village. It was a small farming community, with no trace of commerce or wealth. Slowly, he followed several turns until he found the street, then parked at #4, a large wooden portal, arched at the top. There was a smaller door with a bell rope. After pulling the bell and hearing its distant interior clang, he glanced around. It was a quiet street, like a back alley. He saw a field and a couple of gardens. Opposite, a lone white dog paced inside a fence.
A young woman wearing an apron and carrying a rake appeared at the door. Mme Bouyer was expecting him, she told him as she let him in. A large, regal brown dog appeared, barking until the woman quieted him. The dog sniffed Marshall’s hand, then bowed gracefully.
Marshall was in a large courtyard, enclosed by several small buildings joined together. At the far end was a two-story stone house, covered with large-leaved ivy. The walkway was stone.
“Watch your step, monsieur.”
The buildings seemed disused, the courtyard a bit shabby. Bees buzzed through the thick ivy, and a bird flew out of it as Marshall approached the house. The place seemed to be a run-down farm, in the process of renovation. Gardening implements, a wheelbarrow, and various storage bins were scattered about the courtyard. Two men were working with a pile of stones. The woman with the rake rapped on a door of rough wood, leading off the terrace. Then she moved toward the workers and began to rake the gravel of the driveway.
When Annette opened the door he did not know her right away. Her features had filled out, and her figure was mature. She gave him an enthusiastic three-cheek kiss—left, right, left. He bent to her, her soft cheek pressing his lightly. Her scent was something fresh, an herb of some kind, he thought, not the cloying sweetness of perfume.
“Do you really remember me?” he said, employing his best French.
“Of course I do! But we never knew if you returned home safely.” She spoke in English.
He hung his head slightly, and she touched his arm. He tried to explain—the war was over. He went back to the States. Flying. Not a letter writer—and he didn’t know where to write her.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said, dismissing the subject with a wave.
Her manner and her clothing—a long-sleeved blouse, long pants, and sturdy brown shoes—were unpretentious. Her medium-length waved hair was still dark brown and lustrous. He could see her mother in her lively eyes, her delicate eyebrows. She wore her age well, he thought. She was attractive.
A great smile broke over Annette’s face as she stepped back to survey him.
“The first pilot who appeared at our apartment in Paris was such a surprise. I came home from school one afternoon, and there at the table, eating some soup, was an enormous boy, a young man, with blue eyes and blond hair. I thought at first—a German!”
“The Gestapo dropped in for tea?” Marshall said, laughing.
“He was an American! My first American. I was entranced. I have forgotten his name. He stayed only one night. Of course I wanted to know everything about him, and all about America. I was smitten! He was an aviateur, and his plane had crashed, and my parents were hiding him. And so it began. And then, one day, you.” She smiled.
Her vibrancy was what he remembered.
“You have a fine head of hair,” she said. “And the gray sides are so distinguished.”
Reaching, she touched his hair. Then, turning, she led him into the house, through a small hallway to a dining room.
“Champagne first,” she said. “It is necessary.”
She had the bottle waiting, in ice, on a small side table, and he volunteered to pop the cork, even though he was unaccustomed to the task. It worked, to his relief. The bottle didn’t spew, like those in the movies, and he hoped she wasn’t disappointed.
“Let’s not have it here,” she said, smiling. “Let’s sit on the terrace. We must toast to our reunion.”
Details of her appearance began to fall into place for him. Her teeth—the lower canine that jutted out at a slight angle, the uncommonly even uppers. He had forgotten them until this moment.
“Do you live here with your family?” he asked, after they were settled on the stone terrace in sling-backed deck chairs, separated by a small, lopsided table covered with a blue print cloth. The dog settled near her chair.
“My son is often here on weekends. My mother comes from Normandy when she is