At the Edge of Summer

“We didn’t have much time together, but in the time we did have, it was a privilege to take care of her.” He set down the spoon, scattering tea on the table. “I loved her so.”

I set aside the comb. “Grandfather, did she plan to give up her art? When Mother was born?”

He swept up the spilled tea leaves onto his palm. “She was painting up until the day the baby came. She wouldn’t have stopped even if I’d asked her. And I never would have. Her passion for art, it awed me.” He brushed his hands over the wastebasket. “It’s like yours. You glow with it, Patricia Clare.”

“I still don’t feel I’ve accomplished it all.”

He poured out the water. “You have the years your grandmother didn’t. You have the talent and the stubbornness and the compassion to accomplish even more. I’m honored to have been part of your journey.”

I left the pile of hairpins on the end table and crossed to where he stood by the kitchen table. “I’m happy I didn’t have to do it alone.”

“You never have to, you know.” He wiped out a mug. “Be alone.”

I inhaled. Those who love us don’t ask us to mask our true selves.

I almost walked straight past him.

His hair was longer than he’d ever worn it and he had a mustache now, like a Frenchman. He slouched at a café table, nursing a cup, collar turned up against the morning chill. In his short jacket, soft scarf, felt cap, and indifferent expression, he looked like any Parisian.

But, despite his almost casual pose, I noticed an alertness to his spine. The watchfulness of a soldier. I slowed and, as I drew close, I knew him.

It’s the little things that give us away sometimes. The way Papa always pulled on his beard when he was worried. The way Maman pinched inside my wrist when she wanted me to pay attention. The way Clare touched my face. For the man sitting at the café table, it was the way he tossed his roll back and forth between each hand.

It was a small movement, one that only confidence could bring. He always did it with bread rolls. Tossed it once, twice, three times, before he broke it open to eat. It looked almost like he was palming a tennis ball.

I stood out on the pavement I don’t know how long before he noticed my stare. He started, ducked his head, dropped a handful of change and stood. I didn’t think he recognized me, but I pushed against a shop window, out of the way.

He slipped past with a battered brown suitcase in hand. Not his usual stride, but an almost furtive skulk. He shouldn’t be in Paris; I wondered why he was. The peace talks might have begun, but Europe was far from peaceful. Germany hadn’t been invited. Bauer had no reason to be here. If the Parisians on the Rue du Louvre knew a German walked in their midst, someone who could’ve held a gun on their husbands and sons during the war, they wouldn’t let him pass. Cries of “Boche” would echo to the Seine and back.

But I didn’t tell them. Call it curiosity, call it fear, call it the desire to look him in the eye before spitting in his face. Pressed against the window, I held my breath until he passed. I’d dropped the violets, and Bauer trod straight over them.

He continued down the Rue du Louvre, but still I stood, motionless. Sweat pooled at the back of my neck. I could follow. I could confront him like in the scene that always played in my mind, the one where I didn’t trust him as I had last time. The one where Chaffre lived. Or I could let him slip away and I could go back to Clare and wait for the nightmares to pass. Across the street an automobile started with a growl that made me jump and cover my head. Everything was suddenly louder. The glass behind my back rattled. It was only after a woman stopped with a “Monsieur, are you well?” that I lifted my head.

“Monsieur?” she asked again.

I waved away her hand and shook my head in reply. The street was bright, too bright, too crowded. Where had he gone? My memories of him were in moonlight. Then I spotted his light hair, high above the crowd, and I knew I couldn’t go home.

I followed him. I walked close to the buildings, head down. The stealthy march came back to me. That advance against an enemy. My hands itched to be holding a rifle, so I pushed them into my pockets. Still, they twitched on an imaginary trigger.

I don’t know how far he walked, but I recognized the building when he stopped. It was Lili’s, a whore he used to visit. He’d sometimes bring girls there, when he had no place else to go with them. Very likely, I thought, girls who were alone in the city. Though he tried, Clare had said.

I waited there, watching the building, as the shadows lengthened. I took the ficelle from inside my jacket and ate it in the doorway across the street. Through the upstairs window, I caught movement. I brushed crumbs off my hands and settled in. He shouldn’t be long.