by Susan Finlay
“Not every man who became a soldier in the Germany army wanted to be there,” she said. “Many were drafted. They wore the uniform, and outwardly they were model soldiers, but some didn’t agree with the party or with Hitler. They silently protested, by doing what they could to protect us, treating us kindly when they weren’t being watched. Emil and his friends protected me and my family from the other soldiers who shared the party’s views or used their uniforms for power for their own gain.”
Josh thought he saw tears well up in Domenic’s eyes, but he couldn’t be sure, since there weren’t any other indications of emotion coming from him. The man remained still as a rock. No more than an occasional twitch of a facial muscle that Josh wouldn’t even have noticed had he not been watching closely.
Paulette stared off into space, talking to no one in the room, reminiscing to herself.
“The first time I saw him, I admired his blond hair and blue eyes. But he had big muscles, too, and wore the German uniform. I was afraid. I hated them all. Papa warned me to stay away from them except when serving them their meals.” She stopped talking and took a sip of her drink.
“One day, two of them cornered me in the kitchen. I was alone, as it was in between meals and I was cleaning the stove. They grabbed me. I screamed. Emil came to my rescue.”
She closed her eyes, and didn’t say anything for a few moments. Josh wondered if she’d dosed off. He glanced at Domenic.
“After that day, I found Emil alone in the garden and I thanked him. He warned me to be careful, that he couldn’t always be around when . . . he said that several of the men here had raped women in town and that I must never be alone with them.
“I never felt afraid to be around Emil, though. Over several months, we became friends and eventually lovers.”
“What happened to him?” Domenic asked.
“Near the end of the war, the Resistance and their allies invaded. Emil came to me and warned me to get myself and my parents away. My parents and I ran, together, stumbling and helping each other up, in the middle of the night, as gunfire blasted all around us. Several of our neighbors joined us. We all hid in the caves inside the hill, huddled in the dark, a few candles providing an eerie light. Must have been seven or eight of us. I’ve never been so terrified in my life.
“The next morning, we tried to leave, but it wasn’t safe. So we stayed there another day and night. The following morning, we came out of hiding and found that the Resistance had retaken the town. Our house across the river was mostly in ruins, and most of the Nazis were either dead or gone.” Paulette wrung her hands and looked sad. “I found out later, from my father, that Emil had been killed.”
“I didn’t know any of that,” Domenic said. “If you cared for my father, why did you abandon me?”
“A couple of months later I found out I was pregnant. Seventeen, mind you. Pregnant by a German man. A dead man. My parents were furious. They’d lost their home—most of it destroyed—and we were living temporarily with my father’s sister and her family. They told me I couldn’t stay.
“They took me on a train to the convent in Apremont. There I stayed with many other girls who were in the same or similar predicament. The nuns found homes for our babies, and then sent us back to our families as if nothing had happened.”
“You didn’t get a choice?”
“No choice. I didn’t even get to hold you. I saw you once. You looked like my Emil. It made me want to cry. He never got to know of your existence.”
“What if he’d lived? Would you have married him and kept me?”
“How could I? In another time, oui, of course. But it was war time. He would have been arrested or deported. We couldn’t have been together.”
Josh said, “Does Charles know all of this?”
“I’ve never told anyone.”
Domenic turned his attention to Josh. “Why did Charles call the gendarmes? What’s going on?”
“He seems to think I’m trying to get Paulette’s estate. I guess someone is filling his head with nonsense. I’m her employee and friend, nothing more. I’m the one who found Charles and got him to come back here to reunite with his mother before it was too late. I’m the one who found out you were her son and told Paulette. Why would I do that if I wanted her money? It’s crazy.”
Domenic didn’t say anything, just continued to look at Josh. What was he thinking?
“Why did Charles run off all those years ago?” Domenic asked. “Was his life here in Mythe terrible? I heard he left with that Italian man, but it never made sense to me. They didn’t like each other much, from what I’ve heard.”
Josh glanced at Paulette. He wasn’t sure how much to tell him. Was Domenic the killer or was Charles? It still could be either of them, or even someone else.
The door opened and Claudine stuck her head inside. “Sorry to interrupt. Helene wants to know if we would like to meet her for dinner tonight at Chez Desmarais, six o’clock.”
“That will be fine.” He hesitated, then said, “Would you two like to join us? I’m sure Helene would like to meet her great-grandmother officially. She doesn’t yet know she’s related to you.”
Paulette’s face lit up. “Are you sure? Oh my God. I hadn’t thought about that. Oui, I would love to. Is that all right, Josh-you-ah?”
“Of course, if you think you’ll feel up to it. Can you manage going up and down the hill again?”
“You may have to carry me, but I’m going.”
Claudine nodded. “I’ll let her know to expect four of us.”
“Well,” Josh said, “if we’re going out to dinner tonight, I should get you back home and let you rest awhile. We’ll see you tonight.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
TWO DAYS AFTER his argument with his wife, Mary, Robert Clayton sat on the edge of his hotel bed, feeling woozy and sorry for himself, staring into an empty wine bottle, one of those tiny bottles from the hotel refrigerator with a see-through door that tempted the guests. He expertly launched the bottle across the room and slam-dunked it into the trash can next to the refrigerator, loudly impacting against the previous bottles.
It was his first night in Singapore. He wasn’t supposed to drink right before or during a flight. Well, dammit, this was technically after a flight and he wasn’t flying out again until tomorrow at noon. So what if he had a bit of wine? God knew he needed it.
He used to love flying more than anything in the world, though he had to admit that visiting international cities, meeting new people—especially the beautiful women—was part of the appeal. Women loved a man in uniform, even if it was a pilot’s uniform. Hell, getting to wear a uniform was part of what had drawn him to this kind of work. No women tonight, though. Maybe not ever again. The damned job had gotten him into this mess. If he hadn’t started flying and meeting all those women, he would . . . . He hung his head, disgusted with himself.
It’s not the job’s fault. It’s mine. I’m weak and worthless. All I’ve done is hurt the people I love. I should just end it all. Several times in the past few weeks he had stood outside a gun shop, considering going inside and buying a gun to use on himself. He’d actually gotten up the nerve to go inside once, but when he stood in line, listening to conversations and staring at the guns, he’d lost his nerve. What a chicken shit. You need to grow a pair! Can’t even do that right.
He continued sitting on the edge of the bed, head hung down, depressed, thinking about other ways, easier ways to end it all. Like jumping off the Golden Gate Bridge, or better yet, one of the bridges in Paris. That would be fitting now, wouldn’t it? But he decided, being a wuss, pills were probably easiest. Maybe he would look into that when he got back to California. Then he got up to raid the refrigerator again, perhaps pick something a bit stronger this time.
JOSH HELPED PAULETTE navigate the hill, stopping periodically along the way to let her rest. Even so, by the time they arrived at the troglo, she practically collapsed onto the sofa.
“You sure you want
to do that again tonight?”
“Hmm, I think I can get down into town all right, but maybe we can spend the night in the hotel—if dinner goes okay. What do you think? I’ll pay for our rooms.”
The unbidden image of Vanessa sprawled across the bed in her hotel room and playing mind games with him sprang to mind. He suppressed a shudder, but responded with, “Sounds good. I hope I can have the room I stayed in when I was there before.” And not the room where Vanessa stayed, he didn’t add. That room, he wished he could block forever from his memory. Not because he didn’t like seeing Vanessa naked, but because of the baggage that went with it; all the cheating, lying, and her manipulation was far too painful. He just wanted to block all of it.
He understood why Isabelle avoided the rooms where her parents and brother had died.
Josh took off his shoes and tossed them in a corner near the door. When he looked around, Paulette was stretched out, already asleep on the sofa, snoring quietly. He gently pulled off her shoes and placed a blanket over her. He had to navigate carefully, as there were piles of photo albums scattered about, on the coffee table and on the floor beside the sofa. Louder snoring from across the room drew his attention. All four dogs were asleep, Gigi in her dog bed with one puppy, and the other two puppies snuggling together on a blanket near the dog bed.
Smiling to himself and appreciating one of the few times the pups were quiet, he looked down at the albums and decided to quietly look through a few of them. Hmm, maybe he’d find a picture of the Italian guy, Franco.
He sat down on the floor, grabbed the top album from the stack closest to him, and started thumbing through the pages. Already saw this album, he thought, setting it down and retrieving another. He studied pictures of Paulette’s husband, Rene, for a few moments, trying to imagine him and Paulette together. He saw pictures of the funeral, a few more of Charles, and even pictures of their family’s dog at the time. Lots of photos here. Who was the photographer? Maybe Paulette and Rene took turns. He removed a couple and turned them over, but there was not writing on the backs.
Two hours later, he closed the latest album, got up, and stretched his cramped legs. He went into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of wine out of the bottle left over from a few nights ago, then strolled back into the living room. He sat again and picked up another album. A few pages into it he could tell it was newer than the others—Charles looked to be around thirteen or fourteen in these latest shots. Josh set his wine glass on the coffee table and sat up straight, stretching his back. Now he was getting somewhere.
The boy looked grumpier now, with that rebellious teenage angst that many kids went through. Flipping to the next page, Josh almost yelled out, but caught himself in time. Franco. Standing beside an easel, paint brush in hand. Josh removed the photo and held it up close, trying to make out the guy’s features. Not a great photo, but getting warm.
Another picture of him, this one giving a bigger view of the art studio. Where the hell is that? Not here in the troglo, that’s for damn sure. The easel was in the center of a room, surrounded by dozens of framed paintings, some of the frames elaborate. Was this guy a successful artist? How much did he get for his paintings, anyway? Hey, what was Franco’s last name? If he could get that from Paulette, and if he was a successful artist, then Isabelle should be able to look him up on the internet. Hadn’t anyone missed the man?
Finally, a close-up of Franco. Hmm, not bad looking. Dark wavy hair, green eyes, olive skin. Very Italian. Wait. He flipped back to the beginning of the album to a picture of Charles. Charles had the same dark wavy hair, the same green eyes.
How can that be? Back to a photo of Rene, he saw that Rene had reddish-brown hair and dark brown eyes. Paulette’s hair color changed periodically in the photos, but as far as he could tell, her natural hair color had gone from blonde, as a child, to brown as an adult; and her eyes were brown.
Uh oh! He set down the album on the table and stared at Paulette, still asleep and looking like an angel. Could Franco be Charles’s biological father? That didn’t make sense, though. Paulette was married to Rene and, according to her, didn’t get involved with Franco until five or six years after Rene’s death. Another thing to talk to Paulette about at the right time. This job is just getting stranger and stranger.
Shaking his head, he picked up the photo album and removed the two photos. He continued studying the rest of the photos, one more of the art studio, this one a close-up of the painting on the easel. Damn good painting, if anyone asked his opinion, though he wasn’t an art expert by any means. He removed that photo as well and two more of the studio. Paulette might remember where it was, but if she didn’t, maybe someone in town would tell him. He wasn’t sure why it was important, but it somehow felt important. Call it his gut feeling.
Acting on another gut feeling, he took his camera upstairs, yanked off the bed linen from his bed, and flipped over the mattress. He took a picture of the slits in the fabric, then pulled out some of the bundles of cash and snapped more photos. He slid the camera lens partway into each of the holes and took more photos. He put the bed back together and went into Paulette’s room and did the same with her mattress. They’d returned the antique paintings to the hidden compartment in the armoire, so they were probably safe. He didn’t know where the box of coins had gone.
Wanting Paulette to be well-rested, he let her sleep as long as possible. When he woke her up and she found out the time, she yelled at him.
“Josh-you-ah! I don’t have enough time to change clothes, fix myself up, and get down the hill. You shouldn’t have waited to wake me.” She rushed around, stamping up the stairs, opening and closing drawers loudly.
Josh went upstairs to see if he could help.
“Non, I’m going to embarrass my son and his wife and it’s all your fault!”
He raised his hands to protest, but then decided to let it go. Yep, right, it’s always the guy’s fault when a woman doesn’t look like a million bucks. His father used to get that a lot from Josh’s mother. He shook his head and tromped into his own room to change clothes, glad that he’d done some laundry a couple of days ago and had something at least clean to change into.
Before leaving, he grabbed their overnight bags and his camera bag, slinging the shoulder straps over each of his shoulders. He barricaded the kitchen wall as best he could to prevent anyone getting into the troglo through the cave and convinced Paulette to lock the door as a precaution, though he worried that they might be locking the barn door after the animals had already escaped.
Paulette remained silent as they made their way down the trail into the town.
“Are you nervous about the dinner?” Josh asked.
“You have no idea. What do I talk to them about? You wouldn’t know it, but when I was in my thirties and forties I was a natural socialite, able to talk to anyone about anything. Seems that disappeared along with my beauty and my youth. Not fair.”
“Oh, I think you’re still a good conversationalist. You’re just out of practice because you don’t get out much anymore. You’ll be fine.”
“Do you think he’s told his wife and their granddaughter who I really am or do you think he’ll surprise them in the restaurant?”
“I don’t know about his granddaughter, but I suspect his wife already knows.”
“What makes you think that?”
“He called you Helene’s great-grandmother in front of her. She didn’t bat an eye.”
“Maybe she didn’t hear it,” Paulette said. “She was across the room, wasn’t she?”
“Oh, I think she heard.”
When he glanced at her out of the corner of his eyes, she seemed oblivious to her surroundings, self-absorbed. Several times, she tripped and would have fallen if he hadn’t grabbed her arm to steady her.
Okay, this is not a good time to be asking her questions, and especially not about Charles and Franco. Perhaps in the morning, when she was well-rested and not worrying about her other family, he would bring
up the subject he wanted to find answers to.
When they finally arrived at the restaurant, Paulette immediately ran off to the bathroom. Josh checked his phone to see if he’d missed a call or text message from Isabelle. He’d called her an hour earlier and asked if she knew Franco’s last name. She had replied, no, but that she might know someone who did, someone who might have known him all those years ago. She told him she would check, but nothing so far.
Paulette returned from the restroom, and Josh put his phone away. Together, they entered the dining room. Domenic and Claudine waved to them from their table.
“I’m glad you could come,” Domenic said. “Helene is running late. She should be here in about ten minutes. Please sit.” He motioned to the empty chairs.
Josh pulled out a chair for Paulette and helped her situate herself, then sat beside her. “Uh, Domenic, do you by any chance have a couple rooms available in your hotel for the night? Hiking up the hill in the dark isn’t a problem for me, but it would be tough on her. It would be best if Paulette could rest in town after all the exertion today. I know I should have phoned. We talked about it when we were walking back up to the troglo earlier today, but I forgot about it until we were almost here.”
“Splendid. Do not worry. We have rooms for both of you.”
A waiter brought over menus, took drink orders, and disappeared. After studying the menus and discussing the choices, Josh was ready to order even though he wasn’t sure what it was that he’d selected. It didn’t much matter because his stomach had been growling for the past forty-five minutes and decided he could eat most anything. Several more minutes passed and still the waiter hadn’t come by to take their orders.
As Helene breezed in and took the remaining chair, the waiter magically appeared out of thin air. Domenic made the introductions—Josh and Paulette to Helene. Since Helene worked here part-time, she knew exactly what she wanted and had ordered first. “It’s the best thing on the menu,” she added.
