“I keep meaning to get to that. Oh, these are nice,” Blondine said, moving over to the table, where a few of Rosalyn’s drawings were propped up against the wall.
“Those are just sketches....”
“Of the grapevines, yes? We should put up art that shows grapes and things, I think. If I leave it to my father, he’ll put up photographs of muddy tractors.”
Rosalyn smiled. “I think you’re right. The average tourist would prefer looking at grapevines rather than tractors. But it should be something colorful, not black-and-white like these pencil drawings. Maybe some champagne glasses, bottles, that sort of thing? You could keep with the theme. Have fun with it.”
“Do you want to paint the walls with things like that while you’re here?”
“Oh, I don’t... I don’t know.”
“These are good suggestions. Thank you,” Blondine said, apparently done with the conversation. “Your decoration is broken,” she said, gesturing to the broken ornament. “I’ll get you a new one.”
“Oh no, thank you. I picked it up like that. I like it that way.”
Blondine raised one eyebrow, made that littletsking sound again. “This evening, you must come with me and my mother to dinner at my aunt’s house.”
“Oh, that is so kind of you, really, but...” As much as she had looked forward to the opening of Dominique’s market, socializing with strangers—and stumbling along in French—had tired her out. She couldn’t imagine sitting through a French family dinner, most likely falling asleep over her escargots. All she wanted at the moment was to hide away for a bit, maybe watch something on her computer, get a little work done, and not have to talk to anyone.
Maybe she trulywasbecoming a hermit.
“You do not want to come?” Blondine demanded in English.
“Thank you, but I have some work to do, and I bought some things for dinner....”
“You will eat alone?” Blondine cast a doubtful eye at the potato chips that were peeking out of the orange tote bag Rosalyn had placed on the table.
Self-conscious, Rosalyn stood up straighter and tried to pull in her stomach.
“Truly, Blondine, I am so appreciative of your generous hospitality, but I am very tired. Also, the office in California is still open, and because of the time difference, I need to spend the evening making phone calls and answering e-mails for work.”
Blondine pursed her lips, and then nodded, reverting to French as she led the way back out into the courtyard.
“All right, but at least let me make you something to eat now. It is early—have you eaten yet? I know you Americans are accustomed to big breakfasts.”
“Oh no, there’s no need.”
“Please, you will be doing me a favor. My father will kill me if I don’t take care of you.”
They both looked up as the sound of crunching gravel signaled the arrival of a car in the drive. It was a large, shiny black vehicle with tinted windows. As it pulled up, one of the windows rolled down with a smooth hum, and a head popped out.
Emma Kinsley.
Chapter Sixteen
Lucie
Every day the explosions—and the path of destruction—come nearer. I suppose it is human nature to become accustomed, and some even lay bets on which neighborhood has been hit as we listen to the racket.
A curfew was imposed, from six in the morning to six at night. Six in the morning was usually when the shelling began, since the people walked out into the streets to try to work or find food or simply interact with other humans. But it was the nights that were unbearable. After six in the afternoon, it was dark, as we had no gas or electricity, and our pipes shattered from the cold. There was no firewood, and all the trains that used to bring supplies are now used to transport troops and munitions. We could not light candles or oil lamps after dark, for fear the lights would attract a sniper’s attention, and we blacked out windows so the enemy couldn’t determine which areas of the city were still inhabited. We were so cold and damp that many dropped from illness.
Still and all, there were few complaints. If anyone laments the situation, someone always says, “Just imagine the poorpoilusin the trenches!”
We passed a few miserable weeks in our borrowed home. One day I was standing in line for bread, hoping the wretchedBocheswould hold off on the shelling for another twenty minutes at least, when a boy who used to garden for us told me people were seeking refuge in the caves under the House of Pommery. He said some shops were moving underground as well, and many accepted barter instead of proper francs.
Father had taught me that long before housing bottles of champagne, thecrayèreshad been a sanctuary for Christians hiding from the Romans; it made a certain kind of sense that now they offered a haven to theRémoisescaping the bombardment.
The prospect of finding refuge belowground, where one could ignite a lamp without fear and the temperature never fell below that of a chilly evening, was like turning on a light within me. Warmth flowed through my veins, reaching even to my fingers, which were numb with cold as I ran through the streets, staying close to the walls so as not to present an easy target, the precious baguette tucked under my arm.
