“That’s why they call them hawthorns.”
With a shiver, I recalled my grandmother’s words about losing a baby. In the hawthorn trees. How exactly did one lose a child in these trees?
Not that Adeline would still be here, seventy years later, but I was curious to know where my grandmother’s mind wandered and what she remembered. And what happened to this girl.
Isabelle chattered with a seamless mixture of French and English. About her school in Paris and her twelve cousins and how she planned to visit America with her mother when she turned sixteen.
A bee buzzed past my ear, and I almost leapt into the river.
Isabelle laughed at me. “They won’t sting you this time of year.”
I waved my hands across my face. “You can’t possibly know that.”
“They’ve never stung me.”
“That’s because you don’t look threatening to them.”
“What does threatening mean?”
I stretched out my arms overhead. “Big and scary.”
She laughed again. “I don’t think you look threatening.”
In less than a half mile, we veered away from the river and took a small path between the trees. Old hives clung to tree trunks on both sides. Isabelle didn’t seem the least bit concerned about trekking through the city of bees, but I prodded her forward, practically stepping on her heels.
We passed an overgrown vegetable and then flower garden before we reached a white cottage adorned with peeling shutters, the color of their paint blending with the trees. A swing set had been built among the gardens and on the back patio of the house was a glass table with two vinyl chairs.
Isabelle slid open the glass door and slipped inside.
When she reopened the door, she didn’t step back onto the patio. Her sweet smile was gone, and worry tugged at her eyes.
“Is something wrong?” I asked.
She tilted her head slightly. “Grand-mère says she can’t visit with you.”
I tried to hide my disappointment. “Did you tell her that Gisèle Duchant is my grandmother?”
Isabelle nodded her head. “She doesn’t want to talk about Madame Duchant.”
I smiled at the girl. “Thank you for asking. Perhaps I can come back—”
“She said that you shouldn’t return,” Isabelle said in a louder voice. I assumed so Madame Calvez could hear.
In the window near the patio, I watched a face peek from behind the curtain. I lifted my hand to wave, but the face disappeared.
“I’ll be here for a few more days,” I told Isabelle as I backed away from the patio. “I’d love to visit her anytime.”
I hurried back through the maze of beehives and trees.
What had happened between Madame Calvez and my grandmother?
• • •
I called Marissa and in lieu of being a bridesmaid, I asked if she wanted to go kayaking with me on August 10, far away from Richmond. My friend commiserated for an hour without reminding me even once that she’d told me so.
Then I tucked myself away in my room and searched online for the records of an Adeline who had lived in Agneaux or in Saint-Lô. Nothing emerged so I expanded my search through Normandy and discovered an Adeline who’d been born near here. In AD 980.
The other Adelines I found proved equally futile.
I hadn’t expected an easy answer, but like my parents, I began to doubt the validity of a quest for a girl that Mémé remembered only after her mind began slipping away.
Outside the window, a cloud of dust trailed Marguerite’s station wagon down the drive. I closed my iPad case and watched as a man stepped out of the car and took off his dark sunglasses to gaze up at the château. He looked to be in his early thirties, and he wore a brown bomber jacket even though it must have been at least seventy degrees outside.
When I realized he might see me, I started to step away from the window but it was too late. The man I assumed to be Riley Holtz waved up at me, and I had no choice but to wave back. Then Marguerite motioned toward the farmhouse and Riley followed her away from the château.
There was no reason to rush out now and greet him. I’d promised two hours tomorrow morning for his documentary, and I’d keep my word.
Chapter 25
Gisèle descended back into the tunnel, but this time she wasn’t alone. Louise was in her arms, whimpering in the darkness as Gisèle stroked her soft wisps of hair.
She didn’t know how long the child had been alone in the cellar, surrounded by the old equipment of a beekeeper, an emptied bottle in the playpen beside her. If André and Nadine had put her there before the raid, it would have been almost twenty-four hours.
Had the Germans wrecked the Batiers’ house, searching for André and Nadine’s baby? Her friends must have foreseen what might come, but why hadn’t they hidden as well? And why had they left Louise in an abandoned basement instead of someplace she’d be more likely to be found?
When she brought Louise home, Émilie filled the child’s bottle with warm milk. Louise guzzled the warm milk and slept beside Gisèle until dawn. Then she crawled into Gisèle’s arms.
“Maman?” Louise had asked, her eyes wide with wonder.
“Your mother is on a trip,” Gisèle said, not knowing how much the girl understood and yet wanting to reassure her.
Louise nodded, her eyes still filled with expectancy. “Papa?”
“He is with your mother.”
Gisèle’s words seemed to comfort her. Or perhaps it was because Shadow snuggled beside her. Gisèle lay back on the pillow and watched the sunlight dance on the walls until Louise stirred again. In those early hours, she decided that she must hide Louise until André and Nadine returned.
When the tunnel split, Gisèle took the right passage. A voice echoed up the passage, and Louise flinched, knocking the flashlight out of Gisèle’s hand. When it clattered to the ground, the tunnel faded into black and the child’s cries echoed through the darkness.
Gisèle tried to comfort Louise, but this time she could not be consoled. Her parents were gone, and now Gisèle had her down in this cold, dark tunnel, just like the root cellar where she’d been hidden.
Gisèle fumbled for the flashlight until she found it and when she turned it on, Michel was standing in front of her.
At the sight of the man, Louise’s cries turned into shrieks.
“Stop screaming,” Michel demanded.
Gisèle bounced Louise on her hip. “Hush,” she said softly. “He won’t hurt you.”
The girl pressed her face into Gisèle’s shoulder as if she could burrow inside and disappear, her cries sinking to a whimper.
He eyed the back of the child. “Who is she?”
Sorrow passed over her again at the state of their world. Michel should have been smoking cigars with André the day Louise was born. He should have joined them at the cathedral in Saint-Lô on the day of Louise’s baptism. He should have been visiting the Batiers on the weekends and getting down on his knees and playing with blocks alongside her, like any godparent would do. But he didn’t know Louise, and she was terrified of him.
“This is André and Nadine’s daughter,” she said.
The edge in his voice softened. “Louise?”
She nodded.
“Where are André and Nadine?” he asked, his voice laden with worry.
She would have given just about anything to tell him she was caring for Louise for the night, that her parents were out picnicking or on an overnight visit to the shore, that they would return in the morning.
“I don’t know. I visited this afternoon, and their house was in shambles. I almost left but—” She swallowed. “Lisette was with me. We heard her cry and found her in a cellar behind her home.”
“Lisette helped you?” he asked.
She nodded, and he grew quiet for a moment.
“André must have hidden her before—” His voice cracked. “Before they took both him and Nadine away. They knew I would find her soon.�
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“But how would you find her?” she asked.
“Gigi,” he said slowly. “Our ancestors were beekeepers.”
Her mind flashed. She’d known there was another entrance to the tunnel, away from the house, but she’d never known where it was.
Louise clung to her neck. “Why didn’t André and Nadine wait in the cellar with her?”
He reached out, and for a moment, she thought he would take Louise’s hand, but then he pulled back as if he were afraid of her, as if caring for her could destroy everything he was doing. He put his hand back in the pocket of his ragged cardigan. “The officials would have searched until they found the whole family. Perhaps André and Nadine thought if they just hid Louise, she would have a chance.”
She put her hand on Louise’s back. André and Nadine had sacrificed themselves for their child. “God forgive me, Michel, but I hate the Nazis. Every one of them.”
“The Nazis didn’t take them away.” His voice grew sad. “It was the gendarmes.”
It felt like he had punched her in the gut. How could those hired to protect the French people send innocent citizens away?
“Where did they take them?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I don’t know.”
She heard the low murmur of voices behind them. “Can you keep her down here?”
He stepped back. “It’s not possible.”
“But they thought you could protect her,” she insisted.
“They thought I would bring her to you.”
She trembled. “I can’t keep her in the house.”
“My men and I are leaving soon, Gigi, but even if we weren’t, someone above would surely hear her cries. It would destroy our operation.”
“But if the police are looking for her, they will search for her in the château.”
“Perhaps Lisette could care for her.”
Gisèle shook her head. “She works at the headquarters office all day, but even at night—her neighbors would question where she got a child.”
“There must be someone . . .”
Sister Beatrice had asked her not to come back, but perhaps she would change her mind. “I will take her to the orphanage.”
“Thank you, Gigi.”
“André and Nadine will return, won’t they?”
“You must pray for them,” he said, but there was no hope in his words.
The burden of war weighed heavily on her. “When will this be over?”
“De Gaulle says soon, as long as we keep fighting the Nazis from the inside.”
“And when we do beat them, what will happen?”
She wanted to hear her brother say everything would return to how it had been before the war, but she knew he couldn’t promise that—not with their father gone and the country wrecked.
“We will be free again,” he said. “But until that happens, we can’t stop fighting.”
She told him about the men she’d seen killed in the forest, and his temper flared. He asked her a dozen questions, and then, as she pulled Louise closer to her chest, he disappeared back into the shadows.
If André and Nadine had risked their lives for Louise, she would do nothing less to keep her safe, out of honor to them and because, frankly, she adored their daughter.
— CHAPTER 26 —
Marguerite discreetly suggested that I venture up to Agneaux for dinner, recommending two restaurants she thought I might enjoy. Then she offered me the use of their vehicle.
I didn’t expect her to cook for me during my stay, but I was in France, and the thought of eating out alone was akin to torture. I envisioned myself surrounded by adoring couples, laughing and lingering over bottles of local wine. And then there would be me, alone for hours with my three or four courses and, even worse, my thoughts.
Scrounging through the refrigerator, I found some leftover ham, cheese, and fruit. And a bottle of red Bordeaux. As I poured a glass, a bell rang overhead, and with my wineglass in hand, I wandered up the three steps and across the hall. When I glanced through an oval window by the door, I groaned. I didn’t want to be alone, but neither did I want this filmmaker to invade my space. I moved away from the window hoping he hadn’t seen me.
Tomorrow morning, I would put on a skirt and flatiron my hair and perfect my smile. Then I would do his interview and move on.
I stepped back to hide in the kitchen until I heard the grate of the front door. Swiveling, I watched Riley Holtz step into the foyer, and my mouth dropped open.
With a sheepish grin, he pointed at the door handle. “You left it unlocked.”
I didn’t reply, too stunned to speak.
“It’s probably not safe,” he said, “considering all the thugs who live around here.”
I regained my voice. “So you feel entirely comfortable with breaking into someone’s house?”
“It’s not really breaking in when the door is unlocked.” He smiled again. “I saw you through the window and wanted to introduce myself.”
“There was a reason I didn’t answer the door.”
He stuck out his hand. “You must be Chloe.”
I stared down at his hand. “You’re a smart man.”
He dropped his hand back to his side, eyeing my wineglass. “Drinking alone is a terrible habit.”
“Smart and cocky . . .”
I hadn’t meant it to be funny, but he laughed anyway.
I put the glass down on a sideboard. “I was only drinking one glass. We’re in France, you know.”
“Indeed.”
I leaned against the wall and studied the man for a moment. He was handsome in a rugged sort of way, with his green eyes and goatee. Nothing like Austin’s polished persona. His smile seemed genuine. “Aren’t you supposed to be sleeping off your jet lag?” I asked.
He eyed what looked like a diver’s watch. “It’s only seven and I can’t start sleeping until at least nine or I’ll be groggy for days.”
“I was planning to do the interview with you tomorrow.”
“I don’t want to work tonight, but I’m starving.” He glanced at my wineglass again. “Did you eat dinner yet?”
I nodded back toward the kitchen. “I was just getting ready to put something together.”
“Why don’t we go out instead?” His smile grew an inch wider. “We’re in France, you know.”
The way he said it was so casual. Unassuming. I felt guilty for a moment for making the “cocky” comment. I knew I should apologize, but at the moment I wasn’t very fond of single men.
But then again, I was assuming that Riley was single. As he waited for me to answer, he looked up at the tapestry that hung from the wall and I dared a glance down at his left hand. His ring finger was empty.
An empty ring finger didn’t mean anything, of course. A lot of married men didn’t even wear rings. Riley probably had a wife or girlfriend back in California—or wherever it was that he was from.
“I promise not to keep you up late,” he said. “We can talk about the documentary if you want. Or we can not talk at all.”
As long as he kept the conversation focused on business, I supposed it was fine.
While he waited, I tossed the food back into the refrigerator and drained the last of my glass. Marguerite had suggested a café less than a mile away, so we strolled up the long drive, under the lofty beech trees. The evening light warmed our path and cast webbed shadows around our feet.
In my fog yesterday, I hadn’t noticed the cow grazing on each side of the drive or even the village at the end of the road. Time may have stolen the life out of the château, but the land around it seemed to be thriving with the passage of the years.
The restaurant was in a stone house draped with ivy. Two iron lamps lit the stone walkway, beckoning us toward the dark-stained door. Inside, the owner led us upstairs to a room that overlooked a narrow alley. Four tables were crowded into the room, positioned like jigsaw pieces ready to snap together, but we had the room to ourselves.
Each t
able was clothed in white with two wineglasses by each plate, ready to top off what I’d already consumed at the château. Our server brought us two menus and a bottle of San Pellegrino. I sipped the bubbly water while Riley eyed the menu.
“Are you a fan of escargot?” he asked.
“Not particularly.”
“Good.” His smile eased onto his lips again. “I get concerned when people eat snails.”
I glanced down the menu. “What about chicken?”
“I’m not as concerned.”
“Then I’m going to order the poulet à la fermière.”
“What is that?”
I glanced back down at the menu. “It’s chicken with cream sauce. A farmwife’s bounty, it says, with vegetables and fresh herbs.”
“Impressive. Did you learn French from your grandmother?”
“My grandmother and then my dad. He and my grandmother always spoke to each other in their native language and then I minored in French in college.”
Our waiter poured us each a glass of red wine and then brought pea soup for our first course. Riley watched me stir my soup, the thin veil of steam rising between us.
“What?” I asked, self-conscious as he studied me.
He picked up his spoon, shrugging. “Nothing.”
“What is it?” I demanded.
He took a sip of his wine, and I saw a tattoo etched under his wrist. “I just thought you would be different.”
I pushed my hair behind my ear. “Different how?”
“I don’t know,” he said. His constant smile was beginning to irritate me. “More buttoned up, somehow.”
“Like a politician’s wife?” I asked.
He shrugged. “I hate stereotypes.”
“Agreed.” I lifted my wine in a salute. There was no reason to educate him on how I’d ended my engagement with Austin. This way it would be harmless—no questions. “I hate stereotypes and I hate trying to live up to them.”
“Fair enough,” he said. “Why don’t you shatter the stereotype and tell me about your life instead?”
I was supposed to talk about my grandparents, not talk about me. We had the room to ourselves, but I had no desire to tell a filmmaker—and a stranger—my story.
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