Secrets on Cedar Key

by Terri DuLong

  “Have you had any time to do some thinking yet?” he asked, and I knew he was referring to Andrew and Fiona.

  “Not yet,” I told him.

  “That’s understandable. You need to just settle in first, relax, enjoy Paris. How’s the weather?”

  “Much milder than I thought it would be. The sun is shining and it’s probably fifty today. Perfect weather to be out and about enjoying the city.”

  “Great. Well, listen, I’ll let you go. You need to have lunch and I need to get to work. Enjoy your day, Marin.”

  He paused and I said, “I will, and . . . I miss you, Worth. It’ll be nice when you arrive next week. Bye.” I disconnected the call, blew out a breath, and took a sip of my wine. I hadn’t planned to say that. It had just come out—but I did miss him. Being with him.

  When the waiter returned, I ordered a croque-monsieur. The grilled ham and cheese sandwich had been one of my favorites years ago.

  As I sat there sipping my wine, watching crowds of people either strolling or hurrying past, my thoughts drifted to Andrew. How did I feel now? Removed from the geographic location of our marriage, did I feel any different toward him? The original grief over his death was lighter, and I guess that was natural. Didn’t everybody say time would lighten the grief? But how about the hurt, the anger, the betrayal I’d felt this past month since finding out about his infidelity? Allowing myself to focus on my emotions, I realized that those, too, seemed to be lighter.

  If I was perfectly honest with myself, I had to admit that during that summer that Andrew had been away I had given some thought to perhaps a separation or even a divorce. I hadn’t been happy in my marriage for a while, and I was convinced that Andrew hadn’t been either. But then he had returned from Massachusetts, and although, no, our marriage did not suddenly take on a romantic or passionate quality, something changed—and it changed in such a way as to enable us to go forward.

  The waiter brought my sandwich, and it looked every bit as good as I remembered. “Merci. Encore, s’il vous plaît,” I said, pointing to my wineglass. The wine was delicious and warranted a refill.

  I bit into my sandwich and savored the wonderful flavor of what tasted like Gruyère cheese. As I sat there enjoying my lunch, I glanced a few tables away and saw a young father with two little boys probably between three and five years of age. The father had a glass of red wine in front of him, and the boys were each enjoying a cup of rich, dark hot chocolate. They were having what appeared to be an interesting discussion on a topic that held the boys’ interest, and I smiled.

  Out of the blue, I could see Andrew with Jason and John having similar discussions when they were that age. This thought led me to remember how much time Andrew always spent with the boys. Maybe not so much during the week, when work occupied his hours. But the weekends were devoted to time spent with our sons. We had a fair amount of family outings, but I could recall that if I had preferred to stay home to catch up on ironing or even to just have some quiet time, then it was Andrew who took the boys to the duck pond or the movies or sports events. It was Andrew who helped in the evening with difficult homework assignments, and when the boys were in high school, it was Andrew who would have long discussions with them about career choices, college applications, and potential job opportunities.

  I took the last bite of my sandwich and glanced across at the father and sons again. He must have said something humorous, because both boys were laughing. Their faces were lit up with joy, but it was their expression when they looked at their father that caught my attention. The same expression I used to glimpse on Jason’s and John’s faces sometimes when they looked at Andrew—admiration and respect.

  I let out a deep sigh and then took a sip of wine. No matter what, Andrew had been a good father. He’d spent quality time with his sons. He had been a good role model. Andrew had worked hard and been a good provider for his family. He’d encouraged the boys, supported them, and always been there for them during important times.

  I took another sip of wine and nodded to myself. Not only had Andrew been a good father—he had been a good man. A good man who had made one mistake—and for that alone, he deserved forgiveness.

  32

  I woke a little later the following morning, just before seven, and decided that rather than have toast with my coffee I’d go to the corner boulangerie and bring back something yummy. Something Parisian. Something with a calorie count that I wasn’t going to concern myself with. After all the walking I’d done the previous day, I wouldn’t have been surprised if I’d lost a pound or two.

  I ran a brush through my hair, threw on a pair of sweats along with my Nikes, grabbed my purse, and headed out hoping the Parisians would forgive me for looking like a very untrendy American. The only thing missing was the baseball cap.

  Standing in front of the boulangerie’s window, I could feel my salivary glands going into action. How on earth was it possible to live here, surrounded by such tempting food, and still manage to maintain the slim figures I saw on most French women? Pushing these thoughts aside, I focused on all the delectable choices in front of me. Once I got my drooling under control, I walked inside, chose both an apple tart and a pain au chocolat, and happily made my way back to the apartment.

  I sat at the kitchen counter enjoying the coffee and savoring the taste of the tart. When I finished my first cup, I got up for a refill and debated whether to also partake of the pain au chocolat. Who could resist the flaky puff pastry with slices of chocolate inside? Certainly not me.

  It wasn’t until I’d showered and dressed that I realized today was Thanksgiving in America. Because of the time difference, I planned to call my mother around eight in the evening my time. She’d be at Sydney’s house then, and I could also talk to my cousin.

  Since it wasn’t a holiday in France, I knew all the shops would be open and left the apartment for a stop at the local florist. The French loved their flowers, and I felt it would be an appropriate thank-you to Madame Leroux for dinner.

  One of the things that had struck me thirty years ago about the shops in Paris was their window displays and presentation. No matter if it was a chocolate shop, bakery, wine shop, or cheese shop, the appealing and creative window displays were like none I’d ever seen anywhere else. They were seductive, enticing a customer to stop, admire, and perhaps step inside to make a purchase. The florist shop was no exception.

  Artfully arranged on the pavement in front of the shop were tin buckets holding assorted varieties and colors of flowers—purple iris, red, pink, and white cyclamen, roses, and many more that I wasn’t familiar with.

  I walked inside and explained to the salesgirl that I wanted an arrangement of flowers as a thank-you for a dinner invitation. She smiled and proceeded to collect this flower and that one, nodding to herself as she moved about the shop, and presently she had worked her magic and produced a large, exquisite bouquet of flowers, which she carefully wrapped in green paper for me to carry back to the apartment.

  After dropping off the flowers, I spent the rest of the morning wandering streets in the Latin Quarter, pausing to browse in small shops, and to admire Paris. I allowed myself to simply soak up this ancient and beautiful area.

  By the time I returned to the apartment, I had about an hour before I was due upstairs at Madame Leroux’s, so I made myself a cup of coffee and settled into the cushy club chair to do some knitting. I decided that I’d pay a visit to one of the yarn shops suggested by the flight attendant the next day.

  A little before one I picked up the beautiful bouquet resting on the counter and made my way up the stairs. Like the first time I’d knocked a couple days before, Madame Leroux opened the door almost immediately, with Jacques enveloped in her arms.

  “Bonjour. Come in,” she said as her eyes spied the flowers and her face lit up with a smile.

  “Pour vous,” I told her, passing her the bouquet.

  “Merci beaucoup. They are beautiful. Come, sit down, and I will put these into a vase.�
��

  I had no sooner sat than Jacques was in my lap and I began stroking his soft fur. “How are you, handsome boy?”

  I heard a trill in reply and smiled. I could easily become attached to this cat.

  I saw that the dining room table was beautifully set for three, with tablecloth, place mats, napkins, china, and crystal. Two candles flickered in the center, adding a cozy ambiance.

  “Ah, they will look good here, no?” Madame Leroux asked, placing them on a marble-topped credenza.

  “Perfect,” I said and then remembered the word in French was parfait.

  “Annette will be here shortly. A glass of wine before dinner?”

  “Yes, that would be nice.”

  A red wine had already been poured into a decanter, and Madame Leroux filled two glasses.

  “Thank you,” I said, as she passed one to me.

  “And how is my friend Worth? You have heard from him?”

  “Not yet today, but he’s fine. I’m sure he’s anxious to be here and see his daughter and grandchildren.”

  I noticed that a brief frown crossed the woman’s face. “His grandchildren, yes. But his daughter? Caroline can be very difficult.”

  “Oh, you’ve met her?” I asked before taking a sip of wine.

  She nodded. “Oh, yes. Many times. I have known her since she was a little girl. Unfortunately, she takes too much after her mother and not enough like Worth.”

  So she had also met Worth’s wife. Having met neither of them, I had no reply and was happy the subject ended because there was a brief knock on the door and a woman about my age entered.

  “Tante Blanche,” she said, scooping Madame Leroux into her arms and placing kisses on both of her aunt’s cheeks. “And you must be Marin. I’m Annette. It’s so nice to meet you.”

  She extended her hand, which I shook in return. “Thank you, and nice to meet you as well.”

  “And you, you spoiled cat,” she said, reaching down to pat Jacques, who was still in my lap. “I see that he has managed to bewitch you with his charm.”

  I let out a laugh. “He’s absolutely gorgeous, and I think I’m getting quite attached to him. I told your aunt that a woman in my town also has a Maine coon.”

  Annette smiled as she accepted a glass of wine from her aunt and sat on the sofa across from me. “They’re very special cats, aren’t they? Would you like one to take back to America with you?”

  I thought she was joking but looked up to see her face was quite serious.

  “Oh, that’s right. You’re a breeder, aren’t you?”

  “I am, and I have one male kitten left. He’s the same color as Jacques. A blue classic tabby with white. He’s now three months old and ready to go to a home.”

  Annette had caught me by surprise, and I only mumbled, “Really?” which caused her to laugh.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to put you on the spot like that.”

  “No, no,” I said, as the idea started taking shape in my head. I would love to have a Maine coon cat. And why not? Within a month I’d be moving into my own home. Cats were wonderful companions. Studies had shown that they lowered blood pressure and increased a person’s well-being. “But what would be required to fly it from France to the States?”

  “You would have to have an approved airline pet carrier that will fit under your seat in the cabin. I could tell you where to purchase one in Paris, and you will need a health certificate from the vet to present to the airlines, which I would give to you. Which airline are you flying?”

  “Air France,” I said, as Jacques looked up at me with his beautiful almond-shaped eyes. The idea had morphed from taking shape to this might be possible.

  “You would just have to call the airline to let them know for your return flight you would have a kitten in a carrier with you in the cabin. I know this requires a phone call and can’t be done on-line. Going through security at Charles de Gaulle, you might have to remove the kitten from the carrier, let the carrier go through the X-ray belt, and you carry the kitten through the scanner. Other than that, that’s about all that’s required.”

  “Really?” I said again and now heard Madame Leroux laugh.

  “What better remembrance of Paris than to bring home a French cat. But we mustn’t force you,” she said, getting up. “I will remove the chicken from the oven and we will eat shortly.”

  Both Annette and I also jumped up, causing Jacques to move from my lap to the carpet.

  “I’ll help you,” I said at the same time that Annette did, and we followed Madame Leroux into the kitchen.

  She carved the chicken while Annette mashed the potatoes and I moved the roasted vegetables into serving bowls.

  As I sat at the table with them and as we passed around the platter and bowls, even though I was in France, far from home, with people I had only recently met, the feeling of Thanksgiving came over me. That emotion of camaraderie and sharing, making me very grateful to be where I was.

  As if reading my mind, Madame Leroux raised her wineglass toward me. “Happy Thanksgiving,” she said. “Welcome to my table. Bon appétit.”

  The dinner was delicious, but even nicer was getting to know both Madame Leroux and her niece over the leisurely meal. We exchanged a lot of information about one another. I learned that Madame Leroux had one son, unmarried, and his job had taken him to live in London. Annette and I were actually the same age; she had lost her husband to cancer two years before, and she had one daughter, married with two children, who lived near Lyon. I liked them both, and I had a feeling that we would stay in touch even after I returned home.

  I was shocked to glance at my watch and see it was going on five o’clock as Madame Leroux got up to begin clearing the table. Annette and I helped, and while her aunt washed the dishes, we dried and got them put away.

  Madame Leroux wiped her hands on her apron and announced, “Time for dessert and coffee,” and set three ramekins of crème brûlée on the table that looked like they belonged in a bakery window, but I knew they weren’t store-bought. She had made them herself.

  I took one look at the custardy, creamy, sugar masterpieces and was sorry I’d ingested the high-calorie breakfast earlier, but there was no way I was turning down my very favorite dessert. I smiled because I knew my mother would be proud of me.

  Madame Leroux picked up a blowtorch and began burning the sugar on top to caramelize it. She expertly aimed the torch at the outer side, working her way to the inside, and produced a golden look on top, identical to that of any top pastry chef.

  “Voilà,” she said and placed them on a tray to carry into the dining room. “Annette, could you bring the coffee, please?”

  After we were seated, Madame Leroux pressed the plunger on the French press and filled our cups before we began eating the magnificent dessert.

  “This is wonderful,” I said after one bite, and it was. It melted in my mouth, and rather than thinking about calories, I only allowed myself to soak up this culinary treasure. “It’s my favorite dessert, and yours is one of the best I’ve ever had.”

  “Merci,” Madame Leroux said, but I had a feeling she was used to high praise concerning her crème brûlée.

  I sipped my coffee, and that was when I spied Jacques curled up on a stack of afghans that were folded on top of a wooden trunk in the corner of the dining room. I hadn’t noticed the knitted pieces earlier.

  “Oh, did you knit those afghans?” I asked, getting up to inspect them. The yarn that had been used looked old, not like the hand-painted and spun yarns available today. But the patterns were beautiful, with cables, bobbles, and various other fancy stitches. “They’re gorgeous.”

  Madame Leroux had remained silent, and I turned around to see a sad expression on her face. She nodded slowly. “Yes,” she said. “I did knit them . . . but not for warmth. They were knitted during World War II . . . to be used as a secret message.”

  I returned to the table and suddenly felt awkward, like maybe I’d said something wrong or b
rought up a subject that she didn’t want to talk about. Not understanding, I took a sip of coffee and said nothing.

  After a few moments, Annette reached across the table and patted her aunt’s hand. “Tell her,” she said. “Tell her the story behind the afghans. You should be proud, not sad.”

  Madame Leroux nodded. “Yes, I know, but it was such a difficult time in our country.” She let out a deep sigh. “The afghans . . . they were used to alert the network that we had children hiding in our apartment.”

  Oh, my gosh. Of course I knew about this, had read many books concerning the subject, and she was right—it was not a good time for France. Neighbors were pitted against neighbors. It was sometimes difficult to know for sure who was against the Nazis and who might be collaborators. It was a time of great distrust.

  “You hid children?” I asked softly.

  “Yes, I did, along with many of my friends up and down this street. One of them had been approached by a senior member in the network. They knew we weren’t Jewish; we were young mothers and housewives, and they felt perhaps we might be able to help them, by hiding the children for a few days, sometimes longer, until they were able to arrange for their papers and get them out of the country.”

  “They were Jewish children?”

  She nodded, and I knew that if not for Madame Leroux and so many others, those children would have been sent to death camps. The thought of it made me shiver.

  “And so . . . we had to devise a plan. A way that the network would know if it was safe to bring a child during the night to be hidden, and then we needed to know when, exactly, to have the child or children ready for them to come and take to the next part of their journey out of the country. They put one woman in charge. She lived down the street. All forms of communication were given to her, she passed it along to the next woman, and so on.”

  “And you used the afghans?”

  “Yes. If it was safe for a child to be brought to our apartment to hide, we were to hang a red afghan out the window. Of course, no afghan meant do not bring a child. The woman in charge, Madame Gadreault, she devised the code. My color was blue. If I saw a blue afghan hanging out her window, I would know that during the night a child would be brought here. When the blue afghan appeared again, I knew that was the night they would come and retrieve the child to move on.”