Aubrielle's Call

by Bowen, C. Marie

  “God has given. God has taken away. Blessed be the name of God.”

  Aubrielle tore her ribbon, and her gaze met Mae’s. Together they recited the passage.

  Behind her, John and Henri spoke the words as well.

  The pallbearers placed the casket on ropes drawn across the grave then moved back to stand with the other mourners.

  One of the older men came forward and faced the casket. He bowed his head and recited Psalm 23—a prayer Aubrielle knew by heart.

  “The Lord is my Shepherd. I shall not want.”

  Aubrielle bowed her head and listened to the cantor’s deep melodic voice recite the familiar words of comfort.

  I could have said this prayer with you, Papa. Tears scalded her eyes. I’m sorry, I didn’t know.

  When the cantor finished, he asked for a silent prayer. After several moments, he raised his head and stepped back with the gathered mourners.

  “You may tell your father’s story now,” Rachel said.

  Aubrielle removed two tear-stained sheets of paper from her clutch and stood. Her stare stayed on the plain wood coffin as she struggled to maintain her composure. I love you, Papa.

  “You can do this, Brie,” Mae whispered.

  Aubrielle held the handkerchief to her nose then cleared her throat and read from her notes. “Louis Cohen was born to Joseph and Evelyn Cohen on the first of June,1890. His parents raised Lou, their only child, in Paris.

  “In 1915, Lou joined the French Army to fight Germany in Belgium and Northern France.” She wiped a tear and looked up from her paper, addressing the small group across the open grave. “Papa told me once that getting shot in the leg was the best thing to happen to him because he met my mother. He always said she was the most beautiful nurse he’d ever seen.” Aubrielle covered her mouth with the handkerchief as tears streamed down her cheeks.

  Oh, Papa!

  Mae rose and stood beside Aubrielle. “Do you want me to finish?”

  “No.” Aubrielle shook her head and gave Mae an unsteady smile. “I can do this.” Her throat tightened, and she swallowed twice before she could continue. She blinked her eyes clear and looked to her notes.

  “After the war, Lou and Marguerite returned to Paris and wed. The next year, Marguerite gave birth to their only child, a daughter they named Aubrielle.” She squeezed her eyes to clear them of tears and struggled for breath.

  “Lou followed his father’s trade of millinery and owned a shop where he made fashionable headwear for both men and women. Like his father, Lou became ill from the solvents they used to shape the hats.”

  A beam of sunlight escaped from a break in the clouds and shone across the city. Aubrielle raised her head and swallowed, her attention drawn to the beautiful ray of light as she continued to speak.

  “Papa loved his family. He was devoted to mama and me and provided for our every need.” She drew a trembling breath and sniffed even as a soft smile touched her lips. “He purchased a small horse for mother and me. Against his better judgment, he’d said. Mama named the pony Éclair. Papa hated that.” She chuckled as memories of her parents pretend arguments over Éclair’s name played through her mind. Her voice softened, no longer speaking to the mourners, only to herself and her father. “Then Mama asked you to build a cart so she could sell flowers in the park on the days when you worked long hours. And of course, you did.

  “You could never argue with her, not really. I remember you laughed when Mama told us that a hat might keep a man’s head warm, but flowers would warm a woman’s heart.” A tear streamed across Aubrielle’ s smiling lips, but she refused to give in to her tears. “So you gave her the flowers her heart desired.”

  Aubrielle blinked and cleared her throat. She shuffled the pages to read the second sheet. “After his wife passed in a car accident three years ago, Lou’s illness grew worse.” She looked over her shoulder at Mae. “I could never have cared for him without the help of my mother’s devoted friend, Mae Moroney. You’ve been both the angel God sent from heaven, and the ground that’s kept me standing. I know my parents are together now, and they smile down with thanks for you, Mae. They loved you, almost as much as I do.”

  Mae nodded, holding her handkerchief to her face with both hands. Her chest shook with the force of her emotion.

  Aubrielle crumpled the papers in her hand. “Papa’s long illness ended yesterday and I will miss him in my heart forever.” She stumbled to her seat beside Mae and embraced her friend.

  The pallbearers came forward and lowered the casket into the grave.

  Rachel leaned close and whispered in Aubrielle’s ear. “The cantor will recite the Eil Malei Rachamim. You’ll need to stand. When he has finished, you may sprinkle earth onto the casket.” She indicated the shovels in the freshly dug soil.

  Aubrielle nodded at Rachel then whispered to Mae, “We need to stand.” Her eyes and sinuses burned, but the tears had dried. She helped Mae to her feet and held her arm.

  The cantor chanted in Hebrew. When he finished, the five people who stood beside him, as well as the pallbearers and Rachel, formed two lines that led away from the grave toward the path.

  Aubrielle dug the shovel into the pile of dirt and sprinkled a spadeful onto the coffin. The sound of dirt on wood echoed in her soul. She pressed her lips and handed the shovel to Mae.

  Mae shoveled dirt onto the casket and followed Aubrielle.

  As they walked between the congregation lines, each person offered condolences to Aubrielle and wished her a long life.

  She stopped at the end of the path to look back. Several of the volunteers shoveled dirt to finish filling the grave.

  This doesn’t seem real.

  She half expected Papa to be home when she returned. With Tante Mae at her side, she foolishly felt anxious that Papa would be there alone.

  And yet, I know better.

  John and Henri spoke together as they approached the women.

  When they reached Aubrielle and Mae, Henri stepped forward. “I’m not going back to your home. John may have already told you, but I’ve moved from his apartment and have a new employer near Montmartre.”

  “Is that so?” Aubrielle glanced at John, then smiled at Henri. “Congratulations.”

  Henri took her hand, leaned forward, and kissed her cheeks. “Unfortunately, I won’t be able to attend your candle lighting tonight.”

  “I understand. Come by whenever you can.”

  Henri touched his hat, then hurried down the cobblestone path toward the cemetery’s north entrance.

  “I’m glad for him,” Aubrielle said.

  “Aye,” Mae agreed. “I wish the lad well.”

  “Will you return home with us, Mr. Larson?” Aubrielle glanced at John.

  “Yes. I intended to see you back home.”

  “Fine, then let’s be off.” Aubrielle turned away from Mae’s wide-eyed stare, putting her back to both John and Mae. She retraced their way along the cobblestone path leaving John to escort Mae.

  What is wrong with me?

  She clenched her teeth. An angry tirade burned on the tip of her tongue.

  John sat beside the cabbie and directed him to Aubrielle’s home.

  Mae reached over and touched Aubrielle’s hand. “Are you sure you’re all right, dear?”

  Aubrielle balled her fists. A burst of rage, so strong it brought tears blurred her vision. “Yes.” She shook her head. “No.” Anger punctuated her words, “I’m grieved, angry, and perfectly fine.”

  “I could come in and make some tea,” Mae offered.

  “No.” Aubrielle dabbed at her eyes. “I need some time.” Her gaze touched John’s as he looked over the back of the seat. She turned away, firmed her lips and stared from the window.

  The cab stopped in front of the closed millinery and the busy boulangerie.

  Aubrielle exited the cab and hurried between the buildings toward her backyard. She could have easily gone with Mae into the bakery and received condolences from Antoine and Paul. But sh
e couldn’t have been cordial. Not today.

  Not right now.

  She rounded the side fence into the ruelle and let herself through the back gate. She had every intention of running up the steps, going into her house and locking the door behind her. Anything to get away from everyone and sort out her careening emotions. Instead, she turned into the converted garage, unlatched Éclair’s stall and wrapped her arms around the old pony.

  Éclair huffed into her hair, then leaned into her as he lowered his head to her pocket.

  “No treats mon cher cheval—not today.” She sniffed and rested her head against Éclair’s solid neck.

  “Mind if I join you?”

  The soft tone of John’s voice sent a thrill through her stomach in spite of her anger and misgivings about him. What did she know of John Larson?

  Had he spoken to Papa behind my back?

  How else could she account for the things her father had said? She rolled her head against Éclair’s neck and looked at John from the corner of her eye.

  He stood outside the entrance. His large familiar frame cast in shadow, outlined by the gray winter light.

  “I’m going inside.” She stroked her pony’s neck and kissed his soft nose, then locked the stall and walked past John.

  The sound of his footsteps followed her up the steps. She unlocked the bolt, entered the door, and then faced him. Accusations of some undefined treachery burned her tongue, and she fought her desire to crawl inside his coat, press her cheek to his chest and weep. The struggle to find the right words failed her, and she simply stared into his eyes.

  “May I come in?” His brow rose, and he almost smiled.

  Unable to make even this basic decision—to respond with reason to his simple request—she hesitated. In the end, she sighed in exasperation at herself and shook her head. “I don’t know if you should.”

  “I’ll mind my manners. I promise.” His hand came close to her hair, then lowered to his side. “I think we need to talk.”

  She stared at him, willing her gaze not to drop to his lips, and when they did, she closed her eyes and turned away. “Yes, all right. Please, come in.”

  She hung her scarf on a hook, then her coat. Her hands halted as she caught sight of her father’s jacket.

  John hung his overcoat on the peg beside hers.

  “I’ll put on a kettle for tea unless you want something stronger.” She left the cloakroom without waiting for John.

  “I'll have tea.” He trailed her into the kitchen and leaned against the wall, watching her as she worked. “You—appear upset with me. Have I done something to make you angry?”

  Aubrielle filled the tea kettle then set it on the burner and adjusted the flame. “It’s something Papa said.”

  “Tell me.”

  She ran a hand over her face. “First, let me ask, had you ever met my father before?”

  “I met Lou Cohen for the first time the night I brought you home from the park and cleaned your knees.”

  “Did you speak to him behind my back? Tell him things without my knowledge?”

  “No, of course not. What is this about?”

  Aubrielle shook her head. Her dark eyes swam with unshed tears. “Early yesterday morning, the sound of his labored breathing woke me. It was—I’ve never heard anything like it.”

  “It’s called a death rattle. An appropriate name for a chilling sound.”

  “When I got to his room, he recognized me—called me by name, and then asked if Sir Jurian had returned. When I asked him if he meant John, he said, yes. Sir John.”

  “He was very sick, Aubrielle. His mind—”

  “Don’t patronize me. I know how ill he was, how confused he could be. I know that what he said makes no sense. I know it. And yet, Papa believed the things he told me.” She removed the kettle from the flame and turned off the burner.

  “Things about me?”

  “Yes.” From a jar on the counter, she added measured scoops of loose tea to the porcelain teapot and filled it with hot water.

  “What did he say?”

  “Mostly that he wanted to speak with you—most urgently—but he also reminisced about holding your magnificent white steed at your wedding.”

  John looked away.

  “Does that mean something to you? Papa also said you had come for me—that I belonged to you.” The teacups rattled as she set them on the table.

  What are you hiding from me, John?

  “Aubrielle—”

  “Do you have an explanation? Did you tell him these things? He believed them. He recognized you from the very first time you met him. He—.”

  “Aubrielle.” He raised his voice and pushed away from the wall. “Before I answer you, tell me, do you believe in magic?”

  “Magic? I don’t believe what I’m hearing. Are you claiming Papa was under a spell?

  “Not at all. But you were raised in the Catholic faith. You must believe in miracles. Miraculous happenings. Unexplainable events.”

  “Only those sent by God.”

  “And that is the only magic you believe?”

  “Of course.”

  John nodded. “Then the things your father said to you the night he died must have been visions sent to comfort him, or half-remembered dreams. I know he worried for your safety.” John paced away. “I’m a strong and resourceful man. My size alone can impose authority on some individuals. Your papa knew I could protect you.”

  “Would your answer have been different if I had said yes? If I believed in magic?”

  John looked at her for several long seconds before he answered. “Perhaps.”

  “Why?”

  “Because magic opens up new realms of possibility.”

  Anger flared, and she shook her head. “And again, you patronize me.”

  Why do I need to listen to this? Today of all days?

  “Aubrielle, I never meant—”

  “I’m sorry, John. I would like you to go.”

  He hesitated, as though he would argue, then gave a single nod and left the kitchen.

  Aubrielle covered her mouth with her hand and resisted the urge to call him back. The sound of him slipping on his overcoat and the back door opening tore at her heart. Unable to hold herself back, she hurried down the hall. But the door had already closed.

  John disappeared down the steps.

  She stood at the window and watched him leave.

  He never looked back.

  Loss and mistrust tugged her heart away from affection and desire. She hung her head and wiped a tear, turning her back to the window. She paused at her father’s room, but couldn’t go in. Not yet. His room would need to be emptied. The whole house would need emptied and cleaned before she could move in with Mae.

  I’ll be gone from my home by Christmas.

  She wandered across the living room to her father’s hanukiah. The candles from the first night lay pooled in hard puddles in their cups. She pulled the storage box from beneath the table and packed the menorah and candles away. Her heart could find no reason for celebration.

  CHAPTER 28

  John leaned his shoulder against the wall outside La Fleur Chantante’s entrance. He wore one of the dark suits Maurice Bonet provided. All male employees dressed alike. Tonight the club filled early, and a small crowd waited in the cold for their chance to pass through the door. Waited for John to let them in.

  He’d taken over the doorman position from Webber, who sat warm in the booth with the owner right now. A cold breeze picked up, and John stood away from the wall, turning his collar against the chill.

  Inside the club, Henri would be warm, standing beside Monsieur Bonet as his personal valet.

  Perhaps I should have held out for an inside position.

  The prospective patrons huddled in small groups along the wall.

  No one tried to talk their way past John. No one spoke to him at all. Standing guard at the entrance proved a lonely occupation and gave him far too much time to think.


  Two weeks ago Aubrielle had asked him to leave her home. And for two weeks John had stayed away from the woman who bound his heart. He’d watched from his window as Mae’s bakers and Henri moved Aubrielle’s things to the apartment above the boulangerie. He wanted to help her, but could not.

  Henri had brought a message from Aubrielle. She needed time to grieve and had asked him to stay away.

  He could only do what she had asked, although it hadn’t been easy. Work helped. Besides the welcome income, it kept him away from her door each night. By the time he got back to his apartment, in the early hours of the morning, Aubrielle was safely tucked into bed.

  John found it much harder to leave her alone during the day.

  Aubrielle had resumed her daily treks to the park with Éclair and her wagon, this time selling Mae’s baked goods.

  I’d know if she were in danger. I’d know, and I’d be too far away for it to matter.

  John rolled his shoulders. Aubrielle wasn’t his only worry.

  Karl Reimer continued to evade him. Bonet had pulled favors to find his former employee but to no avail. Reimer and his Nazi infiltrators had vanished like the fog into the city.

  A laughing couple exited the club.

  John held open the door and raised two fingers. He allowed a woman to enter but held up his hand to the next party of four.

  They nodded and resumed their discussion.

  As the woman cleared the entrance, Henri stepped outside. “Bonet asked me to check the line.” Dressed identical to John, his blue-eyed inspection took stock of the people waiting to enter the club. “There are more in line than I thought.”

  At the far end of the line, a group argued. Their heated discussion ended when all five walked away from the entrance.

  “That makes things easier. As soon as that group is gone, let in the rest. Tell them there is standing room only at the tables along the rail.”

  “Understood.”

  “Oh, and Aubrielle and Mae would like us to join them for Christmas Eve dinner.”