I nod, wiping my eyes again. “I don’t know how I even ended up here. I left home on my bicycle this morning to barter for some eggs.”
I’m surprised when he barks out a laugh. It’s the opposite of what I’m expecting, but I suppose my response wasn’t what he’d been expecting either, and I suddenly find myself laughing too.
“You’ll get used to it,” he says when we’ve laughed ourselves out. “Okay, not used to it, but better able to cope. In the meantime, remember that everyone in this place had a first day.”
I look away. “Not like this one.”
He leans in with a sly smile. “Can I tell you a secret?”
“What?”
“I’ve been doing this for almost a year, and I still toss my cookies at least once a week.”
I don’t know whether to believe him or not, but I’m grateful for his kindness and am about to say so when I’m interrupted by a conspicuous cough.
“Let’s go, Romeo,” a voice calls gruffly from the hallway. “Time to move out.”
Romeo.
I feel my face go red. This disembodied voice—whoever he is—thinks he’s interrupting a rendez-vous romantique, which is what anyone coming across a young French girl and a handsome American huddled in a bathroom would think.
Romeo blows out a breath. “Yeah, yeah.” For the first time, I notice how tired he looks. “Tell Patrick I’ll be right there.” He waits until he’s sure we’re alone again, then smiles sheepishly. “Sorry. Duty calls.”
“Of course.” I hold out the soggy handkerchief, awkward again.
He glances at it and grins. “Hang on to it. I’ll be back.”
I watch him go, then turn on the tap to rinse out the handkerchief. It’s made of fine cotton, expensive, with a thin satin stripe woven through at the edge. My hands go quiet when I see the bit of red in one corner. For a moment I think it’s blood, then realize it’s a monogram. It seems strange, like finding a silver tea service in the middle of a battlefield. What kind of soldier carries monogrammed handkerchiefs? I hold it to the light, peering at the letters picked out in fancy script—A.W.P.
I spend the rest of the day looking for his face in the corridors and wondering what the letters stand for.
FIFTEEN
SOLINE
Before proceeding, one must be certain the lovers are destined for happiness. It is not a matter of attraction. Rather, it is a question of capacity. The potential to be happy must be there in both parties. If it is not, no charm, however skillfully worked, can guarantee a happy outcome.
—Esmée Roussel, the Dress Witch
10 March 1943—Paris
A week has passed with no sign of my American Romeo. I bring the handkerchief with me to work every day, hoping for a chance to return it. Not because I’m worried he might need it—a man who carries a monogrammed handkerchief in a war zone will have plenty more just like it—but because I want him to know I’m still here, that I haven’t quit.
In fact, I’m getting used to the place, the smells and sights, the long hours and war-battered faces. I give sponge baths and fill water pitchers, deliver meals and empty bedpans. I even help write letters to sweethearts. The hardest part has been learning my way around, to know which doors are off-limits and which are allowed, which ward holds which type of casualty, and the quickest way to get to the mess when I finally get a break. And that’s where I am when I finally see him again—Romeo.
I’ve just finished a letter for a Canadian airman with two broken arms when I look up from my coffee cup and see him in the doorway. I can tell from his expression that he’s been there awhile, watching me, and I feel my cheeks color.
My pulse skitters as our eyes meet. He’s smiling that big American smile of his, lounging against the doorframe with his arms folded across his chest. When I return his smile, he drops his arms and heads for my table. There’s a bandage on his forehead, a bruise at his temple.
“You’re still here,” he says, grinning. “I wasn’t sure you would be.”
“You’re hurt.”
He shrugs, rubbing a hand along his jaw. “One of the field hospitals got caught short, and I was stuck for a few days. Things got a little hairy one night, but we managed. Anyway, it looks like you’ve settled in for the long haul.”
“I had no choice. I owe you a handkerchief.”
His blue-green eyes flash mischievously. “My plan worked, then. I’m glad.”
I feel timid suddenly, and breathless, and giddy, and I find myself wondering if this was how Maman felt the day she met Erich Freede. “The monogram,” I ask shyly. “A.W.P. What does it stand for?”