“You have to go,” he said. She reached for him, and he caught her arms just above her elbows, holding her away from him, frowning down at her. His eyes were dark with strain. His mouth was tight with it. “Do you hear me? You have to go. I have a job to do, and I can’t do it if I’m worried about you. And I’ll worry about you every minute unless you get on this plane and go to England and I know you’re safe.”
“Max, I—” She broke off to look up at him, knowing that her heart was in her eyes and not caring. What he said made sense, she knew it did, she knew the only thing to do was get on that plane and fly away, but knowing that made no difference. To leave him now felt as impossible as flying to the moon. Her chest ached and her throat grew tight and tears stung her eyes. There was a catch in her voice as she said, “I’ll go.”
“Genevieve. You’re breaking my heart here.” His voice was rough, raw. His face tightened as his eyes moved over her face. She realized she was crying, realized that the hot tears had spilled over to slide down her cheeks, but there was absolutely nothing she could do about it. His hands tightened on her arms, his mouth twisted, and he pulled her against him and kissed her, a hot, hungry kiss that crushed her mouth, that invaded it, that had her pulling her arms free and going up on tiptoe to wrap them around his neck and kiss him back. He kissed her like he was never going to let her go, like he could never get enough of the taste of her mouth, like he was promising her forever, and she kissed him back the same way.
“Max, buddy, don’t got all day.” The voice of his pilot friend broke them apart.
“Go on.” Max caught her arms again, pulled them down from around his neck, nodded toward the plane. “Get out of here.”
Her smile was shaky, but it was a smile. “Don’t get killed.”
“I won’t.” It was a promise, but they both knew he couldn’t promise that. She was still nestled against him, with her hands on his chest and her head thrown back so that she could look up into the hard, handsome face that was now dearer to her than anything in the world. She wasn’t crying any longer, at least the tears had stopped, but she felt her poor broken heart throbbing in a way that let her know that, despite the losses, despite all the grief, despite all the pain, it was still fully functional, still fully alive. For him.
“I love you,” she said.
His eyes blazed at her. “I love you, too.”
Then he kissed her again, fierce and yet achingly tender. Knowing it was the last time for a long while at least and maybe forever, desperate at the thought of parting, she kissed him back with all the passion he’d awakened in her and all the love for him that burned inside her combined.
“Max.” The pilot yelled in what was a clear warning as the plane started to move a little.
Max raised his head, put her away from him, pointed at that same spot on the wing. “Go. Step there.”
She did, even though her eyes were stinging again and her throat was tight from the sobs she was holding back.
“I was going to say I’ll write, but I don’t even have an address. And you don’t have one for me. How will we ever find each other?” Balanced on the wing, one hand hanging on to the edge of the open cockpit now as the wing jiggled and bounced beneath her, she turned to look back at Max.
“I’ll find you,” he said, and there was the ring of absolute certainty in his voice. “Count on it.”
“Goodbye,” she said, and turned away. Choking on the tears she could no longer hold back, feeling them spill down her face, she climbed into the cockpit and sank down in the tiny seat. The pilot handed her a helmet.
“Genevieve,” Max yelled. He was standing where she’d left him, and she guessed he could see her tears. “Remember, angel, no regrets.”
Her heart broke, even as she pulled the memory close.
“No regrets,” she called back, and even managed a smile.
Then the pilot closed the cockpit and the plane started bumping forward in earnest.
Her last sight of Max as the plane rattled across the field and took off was of his tall figure lifting a hand in farewell.
Chapter Fifty-Two
May 8, 1945
Genevieve stepped out onstage for her final curtain call. She was in London, performing at the Savoy Theatre to sold-out crowds. This was the last night of her run before she took a well-deserved break. She had family things to take care of. And she was tired.
The war in Europe had ended days before. The city’s mood was joyous, ebullient. The celebrations were ongoing. That giddiness was reflected in the enthusiasm of her audience. They’d been on their feet before the last note was sung. They were on their feet still. So many bouquets had been carried up to her that there weren’t enough stagehands to cart them away and they were piling up in the wings.
The king and queen were in the audience. They were on their feet, too.
Even more important, her mother was there, in the front row. Lillian remained brokenhearted over Emmy’s death—as did Genevieve. Emmy’s husband David had survived and returned home a few weeks before. Grief stricken at Emmy’s fate, he had sought them out and they mourned with him. But Emmy would always be with them, just as Vivi would, and Paul and Berthe. One thing Genevieve had learned was that the people you loved were never lost. They became a permanent part of your soul.
Lillian was healing physically, and emotionally she was doing better lately, although she still had a long way to go on both fronts. Part of the reason for the improvement in her spirits was because she had fallen in love with Anna. After the Battle for Paris ran the Nazis out of France, Genevieve had arranged to have Anna rescued and brought to them. It hadn’t been easy, but between Lillian’s partisan connections and her own celebrity, she’d managed it. She’d been with them for six months now, in the comfortable house in Belgravia that Genevieve had leased until things settled down. Anna had been allowed to join them with the understanding that her stay with them might not be permanent—she would be restored to surviving family members if any could be found—but for now the three of them were a family. Genevieve caught herself being overprotective of the little girl sometimes, which was something she was working on, although she knew the tendency would probably follow her forever.
“Bravo!”
“Genevieve!”
“The Black Swan!”
They were shouting, whistling, clapping. It had been a good show, this final one. At least, final for a while. She would be back performing as soon as she had a rest, as soon as she got herself centered again.
Taking one more bow, she smiled into the blinding spotlights, waving and blowing kisses to the audience she could barely see.
She was happy the war was over. Of course she was. Ecstatic, really. But the many losses, the vast pain, could not be erased.
She was braced for more. She hadn’t heard a word from Max in almost four months. When she wasn’t onstage, she existed in what was starting to feel more and more like a permanent state of dread.
Which was why she was taking a break. The war, the losses she had endured, had taken an immeasurable toll. If Max didn’t come back...
Another huge bouquet was on its way to her. A mass of roses, vivid red. She could see it being carried up the steps on the left side of the stage.
Picking up the full skirt of her white ball gown, cunningly sequined all over so that it glittered like a diamond in the lights when she moved, she walked toward stage left to take the flowers, smiling and waving to the audience all the while.
The lights were still in her eyes as she and the man carrying them drew close and she reached out for them.
She identified the uniform first: RAF. Then, as she accepted the flowers, which were heavy and redolent with perfume and just about the most beautiful bouquet she’d seen for a while, she saw the tall, lean, black-haired man who was handing them over. For a moment, the moment she took to process what she was seei
ng, her every sense suspended.
Then he smiled at her.
Max.
Roses and all, she flung herself into his arms as joy flooded her heart.
They closed tight around her. Laughing, crying, she wrapped her arms around his neck, and he lifted her up off her feet and whirled her around. In the auditorium, a spotlight hit a shock of white hair belonging to a man standing near the edge of the stage: Otto. He was there, safe as well. Beaming at her.
Her cup runneth over.
“Where have you been?” she said to Max.
“Did you think I wasn’t coming? I told you I would. I just now got leave to come home.”
“I’ve been so worried... I missed you so much.”
His answer to that was to set her back on her feet and kiss her like she was the one thing he wanted most in this world. She kissed him back the same way.
The audience erupted into cheers. Not that either of them noticed or heard.
When at last he lifted his head, she leaned back against the strong arms that still circled her, looked up into the lean, dark face that had engraved itself on her heart and experienced the most profound sense of homecoming.
“It’s over,” she said. “Thank God, it’s over.”
“The war’s over,” he said, “but you and me, angel, we’re just beginning.”
* * *
Author’s Note
I researched this book to the point where I was muttering about the events leading up to D-Day in my sleep. Nevertheless, it’s very possible that some factual errors have slipped in. If so, they are mine alone.
Acknowledgments
I want to thank my husband, Doug, for putting up with me through the many long months I spent writing The Black Swan of Paris. My agent, Robert Gottlieb, possesses an encyclopedic knowledge of the events of World War II, which he generously shared with me. I thank him for that, as well as his tireless work on my behalf and unfailing support. My wonderful editor, Emily Ohanjanians, has done an absolutely fantastic job on this book. Thank you, Emily, for your patience, vision and hard work. I also want to thank Margaret Marbury for believing in this book and me, as well as the entire staff of MIRA Books. What a great team I have! Thank you all.
ISBN-13: 9781488055331
The Black Swan of Paris
Copyright © 2020 by Karen Robards
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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