The French War Bride Read Online Free PDF Page B

played a part in France’s decision to declare war so quickly when Poland was invaded. “Did you come to France because of the Germans?”
    â€œYes.”
    Something in the low, tight way he bit off the word told me further inquiry would not be welcome.
    He stiffly held out his arms, and I stepped into them, taking one hand and resting the other on his shoulder. His hand was warm and dry; his shoulder was broader and more muscular than I would have imagined. He placed his other hand on my back, in proper fox-trot fashion. I had danced before with boys from Saint-Julien’s, the boys’ school in our diocese, and I had, of course, taken ballroom lessons. Never before, however, had I felt dizzy when a hand had touched my back.
    I searched for something to say, something to normalize the abnormal way I was feeling, as a low, slow tune began. “What is your job here?”
    â€œI am a busboy. But during the day, I am a student.”
    â€œOh, me, too! What are you studying?”
    â€œEngineering, with an emphasis on physics.”
    â€œIs that at all like calculus?”
    â€œNot really, but you must use calculus.” He looked down at me. When I met his eyes, he appeared entirely different. My knees suddenly felt wobbly. I had never seen eyes so brown and expressive. They were regarding me with genuine interest. “What do you know of calculus?”
    â€œMore than I want. My friend’s father is a professor and he tutors us.”
    â€œWhat is his name?”
    â€œJean-Claude Chaussant.”
    His eyes widened. “He was my professor!”
    â€œReally?”
    â€œYes. He is a brilliant man. But he’s not teaching this semester.”
    â€œI know. He is helping France on some secret project.”
    He pulled me close to spin me around. “You should not say that,” he cautioned in my ear.
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œBecause the Germans have spies everywhere.”
    â€œHere?”
    â€œEverywhere.”
    I gave him what was meant to be a coy smile. “How do I know that you’re not a spy?”
    â€œYou don’t.” His tone was harsh.
    I felt my face heat. “Perhaps you should take me back to my table.”
    â€œI’m sorry.” His hand shifted slightly on my back, stirring up a maelstrom of unfamiliar feelings. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. It’s just that I’ve had a bit of experience with the Nazis, and they are . . .” He hesitated, then shook his head. “Do not talk about anyone, especially a man working for your country’s defense, if you do not want to make him a target. You must imagine that the walls have ears.”
    â€œI will do that. And to help me remember, I will pretend that the sconces are their earrings.”
    I was rewarded with a grin. “Whatever helps you keep it top of mind.”
    The song ended. He dropped his hand. I reluctantly stepped back.
    â€œThe show is about to begin,” he said. “I believe you will enjoy it.” He guided me back to my table, took his apron from my chair, and pulled out my seat. He gave a stiff little bow, then headed to the back of the restaurant. Yvette’s dance partner soon returned her to our table, as well.
    The trumpet player blasted out several notes, like an announcement. A man in a tuxedo stepped into the spotlight. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, I present Miss Marigold Smith!”
    Spotlights cut through the smoke, illuminating a tall spiral staircase. A delicate high-heeled foot and a length of leg, sheathed in shiny sheer silk, stepped out of the ceiling. Another leg followed. And then I sawher—a vision of womanliness, wrapped in blue feathers and sequins, climbing down the tight spiral stairs like a goddess descending from heaven. I have never seen anything so glamorous in all my life. She had chocolate skin, smooth as ice cream, and she moved with an exaggerated grace. She was