Aubrielle's Call Read Online Free PDF

friend, Mae Moroney, lived next door. She kept an eye on Papa and brought him lunch while Aubrielle tended her flower cart. If not for Tante Mae’s kindness, Aubrielle would not be able to make her daily trip to the park with Éclair.
    At lunchtime, she ate a croissant with cheese, then split her apple with Éclair as she walked the pony and cart around the park. At their slow pace, the long circuit filled most of the afternoon. The sun played peekaboo with passing clouds, but the rain stayed away. Unfortunately, there were no tourists who wanted to purchase her flowers.
    As she rounded the corner, near the Tower at the park exit, a young couple approached and purchased a small bouquet of lavender. They were Americans on their honeymoon, and quite obvious about both details.
    “We’re leaving for New York at the end of the week,” the man told her, hugging his bride close to his side. “We don’t want to get caught in France when the Germans attack.”
    “The Germans can’t attack us. They won’t get past the Maginot Line.” Her assurance, a repeat of what Papa told her every night at dinner while they listened to the latest broadcast news on the radio.
    “The Maginot Line?” the American girl asked as she sniffed her bouquet.
    “ Oui . A line of defense my country built along the German border after the Great War. We are safe,” Aubrielle assured the couple before they hurried on their way.
    When they left the park, she walked with Éclair beside the Seine and crossed over the Pont de l’Alma, or Alma Bridge as the American couple would have called it. She passed the Grand Palais then turned down the side alley behind her father’s hat shop, not far from the Avenue des Champs-Élysées, in the Le Marais district .
    Aubrielle pushed open the wide gate and Éclair pulled the cart into the yard without prompting. She saw to her pony’s comfort first, then changed the water in each of the vases in the wagon. She refilled the flower jars with her mother’s particular water mixture of bleach, sugar, and vinegar. A loose tarp protected the delicate merchandise from Paris’s unpredictable fall weather.
    As Aubrielle opened the back door, the aroma of freshly baked bread and braised beef filled her senses, and her stomach rumbled. Music floated down the hall from the radio in the sitting area. She hung her coat on a hook and slipped her shoes off in the cloakroom.
    “Aubrielle, is that you?” Her father called over the music.
    “It is, Papa.” She kissed his forehead as she came into the kitchen. “Is that dinner? It smells delicious.” She untied the scarf that covered her thick dark hair and smiled at Tante Mae. “Did you close the bakery early?”
    “Aye, darlin’. Not a customer since noon.” Mae Moroney rolled her R’s and stretched her vowels with her Irish brogue. She’d kept the bakery open after her husband’s death in ’25 with persistent hard work and determination. Her beloved husband, Oscar, had fought in the Great War, like Aubrielle’s father, and had inhaled mustard gas in the trenches. Oscar came home from war a sick man and never fully recovered. Their decision to relocate to France to be near her dear friend Marguerite and her husband, Lou, never gave her a moment of regret.
    Mae set a plate of braised beef and mashed turnips in the center of the table. “Could you get the place settings, Brie?”
    “Of course.” She and Papa spoke English more than French these days, even to each other. Tante Mae spoke only her own peculiar English, as did the wealthy American tourists, who had become the largest portion of their meager income.
    Now, even those sales have dried up.
    Aubrielle set the table for three and filled her father’s plate. “Here you go, Papa.”
    “I’m going to open the shop tomorrow,” her father announced. His hand shook as he brought the fork to his mouth. He raised his brow at Aubrielle as he chewed and swallowed. He pointed the empty fork at her to emphasize