Cady lingered, feeling itchy and in need of a shower. The place was a shambles. Even with the fresh air, it still carried the stench of soot and mold, the funky smell of a long-vacant building.
Could Cady help Josephine and Yves Clement fulfill their dreams by restoring the carousel, so it could again be ridden by delighted children? Was she even capable of taking on such a job, with only the dubious assistance of a recalcitrant teen and (if she could talk him into it) a disillusioned Parisian architect—a man who already seemed put off by her level of involvement in his family business?
It was ridiculous.
But when she closed her eyes, Cady could hear the tinny notes of the band organ, feel the whirling of the carousel, and see the lady of the manor, Josephine Clement, riding her custom carousel for eternity.
• • •
While Cady stood under the surprisingly strong and hot spray of the shower, an idea occurred to her: Could she add a chapter to the carousel book that would feature photos of a lost carousel at a virtually abandoned château?
She hadn’t been able to see the photos she had taken yet, of course, but she knew from experience that they were good. The contrast of the sweet faces of the figures with their dilapidated state; the once-bright colors of the painted carvings declining into decrepitude. As Fabrice had said, a dream that had devolved into a nightmare.
She would do her best to transform that nightmare into something enchanting and lovable again, of course, but in the meantime a photo-essay documenting every step along the way could be fascinating. Wouldn’t it be?
Cady wanted to run the idea past Olivia, and ask her to approach the editor at Addison Avenue Books. Cady knew she should write the publisher directly, and she would if the editor was open to her idea, but Olivia was so much better with people than Cady was. Olivia could make the pitch, and if they were interested, Cady would send a detailed proposal. She could just imagine the village rallying around the idea; it would be the perfect vehicle for them to show Fabrice their support.
Or... was she getting ahead of herself, as she was prone to do?
One thing that gave her pause was how Fabrice might react to such an idea. Of course she wouldn’t do anything without his explicit permission, but he was so protective of his privacy. She hoped that simply asking him wouldn’t set him off.
Most likely it was a moot point, anyway. Cady wasn’t good at anticipating what might be of interest to other people; probably she was the only one who would be fascinated by a decrepit carousel.
She would run it by Olivia first.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
1945
PROVENCE
Fabrice
After the Allies and the Free French Forces arrived to expel the Nazis from Paris once and for all, thecollaborateurs horizontaleshad their heads shaven and were forced to parade seminaked through the streets of Paris, admitting their sins.
It was a macabre spectacle. Fabrice remembered seeing these women before, feeling sympathy for their plight and their attempts at survival. Now, at the sight of their pale, blank countenances, their shorn heads, he felt nothing but shame and rage. He searched their faces fruitlessly for the one he wanted. For Paulette.
Had she truly betrayed their cell? The doctor and his wife, the maid, everyone who had worked together? They had all disappeared. Had Paulette been the one to take his family from him? Even little Capucine?
Unceasing doubts and fears spun around in his head, a tornado of thoughts he could not control.
While the war still raged he had tried to go to Provence to search for Paulette, but he couldn’t pass into Vichy France without special documents. Now that the occupiers were gone, he traveled to thetown she had talked about: Fontaine-de-Vaucluse. He asked for Paulette in theboulangerieand the grocery, their shelves still bare from wartime shortages that had outlasted the fighting. But of course that must not have been her real name. She must have lied to him about it; perhaps she had lied about the town as well. She had known of his connection to Château Clement, and so she had lied about it to get him to talk.
Still, he tried going door-to-door. After the euphoria of liberation, grim realities had set in. People had the hollow eyes, the dull mien of survivors. The Germans had been expelled, but the farms had lain fallow or were studded with bombs, and supplies were stolen long ago. Ports, train tracks, and roads had been destroyed, leaving the transportation system in shambles. Meat was still rationed; hunger and disease were rampant. Armistice was followed by a summer drought and a bitterly cold winter, as though the seasons themselves were conspiring against the survival of the French people.
In Fontaine-de-Vaucluse, many people had been accused of being sympathizers. Several storefronts had been graffitied, their owners accused of collaborating with the enemy. Now was the time for repercussions, for revenge.
Fabrice followed the Chemin de la Fontaine, along the banks of the river Sorgue.
Huge dragonflies peppered the skies, shimmering iridescent greens and blues. He remembered his mother telling him that dragonflies were born of water, that this was why they were magical creatures. He never thought to wonder how she knew such things, but now he did. Now, he had a thousand questions for her. His father had carved her a wooden dragonfly; she asked Fabrice to hang it on a string for her, so it was suspended over their bed. Was it still there?
Fabrice had taken nothing from the house on that awful day of discovery. He had simply fled, then survived as best he could. He hid in the catacombs under the streets of Paris; he fell into another cell of the Résistance. He stole. He killed. He survived.
With every step, every breath, their faces haunted him: his mother, his father, his sister. And Paulette.
Fabrice passed a monument to Pétrarque, the poet who had once penned poetry to his chaste love, Laura. Fabrice thought with bitterness of all the verses he had written to Paulette over the past year, none of which he had shown to her, thank goodness. At the time he hadn’t thought they were good enough; his words were inadequate to express the depths of his feelings, the complexity of his emotions with regard to her. But now he was happy to be spared that humiliation, at the very least.
A young woman was selling handmade items at a stand—small tablecloths and napkins. Fabrice couldn’t help but wonder who would buy such things at a time when all were desperate for food, but perhaps setting a pretty table could take the edge off. He remembered how Paulette would recite her favorite recipes to pass the time while they worked or hid in passageways from Nazis.
