said. ‘I only want what’s best for you, sister.’ She paused, swallowing. ‘Best for all of us.’
I’d seen disappointment before, but never had I seen it hang so heavy as it did in Charlotte’s eyes.
‘Gérard,’ she breathed. ‘He’s—’
‘Let’s not talk about it,’ I said, and she took another breath.
‘I want us to be like we used to,’ I said, and she nodded. ‘Remember when we’d drink wine together and cook in Mama’s kitchen. Mama would show off her herbs in the garden, and Papa with his grapes…’
‘And you’d burn the leeks,’ she said, a little smile lifting her mouth.
‘I never burned anything,’ I said, though she was telling the truth. ‘Well, there was that one time, but it’s probably because of all the wine you’d poured me.’
She laughed. ‘You loved it.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘So did you.’ I smiled.
‘I remember those times,’ she said, ‘like they were yesterday.’
‘Now, there will be a baby around, and maybe one day our children will run through the vineyard like we used to, feet black and giggling in the vines…’
‘It’s getting late.’ She looked down at her feet, exhaling.
‘Oh, ah… all right,’ I said, and she put her hand out for help from of the chair, but when she stood up, she unexpectedly wrapped her arms around me. No words. Just an embrace.
‘It’s hard being pregnant and alone,’ she finally said.
I pulled away to look at her. It was strange hearing her be so forthright.
‘My husband was expected home weeks ago.’ Her hands slid from mine and she shuffled away slowly.
‘Let me walk you home,’ I said. ‘I’m worried about you.’ I looked at her belly as if its size was an indication of her health. ‘And the baby… Do you feel all right?’
‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘And it’s a short walk. I can go alone. I’m going to finish the yellow quilt I’ve been needling for my nursery and then go to bed.’
‘Mama’s been needling more hats for the baby too,’ I said, but she kept her back turned. ‘Charlotte? I said Mama—’
‘Well, I’m off,’ she said, slipping on her coat. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’ She buttoned it the best she could over her growing stomach before kissing both my cheeks. ‘Would you mind dusting the shelves before you go? They’re too high for me to reach in this condition.’
‘Of course,’ I said, and I watched her walk away across the square, toward her apartment.
I spent some time thinking about her after she left. She would have let me walk her home if something was wrong with the baby, I thought. It was her husband, I decided. She said it herself. She was lonely.
I dusted Charlotte’s shelves slowly, stretching out my time in her shop until close to midnight. With her gone, and the square dark and shadowy, all I thought about was getting caught. They’d send me to prison like the rest of the résistants who stood against the wall. Maybe even to a work camp like our French soldiers. I felt my throat constrict. Who am I kidding? Prison would be the least of my worries—the French loved a clean white neck.
I scolded myself for thinking such thoughts and pulled on my lapels, closing my eyes. If I only thought about getting caught then all those résistants in Laudemarière would have died at the hands of Gérard’s men, I reminded myself. I can do this. Romancing a collaborator is more dangerous. ‘Christ, it’s just a little paint,’ I said out loud, but then looked at my shaking hands.
I locked up Charlotte’s boutique and snuck outside into the cold dark, the tube of paint clenched in my hand. A dog barked somewhere behind me, and I wondered if someone could see me. Papa! I whipped around, looking at his pitch-black window as I clipped across the square to the wall.
I unscrewed the cap, and it fell through my fingers along with a few drops of paint. I gasped, looking around in the dark, and one more time up at Papa’s window, my warm breath like smoke from my mouth in the cold. Another dog bark, this time louder, closer, and more agitated, and I hastily squirted paint onto the brush, my heart pounding—thump, thump, thump.
I slapped the brush onto the wall, smearing paint this way and that, and then signed it like a real artist would, like I’d seen Charlotte do hundreds of times.
Catchfly.
I stepped backward, trying to get a look at my work, but then a hand gripped my wrist