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“You have any ideas of how you want the place to look? Any particular style of interior?”
“Iris had a lot of home-decorating magazines. Many were out-of-date, but from the most recent ones I looked at, I was drawn to the farmhouse and quaint cottage styles.” The opposite of the clean modern lines of the house I last lived in. That house never felt like me. The quaint cottage style, now that’s more like me.
“Those are definitely doable. But I suggest we look at some more current designs as well.” His gaze takes in the living room, and he walks over to the wall between the living room and the kitchen. A few days ago, he wouldn’t have been able to reach the wall due to the magazines. He knocks on it. “There’re options we can explore that weren’t available even a few years ago. And given your limitations when it comes to space, I suggest we make the most of what you have and do what we can to increase your storage space.”
I give him the quick-and-dirty guided tour. This isn’t about us discussing my visions for the place. He just wants to see the rooms.
We step into the second bedroom. The door to the secret room in the closet is closed. Unless you know what you’re looking for, there’s no way to know it’s there.
“There are plenty of things the two of us can do,” Troy says, “and my brothers can help out when we need extra hands. I suggest we start downstairs and focus on the living room and kitchen first. I’ll contact the company I use for testing for asbestos, but it’s usually present in these old houses. We’ll want to get that removed before we begin work on the place.”
“Can I work on the garden in the meantime?” The sooner I begin that, the more time I’ll have for creating my dream garden this summer.
“Yes, but I wouldn’t do anything yet with the flowerbeds next to the house, other than remove the dead plants. We’ll need to replace the roof tiles, and there are other issues with the exterior that need to be dealt with. Are you free Tuesday night?”
My lips curve into a grin, and for the first time in too long, the seed of hope becomes fully rooted. “I’m available then.”
Excitement surges through me, deep as an ocean. I’m going to have my dream house. A house decorated my way, with my vision. Something I couldn’t have imagined a year ago. Or even last month.
The excitement is too much to contain. It needs an outlet. So I hug Troy—surprising myself. Probably surprising him too, especially because he’s still shirtless. “Thank you!”
It’s not a big hug. Or romantic. Most people wouldn’t consider the hug I’m giving him to be significant. But for someone who has feared being touched for so long, who didn’t think she’d ever be capable of hugging again, who was starved of affection for quite some time, this hug, the idea of it, is huge. Monumental.
Scary.
Troy’s arms wrap around me but avoid squeezing too tight. My skin tingles and my heartbeat thumpity-thumps against his chest. And I feel…safe. Warm. Protected.
“You’re welcome.” Troy’s voice is rough, his tone gentle. And I can hear a smile in the words as if he also gets how monumental this is for me.
22
ANGELIQUE
April 1943
France
The full moonlooms bright in the sky, preventing the ground from vanishing in a huge black shadow.
I pedal along the empty dirt road. Tangled thickets of trees and undergrowth taunt me from either side. Anyone could be hiding in them. Hiding in fear or hiding to ambush me. Friend or foe.
It’s well past curfew, and German soldiers could be nearby, hunting for the location of the Allied parachute drop. Only Baker Street, the pilot, and the reception party know the exact coordinates. Coordinates that change every month.
Fear of being discovered pulses through me with each rapid beat of my heart.Don’t get caught, don’t get caught, don’t get caught.
Up ahead, the trees disappear, replaced by the open stretch of flat farmland and the lake that is less than half a mile to the right of me. The water reflects the light of the moon and will guide the pilot to the drop zone.
I dismount, hide the bike in the thicket, and walk the last mile. My ears and eyes and nose are alert for signs of danger.
The reception party, a group of six men including Pierre, are already gathered when I arrive. We get into position on the field and sit and wait for the low hum of the Lysander.
The sweet smell of grass tugs back memories of sitting in a field when I was a little girl. The sun was high in the sky and clouds floated lazily across the ocean of blue.
My sister and I loved pointing out the different shapes the clouds created. Some were common like bunnies and flowers. Others bordered on magical—like dragons.
The hum of an airplane engine drags me from the long-forgotten memory. I turn on my torch. Three other men do the same. My light is red, representing the dash in Morse code. The other three lights are white.
Dot. Dot. Dash. Dot.
