He pulled out a chair and sat down, his injured leg protruding stiffly. Véronique sat across from him, whispered a blessing in French, and crossed herself, the signal that they could begin eating.
The soup was warm and tasty, and his appreciative noises made her smile again. “The Red Cross was here today?” he asked in French. Christophe knew the term Croix Rouge. “I saw their car leave.”
She paused, her soup spoon on the edge of her plate. “While you were working?”
“Yes.”
“And they saw you?”
He shrugged. “I’m sure they did. We watched each other.”
“It was a man and a woman. Americans.”
“I hope they’ll bring help. We should need it.” He corrected his linguistic blunder. “We need it.” He knew that volunteers from the American Red Cross had come around before, checking on all those who had returned to the area after the Meuse-Argonne Offensive. The organization had been part of a relief effort as well. “Did they mention the sheep from Algeria that have been promised?”
“No.”
“What did they want, then?”
Véronique was a forthright woman, direct and unsparing of her brandy-colored gazes. But now she glanced away. “They asked about you.”
He’d been pouring a glass of wine and stopped. “Me—what about me?”
“They know you are American, too. They are curious.”
Abruptly awash with a formless, uneasy dread, he put down the bottle.
“They wanted to talk to you, but I told them you were gone to the village. I was afraid they might upset you with their questions.”
He shook his head, puzzled. “I do not understand ‘détresse.’”
She touched his arm to make him look at her, and put a hand to her forehead. “Affliger.”
Distress. That he did understand. He felt safe here with Véronique.
“They asked where you are from, how you came to be here.”
He tore a piece of bread from the round loaf. “What did you tell them?”
“The truth. I pulled you from that wrecked ambulance beside the road. You were the only one still alive. The driver and the other man—” She shuddered. “The shell destroyed them.” She paused. “It has been almost two years. You still remember nothing?”
“No.”
“They asked if you had identification. But you did not, and I told them so. To me, you are Christophe. That is all I know.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Alexis Harrington is the award-winning author of a dozen novels, including the international bestseller The Irish Bride. She spent twelve years working for consulting civil engineers before she changed track and became a full-time novelist. When she isn’t writing, she enjoys jewelry-making, needlework, embroidery, cooking, and entertaining friends. She lives in her native Pacific Northwest, near the Columbia River, with a variety of pets who do their best to distract her while she is working.
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