Cady managed a smile.
He handed her some euros. “Here, for the groceries. For yesterday, and today.”
“Thank you, but I’m happy to pay for them. It’s a contribution to the household. You’re kind to let me stay here.”
“I’m not kind.”
“But you let me stay here.”
He looked at her again, doing that strange tilt of the head, as though trying to figure something out, or preparing to say something. It was there and gone so quickly that Cady wondered if she imagined it. But she had seen it once before: the first time they had met, outside, when he was holding a shotgun on her and Jean-Paul.
“Take the money, Cady,” Fabrice said. He left the cash on the counter, grabbed his crutch, and shuffled out to the hall. Lucy got up slowly, stretched again, then turned to follow him.
“Lucy, come here, pup.” Cady called Lucy back, picked up the leash and camera, put on her coat and hat, and took the dog outside for her walk.
Dewdrops sparkled in the slanting morning sun; longer shafts of grass held several in a row, like a string of beads. The dewdrops twinkled and winked, casting their light first this way, then that, now violet, now blue, now green, as through a prism.
Cady’s photographer mind immediately strategized how to capture them from the best angle: on her belly in the mud, using a telephoto lens. Her Argus camera would be best. But she knew from experience that it was impossible. It was like taking photos of sunsets: Even the prettiest photo could not capture the true multidimensional magic of the ever-changing light.
Dewdrops refracting the clear light of morning, Cady decided, were a lesson in enjoying the temporal, the ephemeral.
Lucy spied a jackrabbit and nearly yanked Cady’s arm out of its socket attempting to give chase, but otherwise she trotted along calmly, looking up at Cady with bright eyes, as though to telegraph how happyshe was to be sharing this beautiful morning. The dog seemed to embody the Zen notion of living for the moment, reveling in the here and now: the scents in the bushes, the wetness of the grass under her paws, the simple pleasure of taking a walk with a friend.
Not many foster homes kept animals, so the only other pet Cady knew well was the nearly feral tabby Maxine had rescued, named Daisy. It was an ugly, cranky thing of uncertain heritage who spat at anyone who approached. Nonetheless, Daisy had pride of place on a chifforobe in the shop. About a year after Cady began working at the store, she arrived one morning to find Maxine crying, bent over a too-still mound of orange-and-gray fur. Daisy had passed away during the night.
Cady remembered observing Maxine’s grief and thinking,This is what it’s like to love something that is unlovable.
• • •
Cady walked Lucy farther around the property, trying to take a page out of the dog’s book and focus on her senses. The air was fresh and cold, and carried the soft scents of early spring: budding fruit trees, bulbs pushing their way up through newly warmed soil, the rich aroma of lavender and rosemary bushes warmed by the sun and touched by dew. The outbuildings were still enshrouded in the morning mist, and everything was lit by the silver light of early morning.
She snapped some photos, crouching to angle her camera this way and that, trying to capture the odd juxtaposition of the graffiti against the historic buildings. The mist lent an aura of otherworldliness to the scene.
There didn’t appear to be any new graffiti decorating the outbuildings, so maybe the “bad kid” had found something else to do.
What was this kid’s story?
Lucy did her business behind a bush and Cady contemplated whether she was expected to pick it up—but this being France, and the countryside, she let it go. Parisians loved their dogs, but seemedcontent to leave their droppings where they fell, apparently too chic to scoop up doggy doo-doo.
Back in the château there was still no sign of Fabrice, so Cady took Lucy off the leash, filled the dog’s water bowl, and headed to her bedroom. As she had with her apartment in the Latin Quarter, she was developing her daily routine, making Château Clement feel more like home.
Maybe all those years spent bouncing from one situation to the next had been good for something, after all.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
1944
FRANCE
Fabrice
His cover story was that he was going to visit his grandparents in the countryside outside of Nantes. He was to take the train to Nantes, where he was to find theboulangerieon the rue Morgan and ask if they might have a particular rye boule “that my grandmother loves.” The contact would then give him a ride to the outskirts of Saint-Nazaire, and give him enough information to blend in with the arrival of the student group on their field trip.
If Fabrice had tried to pass into Vichy, he would have needed a special permit, almost impossible to get. But German-occupied France allowed some movement, and it was easy enough to get on the train. If it weren’t for the presence of the Nazis, he could almost imagine there was no war going on as he watched the countryside fly by. Though he missed Paulette already, it felt good to get out of the city, leaving behind claustrophobic curfews, hiding in doorways to avoid the police patrols, fearing betrayal at every turn.
On the train Fabrice could imagine something different for himself: that he was older, dashing, brave. He envisioned joining the Free French Forces, earning a chest of medals like his father had from the First WorldWar. He daydreamed about the moment he would stride back into the doctor’s office—to Paulette—after accomplishing his mission.
He would no longer be a boy, but a triumphant soldier of the Résistance.
