“That’s why you were at the bookstore yesterday,” Drew said.
When I nodded, he continued, “My father told me about the bookstore—how it was a hub of Resistance activity, and that La Fleur met many of her contacts there. I thought it would be a good place to start.”
“Did you find out anything?”
“No. I didn’t stay.” He smiled sheepishly. “I was worried about you since you seemed so bent on self-destruction yesterday, and I followed you at a discreet distance to make sure you made it back to wherever you came from. When I saw you enter the Ritz, I figured you’d be all right.”
I felt the blood rush to my face, embarrassed and yet a little bit charmed. “Yes, well, here I am. Safe and sound. And I’m afraid I don’t really have any more information about this La Fleur woman.”
He gestured with his hand for me to speak more quietly. “Be careful about mentioning her name. She’s a national hero here in France for the work she did during the Resistance. Not sure if it’s more legend than fact, but women have been naming their daughters Fleur for the last two decades in her honor.”
A sour taste began at the back of my throat and I quickly washed it down with another gulp of my drink. “I only heard the name a few times. From Kit, right after he’d returned from the camp at the end of the war. He wasn’t well, physically or mentally.” I looked up at Drew Bowdoin and saw the compassion in his eyes, and knew that he understood. He was here for his father, after all. “He was delirious. Calling out in his sleep. It happened several times, but not in any context that I could make sense of. I wasn’t even sure it was a person until I learned about who La Fleur was later. They must have worked together in the Resistance is all I could piece together.”
“Yes, they did. According to my father, La Fleur began as a courier between the various Resistance groups. She was successful because she knew people in the right places—higher-ups in the Nazi regime, perhaps. Or influential Parisians. It’s unclear how, but she did have access. And after what my father told me about her . . .” He paused as another round of drinks arrived at our table. “Babs, do you know those ladies—”
I cut him off. “What did he tell you?” I leaned over the table, feeling his jacket slip from my shoulders and the sodden neckline of my dress gape open. I smacked it with the palm of my hand to close the gap, but it was unclear if it had any effect.
“That she may have saved many lives according to those Resistance members interviewed after the war. But to my father, she was a traitor.”
“Because of the failed drop.” It was difficult meeting his eyes as his gaze was now trained firmly at the middle of my forehead.
“Yes. Some sort of treasure of rubies and diamonds. And something to do with a white wolf with a cross.”
“A white wolf with a . . .” My eyelids lowered slowly before I brought them back up again. “What is that, exactly?” My words seemed to be bumping into each other.
“My father never found out. Whatever it was wasn’t delivered. La Fleur never showed. And when the diamonds and rubies began showing up among the Nazis, my dad was removed from the field and branded a traitor. He was never charged, but he was never sent on another mission and never received any of the medals that were his due because the cloud of suspicion never left him. He blames La Fleur, believes she’s actually the one who gave the treasure to the Nazis. And then allowed him to take the fall.”
“That’s terrible.” I managed to hold back a belch just in time to save my dignity. Even in my mental fog, I felt great pleasure knowing that La Fleur wasn’t the angel she was rumored to be. “What was her real name?”
Drew shrugged, and I found myself noticing his very broad shoulders and wondering if he played football—American or British, although at the moment I couldn’t recall the difference. “Nobody knows. Even my father. She’s quite the enigma.” He seemed to be leaning toward me, an odd expression on his face. “Are you all right, Babs?”
“Just fine, thank you,” I said, grasping the edge of the table so I didn’t fall out of my chair.
He studied me for a moment, as if considering my response before continuing. “After the war, did she ever try to contact your husband? A phone call? Or letter?”
I stared at the mostly full glass in front of me, hearing the strident voice of Mrs. Schuyler over the din and through the alcohol haze in my brain. “Don’t be ridiculous!” she screeched. “It’s the Battle of the SOMMAY. I thought you said you knew French.” I wanted to laugh, but couldn’t. Because I was thinking of the letter inside my bag. The words written by another woman to my husband. I will always love you. Always.
“No,” I said. “There was no contact.” Then I picked up my glass and drained it.
“But he called out her name,” he said gently. “That must have been difficult for you.” He reached over and pressed his large hand on top of mine and I didn’t mind. It was the first act of compassion I’d received in a very long while. And I learned something about Drew “not connected to the university” Bowdoin right then. He knew what it was like to love someone who wasn’t really his.
He leaned back in his chair. “How is your French?”
I almost blurted out Better than yours but thought that would be rude. “I learned French in school, but I got much better at it after Kit came back from the war. I think I was attempting to be more cosmopolitan.” I swallowed, a bitter taste settling on my tongue. “So that my husband would find me more interesting than I was. He loved all things French, and I was . . . not.” I hadn’t meant to say all that, but there was something so kind, so understanding about the way Drew was looking at me that I felt compelled to share things with him I’d never shared with anyone else.
I straightened in my chair, aware of how incredibly attractive he was. How incredibly attractive I found him to be. I snatched my hand away, feeling as if I’d just been unfaithful to Kit, even though I’d been a widow for over a year. Reaching into my bag, I pulled out the small folder I always carried with me of my important papers and photographs of my children. I suppose it was a leftover from the war days when one wasn’t sure if one’s house would still be there at the end of the day.
“Have I shown you pictures of my children? I have three of them.” Without waiting for an answer, I slid several photographs onto the table. They weren’t the most recent ones, all being taken before Kit’s illness at Robin’s fifteenth birthday celebration out on the lawn at Langford Hall. I pointed to each photo, identifying the subjects. “That’s Robin, the eldest. He’s seventeen. He’s named after his grandfather, Robert Langford.”
“The spy novelist? That Robert Langford?”
“The very one,” I said, inordinately pleased that Drew knew who Robert was. “And this,” I said, pointing to my second son, “is Rupert. He’s fourteen and very smart and very sweet. Not as athletic as Robin, but they’re good friends as well as brothers. And this,” I said, tapping on my daughter’s face, “is Penelope, but we call her Penny, and she’s eleven. She’s very clever and gets along with her brothers—although she’s closest to Rupert. Most likely because he enjoys playing with her dolls and dressing up. He’s very kind to do that as I know Robin would never consider it.”