely as the Germans rob us of our food and art, our happiness, our very souls.”
