Today's Reading
PROLOGUE
Paris, 12 August 1928
"Maman, tu ne le connais pas." Mother, you don't know him.
Silence on the line. I hugged the receiver to my ear, curling against the telephone niche built into the wall. Still nothing, so I glanced down the hall at my daughter, Jacqueline, sitting quietly in the salon. She was small for six, even tinier folded up in the great armchair, a book spread on her lap. Slowly, she turned a page.
Damn. She was listening. I strode as far as the cord allowed and pushed at the door with an outstretched foot. It swung most of the way shut.
An exasperated sigh filtered down the line. "I said the same thing to you, Yvonne, but you were determined to marry him."
"Yes, but—" I bit my lip. My mistake.
"A wife belongs with her husband. You've been away long enough. You must go back to London."
"Alex doesn't want me." And here, in Paris, Henri did. My life had luster again—except when I spoke with my mother.
"Yvonne, it's been months and you spend all your time running about with that man. Your husband will know."
"So?" Alex didn't hide his feelings for the widow across the street. "I want a divorce."
"Your husband will never agree to that."
"He'll have to if I stay in France."
"And you think Henri will marry you?"
"He wants to," I retorted. "But I have to lose Alex first."
"It will never work."
She'd said the same thing about my marriage. "I'm not—"
A car horn hooted cheerily from outside. My heart jumped. "I have to go, Mother."
"Yvonne—"
"Bye." I wasn't six anymore. I set down the receiver and reached for a new ivory cloche trimmed with wide brown ribbon. "Jacqueline! Get your coat." In the mirror, I inspected the diagonal fall of my skirts.
"Mummy?"
I answered in English, sensing this wasn't the time to argue about speaking French. Eventually, she'd tire of people not understanding her. "What is it? We're in a hurry, Jacqueline."
"I miss Daddy. Can't we go home?"
I turned around and found myself confronting a miniature Alex, complete with folded arms and frown. I took a moment to collect myself.
I crouched down and picked up Jacqueline's hands. They were small and quick, like my own. "He doesn't want us," I said quietly. "I know it's hard, but—"
She blinked twice, her lips pursing. "He wants me. I know he does."
This was no time to point out that it had been six weeks since he'd sent her a letter. "We both love you very much, pet. Let's talk about it later. We can't let worries spoil our drive, not on such a beautiful day." I guided her arms into her coat, worried she'd refuse. Henri was wonderful with her, but it was natural for her to be standoffish. In time, she'd warm to him, but for now, I didn't want to keep him waiting.
"Quickly, love."
She tugged her knitted cap onto her head and stomped outside.
"Darling, how are you?" Henri called to me. As usual, Jacqueline was ignoring him, climbing into the back seat of the open-top car with as much enthusiasm as she'd show for a trip to the dentist.
I adjusted the angle of my hat and smiled up at Henri, kissing both his cheeks.
"Trouble?" he asked in an undertone.
"It's nothing," I said.
...
