The French War Bride (4 page)

“I know. He is helping France on some secret project.”

He pulled me close to spin me around. “You should not say that,” he cautioned in my ear.

“Why?”

“Because the Germans have spies everywhere.”

“Here?”

“Everywhere.”

I gave him what was meant to be a coy smile. “How do I know that you're not a spy?”

“You don't.” His tone was harsh.

I felt my face heat. “Perhaps you should take me back to my table.”

“I'm sorry.” His hand shifted slightly on my back, stirring up a maelstrom of unfamiliar feelings. “I didn't mean to frighten you. It's just that I've had a bit of experience with the Nazis, and they are . . .” He hesitated, then shook his head. “Do not talk about anyone, especially a man working for your country's defense, if you do not want to make him a target. You must imagine that the walls have ears.”

“I will do that. And to help me remember, I will pretend that the sconces are their earrings.”

I was rewarded with a grin. “Whatever helps you keep it top of mind.”

The song ended. He dropped his hand. I reluctantly stepped back.

“The show is about to begin,” he said. “I believe you will enjoy it.” He guided me back to my table, took his apron from my chair, and pulled out my seat. He gave a stiff little bow, then headed to the back of the restaurant. Yvette's dance partner soon returned her to our table, as well.

The trumpet player blasted out several notes, like an announcement. A man in a tuxedo stepped into the spotlight. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, I present Miss Marigold Smith!”

Spotlights cut through the smoke, illuminating a tall spiral staircase. A delicate high-heeled foot and a length of leg, sheathed in shiny sheer silk, stepped out of the ceiling. Another leg followed. And then I saw
her—a vision of womanliness, wrapped in blue feathers and sequins, climbing down the tight spiral stairs like a goddess descending from heaven. I have never seen anything so glamorous in all my life. She had chocolate skin, smooth as ice cream, and she moved with an exaggerated grace. She was magnificent—and she knew it.

That was the secret, I realized—the knowing. Knowing her own magnificence gave her power. It radiated in her bearing, in the way she played to the spotlight, in her smile. She knew every eye was fixed on her. She knew she had the audience in the palm of her hand. She knew she had every man in the place in her thrall.

The band had begun to play as she glided down the stairs, but I was oblivious to the music until she started to sing. When she did, her sultry voice lifted us all as if we were riding on a magic carpet.

We sat there, that table of girls, watching her as if she were a creature from another planet, completely believing she had lived every lyric that she sang.

At the end of the set, I was emotionally wrung out. Another band took over to play during the intermission. Yvette's admirer, who had gallantly sent our table another round of drinks, returned to take her back to the dance floor. My partner followed in his wake.

“I hope I'm not getting you in trouble with your employer,” I said as he moved behind my chair to pull it out.

“It's okay,” he said. “Monsieur Beck paid my boss for my time.”

“You were ordered to dance with me?”

“Yes.”

“That's not very flattering,” I said.

Color rose in his cheeks. “I—I don't mind dancing with you. It's better than my regular job.”

It might have been the wine—or perhaps I was borrowing a bit from the brash display of female empowerment I had just witnessed. In any event, I couldn't resist teasing him. “So dancing with me is better than picking up dirty plates and glasses? My, how you gush and flatter!”

The pink splotches on his face darkened. “What I mean is, I liked dancing with you. Before, I mean. And . . . and now, too.”

I had no response for that. I was glad when the music began. The wine was definitely hitting me. I felt myself leaning against him, drawing close, enjoying the sensation of a masculine body so close to mine. It was all strangely intoxicating.

As the last strains of the song faded, I opened my eyes to see Lisette pointing at her wristwatch.

Oh, la—I had promised Maman I would be home by eleven. I'd lost all track of time. “I have to go,” I breathed.

“Yes, that is best. And it would be wise for you not to come back.”

“You don't want to see me again?”

“Oh, I would like that very much!” He walked me to my chair, where I picked up my purse. “But it is not safe here.”

“Where, then?” When had I gotten so bold?

“At the library at the Sorbonne, in the Saint-Jacques reading room. At four tomorrow afternoon.”

“I—I'll try.”

He lifted his apron from my chair, then walked me to the coat check, where Yvette's dance partner was bailing out all of our coats. I was aware of his nearness. My body seemed to wear the imprint of his from the dance floor.

He took my coat and held it out for me to slip on. “I don't know your name.”

“Amélie. And yours?”

“Joshua. I am Joshua Koper.”

“So nice to make your acquaintance.”

“Likewise.” He smiled at me. The way his brown eyes met mine made my stomach quiver. I noticed another flush of color on his cheeks.

He was older and more worldly, but I had made him blush. Joshua Koper—my first conquest.

I hugged the knowledge to myself like a delicious secret as I buttoned my coat and left the smoky bar for the chilly autumn night, surrounded by giggling companions.

2016

T
his is all fascinating, I'm sure, but you've told me nothing about Jack.”

Amélie blinks as if she is just waking up from a nap and is surprised to find I am sitting across from her. Her eyes narrow. It seems as if her whole face, which is shaped like a heart, draws in and becomes more pointed. “I said I would tell this story in my own way.”

“This is not the story I came to hear.”

She lifts her chin. “
Tant pis
.”

Did she just curse at me? I arch one eyebrow. “I beg your pardon?”

“I am sorry to disappoint you.”

“That's not what you said.”

“No, you are right.”

“So what did you say?” My voice comes out a little sharper than I intend, but oh, she is so infuriating!

“I said, ‘Too bad.'” She leans back, then gestures with her hands, palms up. “So. Now it is your turn.”

“What?”

“It is your turn to talk, since you interrupted my story.”

“Me?”

“Yes. I should like to hear about your life with Jack, as well.”

I am totally unprepared for this, and more than a little put out. I've traveled all the way here from Dallas to get specific information, and
now
she
is making demands on
me
? The nerve of her! But then, she's always been nervy. Apparently that hasn't changed.

And yet . . . I suppose I have some nerve, as well, barging in as I have. I dislike admitting it, but perhaps, as my son once told me, I do have a bit of a Queen Bee complex. I fear it is the result of being an only child and having parents who doted on me.

The truth is, I do feel that others—and life in general—should follow my plans, but that's only because I'm usually right. I'm beginning to suspect, however, that God doesn't always agree with me.

Through the window, I watch a robin poke its beak into the grass and come up with something too tiny for me to see. The little bird probably expected to pull out a big fat worm, and instead only found a seed.

When I first learned that the cancer had returned—the cancer that had claimed a breast a decade earlier—the doctor asked if I wanted to see a hospice chaplain. I hadn't, of course. I'd always hated people who lived one way and then, when confronted with their own mortality, turned cloyingly pious.

But the hospice chaplain had called on me anyway, and I discovered I quite enjoyed his visits. Part of it is the attention—he is very interested in everything I have to say; who wouldn't like that?—and part of it is the broader, kinder, more forgiving perspective he has of God. I don't know how he arrived at the viewpoint—as a Jew, he only has the Old Testament to go by, doesn't he?—and it seems to me that those stories show God at his most judgmental and angry. All the same, Jacob encourages me to explore my own beliefs, both within and without the parameters of my religion.

“Isn't it a little late for that?” I'd asked with more than a hint of sarcasm when he'd first broached the subject.

“No later than it's ever been,” he'd replied.

“I only have six months to live,” I said.

He shrugged his shoulders. “For all you've ever known, that's all you've ever had.”

The thought startled me. “What?”

“You could have been killed by a disease or an accident or a falling
meteorite at any point in your life. You have never known that you had more than six months—or six minutes, for that matter.”

That shouldn't have been a comforting answer, but oddly enough, it was. And the way he talked about things like self-love and forgiveness and finding peace was comforting, and even refreshingly logical.

Except for that part about expectation. What was it he'd said? Oh, yes. Expectations set us up for disappointment. The wisest course is to take action, but leave the results up to God. I didn't quite get that. How do you have any motivation to live, without expecting things? Aren't expectations simply things you want to happen? If you stop wanting things, don't you stop living?

Oh, this is the frightful thing about knowing my time is coming to an end—the way I keep looking back and questioning everything. I am trying to be brutally honest with myself these days, even though I dislike some of what I see and I don't really have time to change.

Upon reflection, I fear I've lived a self-centered life. I didn't mean to, I truly didn't. But when you're reared to think the sun and moon revolve around you, well, it's only natural to believe so, too. I never quite got the knack of putting myself in other people's shoes—except, perhaps, for my children, and maybe that's because I viewed them as extensions of myself. That's a very unpleasant and unflattering truth, but I fear it's my truth nonetheless.

I've certainly never tried to put myself in Amélie's shoes. The rabbi suggested I do so, and it was his suggestion that spurred this trip. I'm afraid I really didn't come here to empathize, though. I came because it is an excuse to satisfy the questions that have burned in me for decades. The truth is, I fear forgiveness is beyond me; I can't even look at the woman without tasting the green bile of jealousy in the back of my throat.

She is still attractive in a handsome, striking, confident way, even though her hair is too long for her age and completely white. I would rather die than have any gray roots showing—I carefully keep my own hair blond—but on her, the natural hair seems vibrant and carefree and young in attitude—as if it is declaring,
All of me is beautiful, is it not?
That has always been her air. So annoying! Even worse is the way her confidence makes others think she is beautiful, too.

But then, she has the complexion for extreme hair. She has that Mediterranean coloring, like Sophia Loren. It's a look that ages well. Once I'd derisively called her swarthy, but in truth, her skin is pale olive, smooth, and unlined. She's never worn much makeup, but with her dark eyes and dark lashes, she never needed anything beyond lipstick. She wears some now, a bright red shade that would be garish on me but looks vibrant on her.

I resent her for being so effortlessly attractive. I have the kind of looks that need definition and constant vigilance.

I also resent her over-the-top sense of style. She is so needlessly dramatic! The hateful part is, it works. Just look at this apartment! It is just swimming in stuff, and yet, instead of looking cramped and unkempt and cluttered, it looks rich and intriguing and, well . . . inviting. Just look at that carving of a ship on the side table, or that little sketch of a naked woman tucked in the corner. I lean closer to study it again. Heavens to Betsy—is it a drawing of
her
? Do you suppose she took her clothes off to pose for it?

“I'd like to hear about your life here with Jack,” she says, pulling my gaze away from the scandalous picture. “I'd like to know what he was like when he was young. What the town was like before the war.”

She reaches for a glass of water, her arm as graceful as a ballerina's, her head as regal as any queen's. Her beauty is fluid, I realize. It isn't captured by any of the photographs scattered around the room. It is how she looks in motion—and she always seems to be moving. I watch as she adjusts herself on the chair and tilts her head to an annoyingly imperious angle.

The most aggravating thing about her high-and-mighty demeanor is that it doesn't seem to be deliberate. She isn't trying to be condescending; she is simply being French.

“How did you and Jack meet?” she asks in that enchanting accent. I uncharitably wonder if it is an affect. After seventy years in this country—yes, I still keep count—shouldn't she speak English more clearly?

“I can't remember ever not knowing him,” I say a bit stiffly.

Her eyes widen. “Really?” The wistfulness in her gaze disarms me.

“Yes. This was—is—a small town.”

“Oh, I know, I know.” A quick, rueful smile plays across her face. “He was older than you, was he not?”

“Yes. He was only one year older, but because he had skipped second grade, he was two years ahead of me in school. The summer I was going to be a sophomore and he was going to be a senior . . . that was the year he first noticed me.”

“You had noticed him earlier?”

“Oh, of course. All the girls did.”

“Yes.” Amélie's eyes nearly disappear in laugh lines as she smiles. “Yes, of course they did.”

I find myself falling down a rabbit hole of memories. This is happening to me more and more. “By the time he was in high school, we all had crushes on him. I think even some of the teachers had crushes on him.”

“I shouldn't be surprised.” Amélie tucks a leg under herself, a surprisingly girlish and lithe move for a woman in her nineties, even though she has to use a hand to do it. “Tell me. I want to hear all about it.”

The rabbit hole beckons me like a downturned bed. It is not an unappealing prospect, to revisit my younger days. “Up until that summer, I only really saw him at church.”

“Church? The Baptist church?” She pronounces it
Bap-tiste
, with the accent on the second syllable. Her expressive eyebrows dart upward. “You went to the same church as Jack?”

“Yes.” It is petty, but it pleases me, having known Jack in a context that she did not. It gives me a sense of . . . oh, I don't know. Power. Or ownership, perhaps. Oh, that sounds so ugly and mean-spirited. I am trying to do away with all thoughts that are petty and mean-spirited.

But I can't help it; I had a piece of Jack, too—he hadn't solely belonged to her. He'd been mine first.

“Tell me how your romance started.”

Why should I? The thought is not pretty, and neither is the answer:
To get what I want from you.

But then, that is the motivation for most conversations, isn't it? Getting what one wants. That is what propels people through life. There is really nothing wrong with it.

I hesitate, but it is just for effect. I don't want to acquiesce too quickly, but I will tell her what she wants to know. I might even enjoy the telling.

I sink back into the sumptuous sofa, and let my thoughts sink back into the past. With no effort at all, I find myself talking, and before I know it, it is as if the years roll away and I am once again a girl.

1937

I was fifteen that summer, full of unfamiliar stirrings and romantic longings and enormous crushes on movie stars. My friends and I bought into the Hollywood fantasy of a perfect love, and I believed that a Cary Grant look-alike would sweep me off my feet when I was older.

No one in Wedding Tree came close to fulfilling that fantasy, except for Jack O'Connor. Jack and his family had been regulars at church as I was growing up, but after his father died two years before, his attendance had become sporadic. Mother said it was because he was working so hard to keep his family's small dairy and strawberry farm running. Jack had had a girlfriend since junior high—a pretty brunette named Beth Ann Knutson, whose father owned the farm next to Jack's. She was a Lutheran, though, so I seldom saw them together.

All I knew was that on the Sundays he was there, I felt all queasy and hot, just looking at him. He had black, black hair—not brown, but black—and blue, blue eyes, eyes that made me feel kind of hypnotized. He was tall and thin, with wide square shoulders, the kind of shoulders that looked like he was wearing a suit jacket even when he wasn't. He had a straight nose, a cleft chin, and a prominent Adam's apple that made him look mature beyond his years. And I suppose he was; in addition to being a straight A student, he was providing a living for his mother and his sister during the Great Depression.

The Depression didn't mean much to me, because Daddy's business was as good as ever; people fell ill just as often in hard times as in good times. I knew that sometimes Daddy took chickens or eggs instead of money from patients, and my friends all talked about their parents
having money problems, but the economic downturn didn't really affect my life.

I didn't know a lot about Jack—back then, ninth grade was still in junior high, so we didn't go to the same school. I only saw him at church—and the prospect of seeing him made attending church a whole lot more appealing.

I wasn't nearly as interested in religion as I was in romance, much to my mother's chagrin. Mother believed that only people who publicly professed Jesus Christ as their personal savior would go to heaven. In the First Baptist Church of Wedding Tree, that meant going down to the altar in front of the entire church during an invitational hymn. Unfortunately, it also meant being completely submerged in the glass-fronted, bathtub-like baptistery by the pastor in front of the whole congregation.

My closest friends had gone through this when they were about twelve, after attending a religious camp the summer before seventh grade. I'd had the chicken pox and been unable to attend camp that summer, or I'm certain I would have taken the plunge along with my classmates.

I balked at doing this on my own; I didn't want to be the only person in the congregation with wet hair. It was a silly, vain reason to risk the wrath of God, or—more important to me at the time—the disappointment of my parents, but the longer I waited, the more impossible getting baptized seemed to become.

I had good reason to be vain. I had a small straight nose, big hazel eyes, a bosom of voluptuous proportions for my age and—most importantly—shoulder-length, golden blond hair. I washed my hair every Saturday night, and my mother helped me roll it up with soft strips of cotton. When I took down the curls Sunday morning, my hair was exactly what every girl wanted. Everywhere I went, everyone complimented me on my beauty, and especially on my hair. I simply couldn't bear to be seen publicly looking like a wet rat, when everyone else's hair was fixed at its Sunday best.