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The snap of a twig shatters the spell, and we both turn toward the sound, always on guard, never able to let our vigilance slide. Even the dogs are watching where the noise came from, but neither appears too concerned. It’s not a threat. Or they don’t perceive it as one.
Jess reverses a step, putting distance between us.
Zara walks into view, wearing her Picnic & Treats uniform. Bailey bounds over to her, always happy to see Jess’s boss.
“Hey, Jess. I didn’t expect to see you here.” Zara’s thoughtful eyes dart between us. “I brought lunch for everyone and just wanted to wiggle my feet in the stream. I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”
“No, not at all,” Jess says rather hurriedly. “I came to help the guys with the cabins. It was the least I can do because Troy’s helping me renovate my house. And because…and because I was in the mood to hammer something.”
Zara rolls her lips inwardly as if trying to hold back her amusement. “I’m sure you were. It’s been a long time since I’ve hammered anything. I should probably get on that sometime soon.”
My mouth tugs to one side. I’m barely able to restrain my own laugh. “You could always help Garrett out with his hammer.”
Zara sticks her tongue out at me like she used to do when we were little kids and I teased her.
And this time I do laugh.
41
ANGELIQUE
May 1943
France
The morningafter I learned Captain Schmidt will be living in Jacques’s farmhouse, I ride my bicycle to the village. The sky is heavy with the threat of rain.
Exhaustion pedals alongside me. Living with a German soldier on the other side of the bedroom wall can ruin one’s ability to sleep.
Captain Schmidt left at dawn, after he informed me a soldier would be dropping off food and alcohol for tonight’s dinner party. I flipped through one of the old cookbooks last night that belonged to Jacques’s wife and made a list of ingredients I would need. Schmidt had approved the menu.
I pedal down the cobbled street to the village square. A Nazi flag hangs ominously from the pole in front of the town hall.
The flag isn’t the only thing that terrorises the populace. Nazi propaganda posters cover every available wall and window. Every shop and every building.
Several Wehrmacht soldiers stand in the square like sentries, ensuring no one forgets who’s in bloody power. As if anyone could.
I should be used to this from my trips to Paris. But seeing the stain of evil in this quaint town feels like a smudge of dirt you can never be rid of, no matter how hard you scrub.
I continue past the soldiers, avoiding eye contact with them, and dismount the bicycle at the entrance to the small park. A stone figurine in a toga stands in the middle of the fountain, water pouring from her vase.
Désirée, a member of the local resistance circuit, is sitting on the fountain ledge, swirling her hand in the water. Her hair, the colour of wheat, blows about her face in the wind. I push the bicycle to where she is sitting and prop it against the back of the nearby bench.
I join her and peer into the water. Grey clouds reflect on the surface, mirroring the sombre mood of the village.
“I heard you have a new houseguest.” Désirée’s voice is barely heard over the splashing water in the fountain.
“A houseguest who plans to have more of them over for dinner tonight.” I say the words casually, but the way her eyes widen and dart to the nearest soldier warns me it didn’t come out that way.
“You don’t have any—”
I shake my head. All incriminating messages are destroyed upon receiving them.
“Do you know how long he will be staying at the farmhouse?” she asks.
“He didn’t say. The document only stated he’ll be residing at the house, and the current occupants have to vacate it.”
“You have to leave?”
