The Last Time I Saw Paris - Lynn Sheene [80]
Claire held the door open for him. “Don’t slop when you go inside.”
They walked silently by the sleeping girls. Claire motioned for Grey to set down the pails next to the stove. She found the chicory and got a pot brewing.
He watched her, his lips curled into the faintest smile.
Claire found the cups in the cupboard. Old patterned china, each cup a different color and shape. She filled three, didn’t spare him a glance.
“How—”
Claire handed him a cup.
They heard a low groan from the bedroom. Grey stared at her a moment before he turned and disappeared behind the curtain.
She took a sip of the coffee, not bad, and carried the third cup into the bedroom. The American was sitting upright. His face was pale, but his green eyes were bright. He took the cup from Claire with both hands, drank, then smacked his lips and blinked as though he couldn’t believe his eyes. He broke into a grin and spoke, the drawl of a southern boy. “Thank you, ma’am. This is the prettiest coffee I’ve ever tasted.”
Claire smiled, blushing in spite of herself. “Well, hello, flyboy.”
He seemed surprised she was American, though he tried not to show it. He leaned back against the wall, took another sip, a deep sigh, then drank her in with his eyes.
Grey frowned at the soldier’s unabashed gaze. “Captain Walker, this is Evelyn.”
“I am very pleased to meet you, Evelyn,” he said.
She turned to Grey. “You didn’t tell me this flyboy was such a charmer.”
Walker gritted his teeth but managed a smile; exhaustion showed on his face. His shoulder slipped down the wall toward the cot.
“Take a rest, Captain.” Grey grabbed the cup before it tipped.
They watched Walker settle into the cot; his eyelids drooped, then closed, his breathing slow and regular.
Grey motioned toward the curtain. Claire walked out ahead of him; they passed the girls, now sitting quietly on the wooden floor. Marta sat legs crossed, Anna in her lap. Neither girl looked up as Marta drew a silver-plated brush through Anna’s pale hair.
In the kitchen, Claire rummaged through the tins. “So, who is he?”
“Captain Walker is a transporter. He pilots a bomber and drops people and supplies at night. He was shot down two weeks ago in Belgium and somehow managed to survive. The Americans need him back.”
“Makes sense,” Claire said. “What about the girls?”
“Someone important made arrangements for them to get out, though no contact has been made since. In the next few days, a messenger will notify us as to what we need to do. The twenty-third is a new moon, perfect for transport.”
“Escape,” Claire said. America for them and Paris for her.
Golden summer days passed into sultry nights where the moon waned to a crescent. Life fell into a quiet ritual marked by the rising and setting of the sun. The sky was golden, sun sinking behind the dilapidated farmhouse, as Claire shaded her eyes and stepped from the shadowed forest into the farmyard.
Anna tugged on Claire’s fingers as she skipped next to her, her small face rosy and free hand clenching wildflowers. The radio crackled from the house as Captain Walker entertained Marta with a story full of curses and slang américain from his self-appointed station propped up on the doorstep in the shade.
Claire felt a gaze on her. She looked up to see Grey leaning against the open doorway of the barn, his shirt untucked and half-unbuttoned in the late afternoon heat. He’d left before sunup, his day spent scouting the roads for any sign of soldiers or the expected messenger. He watched her, a cigarette in his mouth. His slate eyes were a palpable force on her skin. A warm shiver ran down her spine.
“Look at what I have,” Anna shouted, waving her chaotic bouquet toward Grey.
He smiled at Anna. “Well done.”
“Ask Grey for water for your flowers. I’m going see how our stew is coming.” Claire flushed as she turned toward the house, relieved at the break from his gaze.
She slipped past Marta sitting on the stair next to Walker. The girl hung on the pilot’s words, chin resting in her palms, black lash-rimmed eyes