one of their “patients” always left feeling better than when he came in.
Standing in the corner with the violin player going over song selections, Kat stood out against the dark-wood walls, stained floors, and soiled doves like a beacon on a night of pitch black. Not even the poorly patched dress and golden hair tied back with a simple pink ribbon could diminish her radiance. She glanced over her shoulder at him, a smile blossoming across her face that sent a heated thrill racing through him. But the thrill turned cold. One day soon, when she found out about his deal with her father, she wouldn’t smile at him like that. Not when his betrayal pierced her just like the time before when a man had used her to gain what he wanted.
Outside, the sky glowered in steely gray. Trekking across the courtyard, he wandered up the slope to the towering tree and the small garden beneath. A thin wrought-iron rail ran around the rectangular plot with the gate hanging off one hinge. The entire space was run over with climbing weeds and dead leaves, and a single crooked wooden cross sat in the center. Long forgotten, the wood was faded and worn from the weather, with dead weeds tangling over its arms. Petite Colombe was carved in the center.
“I tried to keep up the flowers, but my thumb is black as tar.” Like a hulking shadow, Madam appeared next to him, black shawl knotted around her thick shoulders. “Roses, daffodils, and lilies once grew here. Beautiful, just like her.”
The last thing he wanted was small talk with the woman. But considering they were under her roof, politeness was required. “Who was she?”
“Just another girl who fell here many years ago, like so many of them did during the war. Family was dead, and she was starving. She didn’t belong, but I knew if I turned her out, then the Germans would get her.”
Desperation came in so many different forms. He crossed his arms and studied the little cross. One single cross. “Why is only she buried here?”
“Because she was special. My Little Dove. Dark of hair, eyes of deepest blue, soft of voice, and kind as a saint.”
“What happened to her?”
“What happens to many girls here. A victim of the occupation and too many soldiers far from home in need of a woman’s touch. The doctor declared it consumption, but I believed it was a broken heart.” Her gaze shifted to him, eyes dark and penetrating. “Had herself an amoureux, a man far from his country during the war. He left with a promise to return for her.”
“He never came back.”
Madam shook her head. “Non, but he left a piece of himself for her to always remember.”
Barrett turned back to the cross and the sad story it marked. Images of his father crying himself to sleep over the loss of his true love haunted him. “Perhaps he did want to come back, but never could.”
“Perhaps. I believe they loved one another, but he never darkened our door again. Not even after the countless letters she sent him.”
Barrett often came home to find his father sitting on the cold floor surrounded by letters from his love. He’d look up at Barrett with despair spilling from his eyes. “She wrote me, but I never knew. They were delivered too late.” Then he’d cry like a baby curled up on the rug.
His jaw worked back and forth. “Guilt often keeps a man from doing the right thing.”
“Oui, she deserved a happy home, a baby to love.”
Barrett could feel the directness of her stare boring into the side of his face. Did she like unsettling everyone like this, or was it his lucky chance?
Reaching into the bosom of her black-fringed dress, she pulled out something. She carefully smoothed out the slight curls to the edges and held it out. “Would you care to see her?”
An odd pitch colored her words. Alarmed, he turned to see a photograph in her shaking fingers. Of course she was emotional. The girl obviously meant a great deal to her. Barrett took the photograph and scanned the faces of sixteen girls, all scantily clad and perched on the same rickety staircase that stood inside now.
“Third row from the bottom, next to the wall.”
He stopped on the indicated face. Long dark hair, bright round eyes, small nose turned up at the end. His heart stopped. He knew this face. Had stared at it for nearly thirty years, desperate to