To Run With the Swift

by Gerald N. Lund

  I turned to Mom. “Will you help me?”

  She shook her head gently. “No, dear. I’m afraid this one is up to you.”

  Rising slowly to my feet, I turned and started for the door.

  The first thing I noticed when I came out into the hallway was that the agent who had been outside Rick’s door when I came in was gone now. Good. I was in no mood for a hassle. As I lifted my hand to knock, I saw the door was ajar. “Rick?”

  No answer. I pushed it open and went inside. The light was still on, but no one was in the room. “Rick? You in here?”

  Silence. I looked around. The doors to the closet were both open, and the closet was empty.

  And then I saw the note. It wasn’t in an envelope. It was a single sheet of paper propped up against his pillow on the bed. I went to it in three quick steps and snatched it up. I saw what it was, and my stomach fell through the floor. “No!” I cried. “No!”

  It was printed in capital letters. There was no introduction, no “Dear Danni.” Not even a “Hi.” It took a moment for me to understand. When I did, I found it suddenly hard to breathe.

  Oh, danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling

  From glen to glen, and down the mountain side.

  The summer’s gone, and all the flow’rs are dying.

  ’Tis you, ’tis you must go and i must bide.

  But come ye back in summertime to hanksville;

  Or when the desert’s hushed and white with snow.

  And i’ll be there in sunshine or in shadow.

  Oh, danny boy, it breaks my heart that you must go.

  By the time I read it a second time, my vision was so blurred, I could barely make out the last line.

  Sorry, D. I’m just not a fairy-tale kind of a guy. With deepest affection, Rick

  PART SIX

  Le Petit Château

  CHAPTER 22

  Le Petit Château, France

  September 28, 2011

  It is an unbelievably glorious day. Finally!

  We landed at Strasbourg late Thursday night—that’s last Thursday—in a heavy drizzle, and it has rained steadily until last night. For a couple of days, that wasn’t all bad. We were all pretty wiped with jet lag and were content to sleep, unpack, explore the château, sleep, eat our meals together, and sleep. In spite of having a lot of time on our hands, I didn’t even write in my journal until yesterday. (To be honest, I tried, but every time I started, I thought of Rick and put the pen away again.)

  But Monday, when our internal clocks were finally adjusting to the eight-hour time difference (well, six from New York), I was at a point where I was feeling caged. I wanted to get outside, to go for a walk or explore the estate, even in the rain. (That seemed to fit my mood.) I don’t think Hanksville has had this much rain in the ten or so years we’ve lived there.

  It was night when we drove through the village of Le Petit Château, which is about a mile from the château itself. This was a disappointment to Grandpère, who has been so anxious for us to finally see where he grew up. He was pointing out things to us as we drove through, but we could barely see what they were. So I was anxious to go into the village and see it in daylight, and reminded Mom and Dad of that wonderful invention called the umbrella.

  But I was voted down. Joel and Clay reminded us that our story had been so sensational, it had jumped across the ocean. Clips of the Today show, Fox and Friends, David Letterman, and especially some of Life Is Real had been played quite a bit in the major countries of Europe—which, of course, included France.

  Grandpère agreed with them to a point, but assured them that the chances that our story would have gotten much play in a little village like Le Petit Château were small. And he noted that at the château, the new owners had refused to put in television because they wanted to maintain a mid-twentieth-century atmosphere in the facility. We compromised and agreed to stay in the château for a week, and then, when we did venture out, to alter our appearance somewhat. Mom and I were to wear our hair up or put on scarves. The men were to always wear a hat of some kind. We would also wear sunglasses when appropriate. The idea was to avoid looking like American tourists and to blend in more with the European style.

  All of that seemed a little much to me and Cody, but Mom was adamant that we honor our commitment to Joel and Clay. And, as she pointed out, there really was no need for a trip to the village quite yet. We haven’t met the people who own the château; they are out of town until tomorrow. They have two servants—we would call them employees. One is the cook/housemaid. The other, her husband, is an overall handyman and maintenance guy. So the kitchen is fully stocked. There are lots of books in the library, and they have a pretty impressive collection of table games in what they call the drawing room.

  At first, having no television was a bit of a bummer, but now, it’s okay. In fact, it feels right not to. The cook is great. She prepares our meals, and all of our needs are cared for. Except the beds. Mom says no way is she having someone make our beds. That would be “too corrupting”—her words.

  We have also sat around a lot just talking. It sounds boring, but it’s actually been pretty cool. Especially sweet is when Grandpère talks about what his life was like growing up here.

  Yesterday, Mom started home schooling me and Cody, with Dad and Grandpère helping occasionally. (Dad is teaching us math, which Mom hates.) That is turning out to be much more fun than I thought it would be. Mom is amazing. We laugh a lot together, but she really challenges us, even as she makes learning a lot of fun. The best thing—at least for me, Cody is less enthusiastic—is that she started teaching us French. And here, of course, Grandpère is the “senior professor.”

  I love it here. It is so beautiful and peaceful. Even this late in the season, things are so green and lush. What a contrast from Hanksville! And the fall colors are stunning in the sunshine.

  Okay. I’ve put it off long enough. So I’ll just say it. Rick hangs over me like a black shroud. It’s like every time I breathe in and out I sense his absence. Part of that is knowing how much he would love this place. And France. To share it together would have been amazing. I text him or Tweet him every day—he refuses to have a Facebook account—and he answers. But his responses are pretty short, pretty noncommittal. Even knowing how I hate the word “fine” that’s how he answers a lot of my questions. How’s things at home? Fine. How is your last year of high school going? Fine. That’s not a big surprise. He’s never been one to run off at the mouth. That’s one of the things I like love about him. But in light of what happened, it feels like what he’s really saying is, “I’ll be polite, but if you think things are back to normal between us, you are wrong.”

  Mom keeps saying that I need to give it some time, but it depresses me more than I can express. It’s not the same without him. Even Cody says so.

  Thank heavens today is finally sunny. I’m looking out the window right now, and it truly is a glorious day. When Grandpère listened to the forecast last night on the radio, it predicted this, so we’re planning a long walk in the woods today. I’m going to try to push Rick back to the “contain-the-pain” corner of my mind and have a good time.

  We were approaching the hillsides I had seen several times since our arrival, though they had always been barely visible through the rain or mist. Now, in full sunshine, and with the autumn colors coming into full leaf, they were stunning. Cody had raced ahead and was disappearing into the trees. Mom and Dad were behind us, holding hands and talking quietly. I had my arm through Grandpère’s and leaned against him as we strolled along at a leisurely pace.

  “It is so beautiful,” I said. “It’s everything you promised it would be.”

  “But of course,” he said with a smile. “The land is enchanted, no?”

  “I love it.” I looked around. “And you played here when you were a boy?”

  “Oui. Almost every day in the
summertime.” He pointed off to the left. “And we had a grand sledding hill over there. Often, the children from the village would come out. Papa would build a great fire and Mama would have sandwiches and sausage and hot cocoa and we would sleigh ride all the day long.”

  We looked up as Cody came running back and joined us. “This is great. Isn’t it great?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Grandpère. Are these the woods where that American pilot was shot down?”

  “Oui. The very ones.”

  “Do you remember where you found him?” I asked in excitement. “Can we see it?”

  “But of course,” he said again. “Where else would we be going? Before we ever left New York, I determined this was the first place I wanted to show you.”

  Mom moved up to join us and slipped her arm through Grandpère’s as well. “Don’t forget that your daughter has never seen it either.”

  He pulled her close. “This is for you, ma chérie, as much as for Danni and Cody.”

  We stood in the shade of an enormous beech tree that had to be at least a hundred years old. The trunk was easily ten feet in diameter and the lowest branches were huge, as much as two feet thick. We were all looking up as Grandpère talked softly. He pointed to a dead log off to our right in the trees. It was decaying and covered with moss. “That was where Louis and I sat down to rest. We were very discouraged. Night was coming on quickly, and we knew if we didn’t find him soon, we would have to wait for morning. And that was bad. There were already German patrols searching for him.”

  “And that’s when Louis saw the blood?”

  “Cody,” Dad warned gently, “let your grandfather tell the story.”

  Grandpère smiled, pleased with Cody’s eagerness. “You have to remember, Mama had given me Le Gardien before Louis and I left. I didn’t understand why then, of course, but for some reason, as we sat there, I clutched it close to my body.”

  I was nodding. I knew exactly what he meant.

  “And that was when we heard a soft moan coming from this direction.” His eyes had a faraway look in them now as he pointed. “We came forward, not sure where the sound had come from.”

  “And that’s when Louis saw the blood?”

  “Cody?” Mom warned.

  Grandpère just laughed. “Yes.” He moved a few steps. “Right here, actually. And we looked up and there he was, hanging unconscious in his parachute. I’ll never forget the relief I felt when we realized he was still alive.”

  “And you still haven’t heard anything from Louis?” Mom said.

  He shook his head. “No, the foreman at his manufacturing plant would say only that he was on an extended business trip. He promised to send word to him that we are here.”

  Suddenly, he clapped his hands. “Come. Since we don’t have to get Lieutenant Fitzgerald down out of the tree today, let us go. I will show you the path we took and where we met the French Resistance.” He looked at Cody. “And I should like to see if that hiding place my father built in the barn is still there. Would you like to see that?”

  “But of course,” Cody said, nearly perfectly imitating Grandpère.

  The half wall in the hayloft was still there. Grandpère and Dad had to take pitchforks and move the hay back from it, but there it was. It looked like an extension of the main wall, but it bumped out about halfway down to accommodate some structural need.

  Grandpère walked to one end of it, reached down, and pressed on the bottom of a board with the toe of his shoe. It swung out, revealing a small door and a narrow passage behind it. It looked far too small for a grown man to enter, but then I realized that was probably what made it such an excellent hiding place.

  “It was nearly morning by the time Papa and the other Resistance members were able to get him here. And by that time he had lost a lot of blood. He was unconscious, and we weren’t sure if he would live through the day.” He looked at me. “But Monique, my mother, was a very good nurse, and by that evening, we knew that he would be all right.”

  “And then the Gestapo came?” Mom whispered.

  His face was grave and his eyes dark. “Yes. In the middle of that next night. Colonel Horst Kessler. I shall never forget his name nor his face. He arrested Lieutenant Fitzgerald and took my father away, too. Later, he struck my mother with his ring. She wore the scar the rest of her life.” He took a deep breath. “I was absolutely devastated, of course. I had talked a long time with the American that afternoon. I learned about his family. He showed me the picture of his girlfriend. It was very hard for me to ...” He shook his head. “Very hard.”

  He straightened, and shut the door again. “When Clay and Joel say it’s safe for us to travel, I should like to go to Normandy to see if I can find his grave in the American cemetery there.”

  Mom’s head came up. “But I thought he died under interrogation in Strasbourg and was buried there.”

  “Yes, in an unmarked grave. But after the war, his family came over here, and with the help of an archivist in Berlin, they found a record of where he was buried.” He shook his head. “That was one thing about the Germans. They kept very good records, even of their crimes. The family received permission from the French government to have his body moved to Normandy.”

  “Can we go too?” I asked. I was quite amazed at how deeply this morning had touched me. I had even forgotten Rick for a while. And now, I wanted very much to see the grave of this American boy, only two or three years older than me.

  “I would have it no other way,” he said.

  Mother moved up beside him and started to say something, but just then a voice called out. “Allo,” it said. “You must be my new guests.”

  The woman who stood before us was slender and petite, shorter than me by two or three inches. Her eyes immediately caught my attention. They were a pale blue, like the morning sky, and had deep wrinkles around the corners. My first impression was that they were “smile wrinkles,” as my Grandpa Mack called them, but as I looked closer, they looked more like they were the mark of sorrow and pain. Her hair was honey blonde, with a touch of gray around her ears. With a start I realized that it was naturally blonde and not dyed. You didn’t see that much anymore. Her dress was simple and straight but looked expensive. She had two gold bracelets on one wrist. On her left ring finger was a pretty impressive diamond ring, which seemed a little odd for someone running an inn. It was in sharp contrast to the rest of her jewelry. On her feet she had black clogs with no heels. That too seemed a little out of harmony with the rest of her dress, but then perhaps she had put them on to come out to the barn.

  She stepped forward, extending her hand to Grandpère. “Monsieur LaRoche?”

  “Oui. You must be Madame Dubois.” He gave it the French pronunciation, making it Doo-BWA. He gave a slight bow. “I am indeed Jean-Henri LaRoche.” He took her hand and held it for a moment. Then he turned to us. “This is our hostess, the owner of Le Petit Château.” Then back to her. “May I present my family. This is my daughter, Angelique McAllister.”

  Mom stepped forward and took her hand. “I am very pleased to meet you, Madame Dubois.”

  “Oh, please,” came the response. “Call me Juliette. Madame is much too formal, and I have great hopes that we shall quickly become good friends.”

  “I hope so too,” Mom said graciously. “And this is my husband, Lucas McAllister.”

  He grinned as they shook hands. “I’ll call you Juliette if you’ll call me Mack.”

  “Very good, Mack,” she said with a wry grin.

  Grandpère pulled me forward a step. “And this is my granddaughter, Carruthers Monique McAllister. She is sixteen.”

  I did a little curtsy. “And you can call me Danni, Juliette.”

  “Dannee?” she said, looking puzzled. She accented the last syllable.

  “Yes, like in the Irish song.”

  “
Ah, oui. ‘Danny Boy.’”

  “Exactly.”

  “And last, but certainly not least,” Grandpère said, “my grandson, Cody.”

  “Very pleased to meet you, Monsieur Codee.”

  He grinned at her. “And you can just call me Cody. Or Co-DEE, if you like.”

  That won him a laugh. “You are our very first guests, you know,” Juliette said. “We just finished preparing the château a few days before you came.”

  “When you say we, do you speak of your husband?” Dad asked.

  Her face fell. “Ah, no. My husband has been dead for a few years now.”

  “Oh,” Dad replied. “We’re sorry to hear that.”

  “It is all right. I speak of him as if he were present because this was his idea. He bought it several years ago as an investment and planned to sell it again once we turned it into a guest house. But then he got cancer, and ...” She smiled sadly. “My children were horrified when I told them I was going to move here and see the project through to its completion, but it is a good way to get through my old age. And I wanted him to know I didn’t just abandon it.”

  Grandpère spoke softly. “I lost my wife to cancer too. Keeping busy was the only thing I found that lessened the pain.”

  Her head raised. “Yes, exactly. My children think it is demeaning for me to be an innkeeper, but it has been wonderful. I love France, especially out here where it is so quiet. I suppose, come spring, we’ll put it back on the market and hopefully get our investment back, but for right now, it is perfect for me.”

  We didn’t say much. Her words touched us all.

  “And what is this?” She moved forward toward the wall we had uncovered. “Have you found something in my barn of which I am not aware?”