“You’re too pretty to be an artist,” he had whispered in her ear, his breath warm, his accent tantalizingly French, though his English was flawless.
She was too shocked to respond at first. Olivier LeClair was talking to her? Besides, how was one supposed to reply to a statement like that? She was fairly sure it was meant to be a compliment, but she felt a strange urge to defend herself.
“Je suis sculpteuse,” she whispered back, her cheeks flaming. She had taken French classes all the way through school and was proud of her fluency, but the moment the words were out of her mouth, she felt like a fool.
He didn’t say anything for a moment, and she was certain that she’d said the wrong thing. Then he leaned in again, his lips brushing her ear. “I’d like to see your work,” he said in English, his voice like honey. “If you’d show me.”
She’d felt hundreds of eyes on them as they crept through the crowd a few minutes later, leaving the meeting early. It was a snowy January day, and as they walked the dozen blocks to the apartment she shared with two other female artists—both of whom were still at the meeting—she felt warm beneath her coat, even though the night was frigid.
In her apartment, he’d been a perfect gentleman as he’d walked around the sculptures on her worktable—a dancing woman, an old man working in a cornfield, a child chasing a ball—examining them carefully, reaching out now and then to run his fingers over the curves of the bodies she’d brought to life.
“Would you care for a drink?” she’d asked abruptly, breaking the silence between them.
He’d looked up sharply, almost as if surprised to realize she was still there. “You’re good,” he said instead of answering, sending another wave of heat to her cheeks. “But you sculpt with grief, and grief doesn’t serve clay well.”
She blinked at him a few times. No one had ever said anything like that to her before, nor had she ever considered that her sadness was pouring from her fingers. “I—” She hesitated. “My parents were killed in an automobile accident a few years ago, when I was nineteen, back in Kansas. They were all I had. I moved to New York after that.”
“Have you tried sculpting in wood?” he asked, finally looking at her. His eyes seemed to penetrate her soul.
“Wood?”
“I think you’d be good at it. Grief, I think, coats the clay. But wood absorbs sadness and anger and loss. And there’s something about the physical act of chipping away the layers, of using your whole body to coax form from nothingness, that allows you to work out your pain.”
“Oh.” It had been all she could think of to say.
“If you’ll allow me, I’ll return tomorrow with some chisels. You’ll see.”
“All right,” she had said, completely confused. Olivier LeClair was going to teach her to sculpt wood? Why? It seemed like something out of a dream.
He stepped closer to her then, close enough that he could have kissed her. She wanted him to, she suddenly realized, wanted it with every fiber of her being. But instead, he just looked into her eyes and, without breaking a smile, said, “Good night.” And then he was gone before she could move.
Within a week, he had given her her first dozen chisels and gouges—a beautiful gift for a beautiful artist, he’d said—and she had moved into his bed at the Algonquin. He had added an extra month onto his stay in New York, and by the time he was due to depart that April, she had become both a wood-carver and his wife. When he went back to Paris, she went with him, leaving behind everything she had once been, and transforming herself—like a carved block of wood—into something entirely new.
CHAPTER SIX
Over the next months, autumn rolled toward winter, the leaves crisping on the trees before fluttering to the ground, and though the world was at war, there was much joy within the walls of the bookshop on the rue Goblet. Juliette’s belly swelled, and by the time December arrived, she felt like she was the size of the ship that had brought her to France from America back in 1934. Paul doted on her now, bringing her glasses of water, asking every hour or so if she might prefer to sit. And though Juliette was exhausted, her feet tired and swollen, she didn’t want to miss a moment with her children.
Elise came by more often now, too, at least once a week. The other woman was convinced that she was bearing a boy, but the more heavily pregnant Elise grew, the more obvious it was she was carrying very high, a sure sign of a girl.
“What shall we name the baby?” Paul asked one quiet day in early December as Claude played with Alphonse in the children’s section and he and Juliette shelved books. A small fire crackled in the hearth, spilling warmth into the cold store. Outside, icicles clung to the window frames.
“I was thinking perhaps Lucie,” said Juliette instantly. “It means light. And we need that right now, don’t we? Light in the darkness.”
“Lucie.” Paul smiled. “You’re so certain the baby is a girl?”
“I am.”
“And if it’s not?”
“Oh, but it is.”
Paul smiled and pulled her into his arms, then kissed her tenderly on the top of the head. She leaned into his chest, listening to his heartbeat, feeling the baby safe and warm between them. How lucky this child would be to be born into a family so full of love, even if war threatened outside their borders. Already, she felt they’d dodged a bullet, as Paul’s age and injured leg had kept him from being conscripted. As long as they had each other, they’d be safe, wouldn’t they?
On the sixteenth of December, the third anniversary of the day Antoinette had slipped quietly from the world, Juliette was opening the store like usual, straightening the rows and tidying the register while the boys played, when Ruth Levy bustled through the door, Suzanne and Georges in tow.
“Hello, Ruth,” Juliette said, stepping from behind the register to kiss her favorite customer on both cheeks. She had rather hoped that today would be a slow day, with few patrons, but if the shop was to be busy, there was no one else she’d rather start the morning with. She smiled slightly as Ruth’s children bounded over to Alphonse and Claude and began chattering excitedly.
“Juliette,” Ruth said, taking Juliette’s hands. “I’d like to offer to watch over your children and the store for a little while.”
Juliette frowned, confused. “But why?”
“Because today is the day, is it not?” she asked gently.
Juliette pulled away, the words searing her. “You remembered?”
“Of course I did.” Ruth’s voice was so warm, so full of concern, that it broke the false dam Juliette had constructed, and before she knew it, there were tears pooling in her eyes. “The losses never leave us, Juliette,” Ruth said. “They make us who we are.” She paused and added, “Where is Monsieur Foulon?”
Juliette glanced toward the children, who were playing happily together. “He went out this morning to queue at Monsieur Lychner’s butcher shop. I’m certain he’ll be back soon.”
Ruth clapped her hands together, and then made a shooing motion toward the door. “Go, my friend. Go to the cemetery. We must honor those we’ve lost. I will look after the children until you return.”
Juliette wiped fresh tears from her eyes. “Are you certain? I would never ask you to—”
“You haven’t asked,” Ruth interrupted firmly. “I have offered. We will be fine.”
Juliette lingered for only a second longer before nodding, grabbing her hat and coat, and hurrying toward the door. But when she got there, she found an invisible string holding her back. She glanced once more at the four children. “Ruth?”
Ruth looked up.
Juliette didn’t quite know how to put her question into words. “The Jewish situation here in Paris…” she began. Though the Germans hadn’t tried to invade France with their armies, it seemed they had sent their propaganda to stake a claim instead. Just days before, Juliette and Paul had walked past a large poster with an exaggerated caricature of a man with a huge nose, his face obscured by a big red X, the word JUIF printed below in huge block letters. Paul had glanced around, and then quickly ripped it down, crushing it into a ball.
A shadow moved across Ruth’s face. “Go see your baby, Juliette. There will be plenty of time to talk later.”
As Juliette donned her hat and stepped outside into the sharp December wind, she was already chilled to the bone, not by Ruth’s words, but by the deep sadness in her eyes.
* * *
The dark sky and icy air signaled a coming snowfall, and Juliette’s cheeks and nose were already numb with cold as she hurried toward the cemetery where her little girl slept forever beneath the frozen earth.