*
Vianne served supper in silence. The atmosphere at the table was as heavy as coal soot, settling on all of them. It frayed Vianne’s nerves to the breaking point. Outside, the sun began to set; pink light filled the windows.
“Would you care for wine, Mademoiselle?” Beck said to Isabelle, pouring himself a large glass of the Sancerre he had brought to the table.
“If ordinary French families can’t afford to drink it, Herr Captain, how can I enjoy it?”
“A sip perhaps would not be—”
Isabelle finished her soup and got to her feet. “Excuse me. I am feeling sick to my stomach.”
“Me, too,” Sophie said. She got to her feet and followed her aunt out of the room like a puppy follows the lead dog, with her head down.
Vianne sat perfectly still, her soup spoon held above her bowl. They were leaving her alone with him.
Her breathing was a flutter in her chest. She carefully set down her spoon and dabbed at her mouth with her serviette. “Forgive my sister, Herr Captain. She is impetuous and willful.”
“My oldest daughter is such a girl. We expect nothing but trouble when she gets a little older.”
That surprised Vianne so much that she turned. “You have a daughter?”
“Gisela,” he said, his mouth curving into a smile. “She is six and already her mother is unable to get her to reliably do the simplest of tasks—like brush her teeth. Our Gisela would rather build a fort than read a book.” He sighed, smiling.
It flustered her, knowing this about him. She tried to think of a response, but her nerves were too overwrought. She picked up her spoon and began eating again.
The meal seemed to go on forever, in a silence that was her undoing. The moment he finished, saying, “A lovely meal. My thanks,” she got to her feet and began clearing the table.
Thankfully, he didn’t follow her into the kitchen. He remained in the dining room, at the table by himself, drinking the wine he’d brought, which she knew would have tasted of autumn—pears and apples.
By the time she’d washed and dried the dishes, and put them away, night had fallen. She left the house, stepping into the starlit front yard for a moment’s peace. On the stone garden wall, a shadow moved; it was a cat perhaps.
Behind her, she heard a footfall, then a match strike and the smell of sulfur.
She took a quiet step backward, wanting to melt into the shadows. If she could move quietly enough, perhaps she could return by the side door without alerting him to her presence. She stepped on a twig, heard it snap beneath her heel, and she froze.
He stepped out from the orchard.
“Madame,” he said. “So you love the starlight also. I am sorry to intrude upon you.”
She was afraid to move.
He closed the distance between them, taking up a place beside her as if he belonged there, looking out across her orchard.
“You would never know there is a war on out here,” he said.
Vianne thought he sounded sad and it reminded her that they were alike in a way, both of them far away from the people they loved. “Your … superior … he said that all prisoners of war will remain in Germany. What does this mean? What of our soldiers? Surely you did not capture all of them.”
“I do not know, Madame. Some will return. Many will not.”
“Well. Isn’t this a lovely little moment between new friends,” Isabelle said.
Vianne flinched, horrified that she had been caught standing out here with a German, the enemy, a man.
Isabelle stood in the moonlight, wearing a caramel-colored suit; she held her valise in one hand and Vianne’s best Deauville in the other.
“You have my hat,” Vianne said.
“I may have to wait for a train. My face is still tender from the Nazi attack.” She was smiling at Beck as she said this. It wasn’t really a smile.
Beck inclined his head in a curt nod. “You have sisterly things to discuss, obviously. I will take my leave.” With a brisk, polite nod, he returned to the house, closing the door behind him.
“I can’t stay here,” Isabelle said.
“Of course you can.”
“I have no interest in making friends with the enemy, V.”
“Damn it, Isabelle. Don’t you dare—”
Isabelle stepped closer. “I’ll put you and Sophie at risk. Sooner or later. You know I will. You told me I needed to protect Sophie. This is the only way I can do it. I feel like I’ll explode if I stay, V.”
Vianne’s anger dissolved; without it, she felt inexpressibly tired. This essential difference had always been between them. Vianne the rule follower and Isabelle the rebel. Even in girlhood, in grief, they had expressed their emotions differently. Vianne had gone silent after Maman’s death, tried to pretend that Papa’s abandonment didn’t wound her, while Isabelle had thrown tantrums and run away and demanded attention. Maman had sworn that one day they would be the best of friends. Never had this prediction seemed less likely.
In this, right now, Isabelle was right. Vianne would be constantly afraid of what her sister would say or do around the captain, and truthfully, Vianne hadn’t the strength for it.
“How will you go? And where?”
“Train. To Paris. I’ll telegram you when I arrive safely.”
“Be careful. Don’t do anything foolish.”
“Me? You know better than that.”
Vianne pulled Isabelle into a fierce embrace and then let her go.