Miss Girard gave him an amused smile, her eyes bright and expressive. Light brown, maybe hazel. “Four is a nice age for girls. The nicest, I think. Does she—she looks like the sort of little girl who likes kitty-cats.”
A tiny gasp behind Paul’s knee. “I am!”
“Please come with me. I’d like you to meet someone special.”
Paul followed the woman deeper into the store with Josie in tow.
“You saw the fiction section. Here’s nonfiction.” Miss Girard’s arm drew figures in the air, and she walked quick and light, her toes turned out, her full skirt swinging around her knees. She rounded the last bookshelf and stopped, pointing her foot and circling it behind the other, like a dancer at the ballet. “Voilà! The children’s section.”
The same jumble of books but more colorful and with a low green table in the middle.
“Very nice,” Paul said. “Josie, would you like to look at the books?”
She clung to his leg.
Miss Girard pressed up to the tips of her toes—just like at the ballet—and rummaged through a box on the shelf. Then she spun back and effortlessly dropped to her knees before Paul.
She held one hand across her chest, topped by a papier-mâché puppet. “Josie, this is my friend Monsieur Meow. He is very shy.” The puppet quivered against her shoulder, and the young woman patted its back. “There, there, Monsieur Meow. This is Josie, and she’s a nice little girl.”
Paul stared down at the bookseller, her hair pinned up in front and tumbling in waves to her narrow shoulders. He’d never met anyone like her, so . . . ethereal. He’d never used that word in a sentence, but no other word fit.
Josie peeked from behind Paul’s leg.
Miss Girard kept stroking the puppet’s back. “Perhaps, Josie, if you pet him like this, he won’t be so shy.”
Josie eased out and rubbed the puppet’s gray-and-white striped head. “There, there, Monsieur Meow. I think you’re a pretty cat.”
The puppet lifted its head, turned to Josie with outstretched paws, then turned to Miss Girard’s ear.
“Is that so?” Miss Girard gave Josie a nod. “He thinks you’re pretty too.”
Josie giggled.
“Hi, Josie. I’m glad you came to my store,” Miss Girard said in a funny voice. “What stories do you like?”
“Everything.” Josie talked straight to the puppet. “My daddy reads to me every night.”
Miss Girard flicked a smile up to Paul, then addressed Josie. “I’m sure your mommy reads to you during the day.”
A slash of pain, and Paul braced himself against it.
Josie shook her head. “My nanny does.”
“My wife . . .” Paul cleared his raspy throat. “Her mother died almost a year ago.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry.” Miss Girard looked up to him, her gaze penetrating, understanding, feeling his grief, his loneliness. For one moment she seemed to bear the burden of his pain on her slight shoulders.
For one moment Paul breathed more easily. “Thank you.”
Miss Girard returned her attention to Josie. Her smile wavered. “Monsieur Meow would like to pick books for you to look at. Would you like to sit at the table?”
Josie climbed into a little chair and stroked the table as if it were an enormous emerald. “It’s so green.”
Miss Girard darted around, collecting books. “That’s because my store is called Green Leaf Books. See?” She flapped a book open and pointed to a bookplate. “Each has a green leaf inside.”
“Pretty,” Josie said.
Miss Girard left a stack of books for her, and Josie opened the top volume.
Paul didn’t want the bookseller to return to selling books yet. “Which came first? The store’s name or the bookplates?”
She stood before him, assessing him. “The original owners were my dear friends, Hal and Erma Greenblatt, and Greenblatt means green leaf. Also, Hal is fond of John Greenleaf Whittier’s poetry. Do you like poetry, Mr. . . . ”
Ah, now he was making progress. “Aubrey. Paul Aubrey.”
“Oh, that’s a fine name. Paul Aubrey.” She pronounced it slowly as if tasting each syllable. “That has a nice sound.”
“My parents say thank you.”
She tipped her head. “Do you like poetry, Mr. Aubrey?”
“I read as little poetry as possible to get through college and none since. Do you think less of me?” He gave her half a grin.
“Not at all. You look like the sort . . . I can see you reading history, biography.”
Paul chuckled. “You’re in the right business. When I have time, that’s what I read.”
Miss Girard waved to the nonfiction section. “I hope you find something that interests you.”
He had, but not on a shelf. “What would you recommend?”
“Come with me. What eras are you interested in? Countries?”
Paul followed her. He hadn’t planned to buy a book for himself, but now he wanted several. “Do you have any on French history? As long as I’ve lived here, I don’t know much about this country.”
“Would you please hold him?” Miss Girard whispered. She removed the puppet and handed it to Paul. “Put him on, so he won’t look lifeless if your daughter comes over.”
“All right.” Paul slipped his hand into the cloth glove and studied the whiskered face. He hadn’t worn a puppet since grade school.
“How long have you lived in Paris?” Miss Girard’s fingers ran along book spines.
“Eight years. And you? Are you French?” Although she sounded American, she didn’t seem either American or French.
“I’m an American citizen, but I’ve lived here since I was nine. Paris is my true home.”
“It grows on you, even in today’s . . . difficulties.”
Again she assessed him as if she saw each one of Paul’s difficulties. “You were brave to stay.”
“So were you.” Even more so for a single woman running a store for English speakers when English speakers fled in droves. A store far too empty for a Saturday.
He’d buy every book she showed him. “What do you recommend?” He gestured to the shelf. He still had the puppet on his hand, and he laughed.
She did too, lilting and lovely, and he wanted to hear more. He held up the puppet so it faced him. “My apologies, Monsieur Meow.”
“He forgives you because you brought him a new little friend. He’s thankful.”
“As am I.” If only he could talk with her all day, but she had a store to run. If only . . . no, he should get to know her better. And it was too soon, not even a year since Simone passed away.
Yet hadn’t Simone pleaded with him to remarry and quickly, for Josie’s sake? For his own? He wasn’t ready for marriage yet, but he craved conversation and companionship. And this woman intrigued him.
Miss Girard pulled volumes off the shelf.
Paul stared at the puppet’s painted eyes and stripes. An idea formed. The wild, artistic Left Bank had to be infecting him. “What did you say, Monsieur Meow?” He put the puppet to his ear and wiggled it, as Miss Girard had done.
She turned back with a quizzical look.