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Book One -- Part I:

What The Interfaces Told Them - Together

June 24, 1936

As Brigitte fell, she decided that it fit well with the day she was having. She had already lost her best customer, not to mention one fifth of her income, so it made sense that she would be run over while walking down the street, minding her own business. She'd heard the shout -- "Katy! Watch out!" -- in English, and looked up just in time to see a young girl on an out of control bicycle smash into her. Yes, it was a perfect end to her wretched morning. What she didn't expect was her reaction to the young man who rushed to help her up.

"Mademoiselle, are you hurt?" His voice was as concerned as his accent was atrocious. "Non. Do not get up. You may be hurt. I should . . . examine you first," he commanded, pausing momentarily to search for the correct word.

" Je suis très désolé," gushed the young girl nervously. Her accent was better, but not much. "I -- It's my first time on this bicycle. I'm very sorry."

"It is fine. I am fine. Do not worry," assured Brigitte, struggling against the young man as he checked her arms and legs for broken bones. "Please stop," she added, blushing. People were starting to stare, and Ste. Claire was a small city. The last thing she needed was for word of this incident to get back to her grandmother ahead of her. The gossips would blow it all out of proportion.

"You are sure you're not hurt?" he asked deliberately, capturing her gaze with his own.

Brigitte inhaled deeply, startled by the lovely blueness of his eyes. The concern on his face grew at her sharp intake of breath, and she hurried to ease his worry. "I'm quite all right. Thank you. And, please, you are Americans, no? I speak English. You do not need to speak French."

"Ah, Katy, I believe that is the mademoiselle's polite way of telling us that our accents leave much to be desired," joked the boy, tugging at the girl's braid. She was close to tears, but his good humor coaxed a weak smile from her. "Yes," he answered, turning back to Brigitte. "We are Americans. I'm Robert Davis, and this is my cousin Katy Blackwell. And, you, mademoiselle?"

"Gantrell," she replied, trying to stand. Robert scrambled up, and offered her his hand. She accepted it gladly, and was quickly pulled to her feet. Brigitte tested her left leg carefully, and was relieved that it seemed to be fine.

Robert caught her. "Your ankle, it's not twisted, is it, Mademoiselle Gantrell?" he asked, worried.

"No, they are both fine," she replied, giving the right a quick wiggle. Robert nodded his approval. "My name is Brigitte," she confided suddenly, surprising herself. "Thank you, Robert."

Brigitte gave his name the French pronunciation, prompting a giggle from Katy. "Oh, Robert," she imitated, swooning in jest, fluttering her eyelashes outrageously.

He blushed, glaring daggers at his cousin. "My friends just call me Bobby," he admitted to Brigitte, shuffling his feet self-consciously.

"Bobby, then," smiled Brigitte. "It is better. I had an old uncle named Robert. He was quite mean, and I did not like him."

"Oh, no," cried Bobby, glancing down. A small portfolio lay soaking in a puddle left over from an early morning shower. He quickly stooped to pick it up, and tried to shake the water from it as he handed it to Brigitte.

Brigitte looked momentarily sick, then let loose a string of French words Bobby had most definitely not learned during his four years' study with Madam Clarke in high school. He didn't recognize everything she said, and was glad for it. His first impulse was to cover Katy's ears, knowing that this incident could potentially get him grounded for his entire summer vacation. Brigitte finished up with a heartfelt sigh of "Merde."

"Merde, indeed," agreed Katy sympathetically.

"Katy!" gasped Bobby, images of day upon day spent in his small room at the pension flashing before his eyes.

"Don't worry, Bobby. I'm not going to say it in front of Mother," she snorted, giving him a look which clearly implied that he was daft. "I'm so sorry, Brigitte," apologized Katy. "It's all my fault. Is there anything I can do to help?" she offered weakly, knowing the answer was most likely no.

"Non," denied Brigitte vehemently. "No, there is nothing to be done. I must go. Au revoir. Je dois aller," she finished distractedly before turning, the portfolio clutched tightly to her chest, and hurrying away. She was gone before either Bobby or Katy could say another word.

 

June 26, 1936

 

Bobby pushed the food around the plate with his fork, half an ear to the conversation his aunt was happily having with herself.

"We should leave by eleven for the chateau," she chattered. "This is so exciting, children! I haven't seen Helene in sixteen years. And the chateau. I have so many good memories of the chateau, even if it was during the Great War. What fun we had!"

Bobby was brought back to reality by a sharp kick. Startled, he glared at Katy. Her only reply was a quick jerk of her blonde head toward the entrance of the dining room. "Mother, I still can't believe you drove an ambulance during the Great War!" she exclaimed. "Weren't you scared?"

Bobby looked through the open doorway, quickly spotting a familiar form. More familiar than it really should have been, considering that their acquaintance was all of five minutes. Giving his cousin's elbow a quick squeeze of thanks, Bobby interrupted before his aunt could launch into a full recital of her duties as a member of the Ambulance Corp during the Great War. "May I be excused for a moment?"

"Why, Bobby, are you feeling all right?" asked Aunt Elaine, a frown marring her delicate features.

"I'm -- I'm not sure," stammered Bobby truthfully.

"Oh, dear. I hope you aren't coming down with a cold," fretted Aunt Elaine. "I knew it was wrong to allow Bobby and Katy to wander around on deck at all hours on the ship over," she complained to her husband.

"Don't coddle the boy, Elaine," advised Edward Blackwell. "He probably just needs some air. Bobby, you're excused."

"Thank you," called Bobby, hastily rising from the table. He practically ran from the dining room, having already lost sight of Brigitte. Stepping into the lobby, he scanned the room quickly. His heart only thumped harder in his chest when he finally spotted her, standing near the main desk. Striding purposefully across the room, he called "Brigitte!" as he came into range.

"Bobby," she answered quietly. "You're still here," she commented, her voice full of surprise.

"Yes," he agreed, smiling. "We're here for the summer," Bobby added, coming to a stop a few feet in front of Brigitte.

"The summer?" echoed Brigitte. "No one comes to Ste. Claire for the summer. Especially Americans. They visit for a week or two, but then it's on to Paris or Marseilles."

"No," contradicted Bobby amiably. "My grandfather would only allow me to come when my aunt promised we'd spend all of our time in Ste. Claire. Grandfather doesn't like France, but he makes an exception for Ste. Claire."

"I see," murmured Brigitte politely. "Well, then, I hope you enjoy your summer in Ste. Claire," she wished him.

"It is a wonderful city," he answered with a smile which almost made her knees go weak. "But, I could use a tour guide," he continued boldly.

Brigitte blushed immediately. Finding her voice she replied, "I am sure Monsieur Houglet would be happy to recommend one for you and your family. Georges, le garcon, perhaps."

"Georges?" sighed Bobby. The porter was a nice enough young man, only a few years older than Bobby, but certainly not what he'd had in mind. "I suppose. However, I had hoped you might be free some afternoon. We could go on a picnic," he invited.

"Ah, but I must work," argued Brigitte lightly. "That is why I am here. To pick up Monsieur Houglet's accounts. I am his bookkeeper," she explained.

"Golly! Really? You must have a good head for figures," he complimented, obviously impressed.

"Yes, I hope so," nodded Brigitte. "Ah, Monsieur Houglet!" she called as the pension manager entered the lobby from his office.

"Here you are, Brigitte," said the older gentleman kindly, as he handed her a thick sheath of papers and a

ledger. "There is no hurry this week. You do not need to bring them back until Tuesday, oui?"

"Oui, Monsieur," she agreed. "I will have them for you on Monday."

Ah, Brigitte," he chuckled, shaking his head at her. "You work too hard for a pretty girl! They will wait until Tuesday." Houglet gave Bobby an appraising look before declaring, "Good day, Monsieur Davis, Brigitte."

"Good day, Monsieur Houglet," returned Bobby, as the manager left them. He turned back to Brigitte. "You must have time some afternoon for a picnic," he cajoled.

"Maybe," she replied noncommittally. "But today, I must work. I have many customers. They are not all as patient as Monsieur Houglet."

"Too bad," sighed Bobby. "I suppose I will have to go to lunch with Madam Courbet and her daughter after all."

"Patrice Courbet?" Brigitte asked immediately, surprised at the jealousy she felt at the thought.

"Yes," nodded Bobby. "My aunt and Madam Courbet are old friends. We're supposed to go out to the chateau this afternoon."

"Then, why do you ask? You cannot go on a picnic today," she argued.

"If you said yes, I would find a way," promised Bobby. "You see, I haven't been feeling well." He gave a little cough for affect.

Brigitte took a step back before catching his meaning. "So, you will lie?"

"Not completely. Thinking about spending time with Patrice, rather than you, makes me feel very bad," he flirted.

"I see," nodded Brigitte absently. "Well, perhaps I can spare you a painful illness," she smiled. "I will go on a picnic with you today, provided Katy is also not feeling well." Anything to keep him from Patrice Courbet, came the unbidden thought.

"Katy?" asked Bobby with a small squeak. This was not part of his plan!

"Oui. My grandmother will never agree for me to go unless --"

"Unless we have a chaperone," guessed Bobby.

"Oui," she nodded. "A chaperone."

"Katy was looking awfully peaked at breakfast," drawled Bobby.

"That is too bad," clucked Brigitte seriously. Breaking into a small smile, she said, "I will meet you at 11:30. Do you know the fountain in front of City Hall?" At Bobby's nod, she continued. "Good. Meet me there, with your bicycles."

"Okay," grinned Bobby. "We'll be there. I'll bring the picnic. I can get it from the kitchen," he offered.

Brigitte nodded in agreement. "Good. At 11:30 then." With that, she was gone once again. Bobby shook his head in amusement. He'd never known a girl who could disappear quite as quickly as Brigitte.

He ambled back into the dining room, and resumed his seat. Although most of his breakfast still sat on the plate, Bobby had no interest in it.

"Feeling better, Bobby?" asked his aunt gently.

"Ah, no, not really," he answered with a cough. Kicking Katy under the table, he added, "Katy, you're looking rather feverish yourself." A look of surprise on her face, Katy began to cough as well.

 

"So, you seem kind of young to be a bookkeeper," Bobby observed, breaking the comfortable silence. The picnic had turned out much better than he'd expected. Brigitte had taken them, on their bicycles, out of the city to a nearby farm, owned by family friends. After introducing Bobby and Katy to everyone, Brigitte had invited Martin and Marie, fourteen year old twins to join them on the picnic. The five had set out across the fields, finally stopping along the edge of a private park. The grounds of the Courbet family chateau, Brigitte had confided as they had spread the blanket for their picnic. They all dug into lunch with relish, their healthy appetites fueled by the bicycle ride from town, and the hike across the farm. In Bobby's opinion, the best part of all was the location Brigitte had chosen. Convenient to a stream preferred by the twins for wading, but not too convenient. Katy, Martin, and Marie were there now. Within shouting distance, but out of sight.

"Excusez-moi," stammered Brigitte. She glanced at him sideways, blushing. "I'm sorry. I did not hear your question. I was enjoying the clouds," she explained, pointing to the sky.

"That's okay," answered Bobby, smiling. He sat up from where he'd been lounging on the blanket, watching the world go by. "I was watching them, too. I only asked because I didn't want to invite you on a picnic, and then not talk to you. But," he added quickly, "This is nice, too." Pointing to the cloud directly in front of them, he said, "That one reminds me of an owl, don't you think?"

"An owl," Brigitte wrinkled her nose in contemplation. "Ah, yes! The bird. He says, 'whoo-whoo'," she imitated, drawing a wide grin from Bobby.

"Yes, exactly," he nodded.

"I'm -- I'm sorry," stammered Brigitte, quickly glancing away from Bobby to hide her embarrassment. "My English is not perfect. I sometimes forget words, and --"

"I think your English is very good," interrupted Bobby. "Your accent, especially. Better than my French," he teased her.

"You must excuse me, I was rude the other day. I often speak before I think," she sighed. Normally, Brigitte did not apologize for her bouts of abruptness. However, she realized, more than anything she wanted to get to know Bobby Davis better. It was a silly thought, of course. He was here only for a short while. They didn't have time to be friends. Still, he intrigued her. He was very different from the boys of Ste. Claire whom she'd known her whole life. And, for some reason, he seemed to return her interest.

"You were rude?" questioned Bobby, arching an eyebrow in disbelief. "Katy almost kills you, and you say you were rude. No," he shook his head in denial. "We were the rude ones. I'm just glad you've given me -- us -- another chance. As for my French," Bobby continued, unconsciously tracing nervous patterns on the blanket, "Perhaps you could help me with that."

"We'll see," Brigitte smiled noncommittally, even though she wanted nothing more than to agree whole-heartedly.

"It would probably take a lot of work," he continued earnestly. "We'd have to spend loads of time together. Every day, even." Suddenly feeling rather shy, Bobby looked up, and was glad that he'd finished speaking. Their eyes locked automatically, and he knew he'd be reduced to babbling if he tried to say anything.

Luckily, Brigitte spoke. "It would be . . . educational. I could help you with French, and you could help me with English," she reasoned.

"Yes," nodded Bobby eagerly. Moving his head brought him out of his near trance, and he was again able to speak semi-coherently. "But, as I said, your English is very good. You learned in school?"

"Oui. And, I go to the cinema, and read English books. One of my customers is Monsieur Reims, who owns the book shop. If I am careful, he lets me borrow novels to read when I do his accounts."

"That was my question, earlier," replied Bobby. "I said that you were very young to be a bookkeeper."

"I'll be eighteen -- soon!" defended Brigitte. "That is not so young. I have been keeping accounts since I was fourteen."

"Fourteen? Katy's fourteen, and I can't see anyone letting her be in charge of their money," chuckled Bobby. "Eighteen, you say? When is your birthday? I turn eighteen next week."

"July fourteenth," she answered.

"Ah! Bastille Day!" proclaimed Bobby.

"Yes," agreed Brigitte, obviously impressed that he knew. "Bastille Day."

"Then, we have something in common," Bobby informed her. "My birthday is July fourth, the American Independence Day. I guess you and I are both revolutionaries," he grinned, chewing on a blade of sweet grass.

"Possibly."

"So," Bobby murmured, rearranging himself on the blanket in order to more fully enjoy the warmth of the late afternoon sunshine. "We've covered our native tongues, our birthdays, your job and education --"

"Now it is my turn for a question," Brigitte interrupted, wagging her finger at him playfully.

"Shoot."

"You and Katy are in Ste. Claire for the summer. . ." she began.

"With Katy's parents. Aunt Elaine and Uncle Edward. Aunt Elaine wanted to visit Madam Courbet, and since I start college in the fall, she thought it would be good for me to come along."

"Your parents did not wish to come?"

"They're dead. Spanish influenza, when I was a baby. My grandfather raised me, with help from Aunt Elaine and Uncle Edward. They live down the street," Bobby shrugged and stopped.

Brigitte did not reply, and Bobby guessed that, as with most people, she didn't know what to say. Then, however, she surprised him. "I'm an orphan, too," she murmured softly. "I live with my grandmother."

"Another thing we have in common," he answered just as quietly. They shared a weak smile, and a momentary glance of pure understanding which jolted them both. But then, a palpable silence fell between them, and Bobby rushed to find a more neutral topic. "So, movies, books, what do you like?"

"Mysteries!" declared Brigitte in relief. "I just finished Murder at the Vicarage by Agatha Christie. She's an English novelist. Do you know it?"

They passed a delightful half hour talking about books and film stars. Brigitte told him funny stories about her school days, and Bobby described the steamship voyage from New York. Briefly, they touched upon world politics, the recent nationalistic rumblings in Germany, which neither of them knew much about, and the establishment of France's socialist First Popular Front government earlier that month. They quickly gave the discussion up as too complicated, although Brigitte and Bobby did both admit to excitement over the Berlin Olympics, scheduled to open at the beginning of August. They had moved onto Bobby's "first" French language lesson when the others returned.

"Bobby!" called Katy breathlessly. "It's a quarter of four."

"What?" Bobby quickly jumped to his feet. "We'd better go."

"You will be in trouble," decided Brigitte, frowning. Lying no longer seemed like a good idea.

"No," contradicted Bobby. "Not if we leave now. And, I'm going to tell them the truth, anyway. It's only that they will worry if they get back and we're missing."

"Then we should go," agreed Brigitte.

Hurriedly, they packed up the picnic supplies, and started back across the fields to the farmhouse. An hour later, they were once again in Ste. Claire, at the pension. Bobby sent Katy in with the picnic hamper. "I'll see you home," he told Brigitte.

"That is not necessary," protested Brigitte. "Your aunt and uncle will be angry if they do not find you here."

"Katy'll explain. She'll do better than I could. It will sound wonderful and romantic, coming from her," he grinned.

"You do not believe it is?" questioned Brigitte boldly. She no longer even surprised herself. For some unfathomable reason, it felt perfectly natural to flirt with and tease this handsome, intriguing boy.

"I just wouldn't be able to explain it," he blushed. "Let me walk you home."

And, they did walk, pushing their bicycles, talking the whole way. Even then, at ten minutes, the trip was much too short for Bobby, who wasn't ready to leave Brigitte's company. In fact, he couldn't imagine himself wanting to be away from her, ever. Soon, however, they found themselves standing in front of her door.

"I'm home," Brigitte announced, glancing up into his startlingly blue eyes. "I must put my bicycle in the garden," she chattered nervously.

"When can I see you again, Brigitte?" Bobby asked, his voice a low rumble. "Tomorrow?"

"Not tomorrow," she replied regretfully. "I must go to Mass with my grandmother in the morning. And then, I must do Monsieur Houglet's and Monsieur Reims' books."

"You are much too pretty of a girl to work so hard," he reminded softly, brushing a curly wisp of hair out of her eyes.

She shook her head at him in denial. "Monday or Tuesday. I will leave a note for you, when I return Monsieur Houglet's accounts to him."

"Okay," he conceded with a sigh. "Perhaps, we will go to a movie?"

"Ah, oui," agreed Brigitte, flashing him a radiant smile. "There is a new movie coming to the Cinema Mystere on Thursday. American," she promised.

"Thursday, the cinema, and Monday or Tuesday, something else," concluded Bobby. "Until then, au revoir, Brigitte." Quickly, he leaned in to kiss her cheek. Then, he was gone with speed that would do Brigitte herself proud.

For her part, it was quite some time before normal feeling returned to Brigitte's legs, and she felt it safe to push her bicycle into the garden.

 

July 3, 1936

 

"Guess who?" The question whispered past Bobby's ear, causing him to shiver in delight, as delicately soft hands clamped over his eyes.

"Well, it's not the butcher or the baker, so it must be the candlestick maker," he chuckled, working to peel her hands off his head. Brigitte's grip was surprisingly strong. Pivoting on the park bench, Bobby pulled her around from behind him so that they faced one another. He did not release her hands.

"You are very . . . silly," Brigitte finally decided, laughing appreciatively. Bobby loved her laugh. It was full-bodied and utterly sincere, completely the opposite of the simpering giggles employed by the girls he'd attended high school with.

"That I am," agreed Bobby, giving both her hands a quick squeeze. "After all, Ste. Claire doesn't have a candlestick maker," he lectured in mock seriousness. It was one of the many inside jokes they had developed over the preceding five days.

Five days! Was that all? To Brigitte it seemed much longer. A lifetime, at least. But, in reality, less than a week. Bobby had staked out the pension lobby bright and early Monday morning, waiting for Brigitte to return with Monsieur Houglet's accounts. She hadn't disappointed, arriving before nine. She'd given in almost immediately when he asked to spend the day with her. They had passed the morning and most of the afternoon calling on Brigitte's customers. A doctor, a lawyer, the opera house manager, a butcher, and a baker. This, of course, had prompted Bobby's comment, "Tell me you don't work for the town candlestick maker!" Initially, Brigitte had given him a puzzled look, but had laughed and bestowed her most genuine smile upon him once he'd explained the old English nursery rhyme. After that, she'd taken him to the book shop, her last stop of the day. They had stayed there for hours, wandering amongst the shelves, and taking tea with Monsieur Reims and his wife, until Brigitte had told Bobby that she needed to go home before her grandmother became worried.

The next day, Brigitte had met Bobby and Katy at noon for a trip to the local museum and public gardens. The three had enjoyed themselves immensely, and Bobby had only seriously wished his cousin away once or twice. Finally, on Wednesday, Katy and Bobby had given into the inevitable, and accompanied Katy's parents to the chateau to visit the Courbets. It was now less than forty eight hours since they had parted company, but for Bobby, the time had dragged along at a torturously slow pace. This -- being together -- was much better.

"We should go, or we will be late," commented Brigitte, bringing him back to reality. "It's not far, but the film begins at seven sharp."

"Yes. Of course," agreed Bobby quickly. He stood up from the bench, relinquishing only one of her hands. "You've eaten?" he asked.

"Oui," Brigitte nodded as she led him by the hand from the park. "With my grandmother."

"Good. I was worried that you would come straight from work today, and not eat," commented Bobby. "But, you do not have your ledgers with you, so I should have known. You must not keep the books for the cinema," he teased lightly.

"I do," contradicted Brigitte earnestly. "But only once a month. "

"Of course you do," he laughed.

They reached the Cinema Mystere, and Bobby purchased tickets to the film, I'm No Angel, starring Mae West and Cary Grant. Bobby had already seen the film in the United States -- it was nearly three years old -- but he didn't tell Brigitte this. She led him into the theater, and, after a quick glance around, boldly up into the small balcony. They found seats immediately, much to Bobby's relief. His heart was racing so fast he worried he might pass out. It certainly wouldn't do to start hyperventilating! For her part, Brigitte was thankful that the house lights dimmed immediately. Her face burned, and she was sure she'd gone completely red. Luckily, there were only three other couples in the balcony, and none of them were sitting close.

Both settled back in their seats, trying to find some sort of equilibrium. It was difficult though, with their hands still linked. The newsreel started, and Bobby felt himself begin to sweat. Slowly, he let go of Brigitte's hand, hoping he wasn't being too obvious. Immediately, he rubbed it against his pant leg to dry. Brigitte breathed a silent sigh of relief. She, too, had felt her hand go clammy, and had momentarily considered praying for some sort of hole to open up in the ground and swallow her. Giving the thought up as too extreme, she clenched at her skirt, and reminded herself to breathe.

The feature began. Brigitte forced herself to concentrate on the screen, rather than her response to the boy sitting next to her. She had amazed herself with her spontaneous decision to bring him up to the balcony. Anything else was up to him. Bobby, having already seen the movie, was having a much harder time. Frankly, he didn't know what to do. The fact of the matter was, they had never been alone in quite this way before. Except for their picnic, and the three times he'd walked her home, Bobby hadn't actually been alone with Brigitte before this moment. All of their dates had been well and truly chaperoned, either by Katy or Brigitte's customers. And, while Bobby Davis knew what he wanted, sitting alone in the dark with this girl, he didn't know if he could pull it off.

Mae West, playing up her role as Tira, a side show dancer in a traveling circus, was belting out They Call Me Sister Honky-Tonk. This, to some extent, eased Bobby's nervousness. Perhaps it was the blatant sensuality of Mae West, but for some reason, putting his arm around Brigitte no longer seemed terribly daring. Slowly, he eased his right arm up, and across the back of her seat, finally bringing his palm to rest lightly on her right shoulder.

Brigitte jumped, ever so slightly, and Bobby glanced at her, preparing to withdraw. However, Brigitte wasn't looking at him with shock or outrage. Rather, she gave him a small, but dazzling smile, and settled further down in her seat so that her head rested gently on his arm. Bobby moved a few centimeters closer and also settled down to enjoy the company, if not the movie.

For awhile, Bobby was satisfied to simply sit back and enjoy the weight of Brigitte's head against his arm, the soft rustle of her hair whenever she shifted position. Still, success emboldens even the most timid of souls, and Bobby had never been called reserved. He was, however, polite, charming, even chivalrous. Therefore, up to this point, he had restricted himself to kissing Brigitte chastely on the cheek each evening when they parted company. Now, he wanted more. Well, he'd wanted more for quite some time, but now he thought he could have more.

It was during the courtroom scene that he finally acted. For all his worry, all his planning, Bobby never remembered anything of the actual execution. One second, he hadn't been kissing Brigitte, and the next he was. It was an amazing sensation. Her lips warm against his, both of them applying equal pressure. For a few seconds, it was all that he needed. Instinctively, though, he wanted to be closer. He brought his hand up from her shoulder to gently cup the back of her neck, while moving again in his seat, only to encounter the armrest which separated them. Frustrated, he leaned closer, nipping gently at her mouth, not to deepen the kiss so much as to keep from breaking contact.

Brigitte responded eagerly, leaning toward Bobby, grabbing his free hand. She laced their fingers tightly together, and opened her mouth slightly. She felt the sweet rush of his breath as he nipped again at her lower lip. Every nerve in Brigitte's body tingled in response to the new, wonderful sensations which threatened to overwhelm her. Still, she had no trouble identifying his tongue as it came forward to tentatively lick at her mouth. Brigitte's own tongue darted forward to meet his.

Once again, they both tried to move closer together, only to be thwarted by furniture. Bobby settled for letting go of her hand in order to wrap both arms around her. Anxious tongues and lips danced against each other. It was child's play, and war, all in one. Finally though, they broke apart, breathless and dazed.

For a full minute, Brigitte and Bobby simply sat, their eyes as big as saucers, staring at one another in the flickering light cast by the glow of the screen. Neither seemed able to look away. Then, however, Bobby whispered, "In the States, we call that a 'French Kiss'."

Brigitte pulled back from him, glaring icily, ready to let him have it. Although his humor had been the first -- well, second, after his eyes -- thing to draw Brigitte to Bobby, this was too much.

"Which makes me doubly glad I waited until France to try it," rushed Bobby, catching her frosty stare. He looked as repentant as someone who kept touching their lips every few seconds to make sure they were real, could.

Brigitte allowed the tension to ease from her shoulders, and leaned in closer to Bobby. His hand came up to cup her cheek, and she placed her own over his to hold it in place. Leaning toward him, she whispered, "Me, too," as her mouth once again touched his.

July 14, 1936

 

"Katy! Hurry up," called Bobby, pounding on the door of her room. "We're supposed to be there in ten minutes," he reminded.

The door flew open to reveal his cousin, green eyes blazing and hands on hips, glaring. "Hold your horses," she commanded. "I'm the one doing you a favor."

"Just hurry it up, okay? I don't want to be late," he sighed. Katy shut the door in his face, and Bobby leaned back against the wall to wait. He seemed to have developed a talent for annoying girls lately. It had taken three days for Brigitte to forgive him after he failed to tell her about the birthday dinner party his aunt had planned for him the day after their movie date. He'd meant to tell her, actually, but had forgotten due to the heat of the moment, he admitted to himself ruefully. Everything had worked out in the end, although Brigitte had been quite annoyed to find herself, without warning, dining with Bobby's family. And, after a couple of tense days, they were once again happily spending every moment they could together.

Now, Bobby and Katy were on their way to Brigitte's house for her birthday dinner. It was also the first occasion for Bobby to meet Brigitte's grandmother. The last thing he wanted was to make a bad impression by being late. He moved to knock at the door once more, but it flew open before his knuckles made contact. "I'm ready," Katy announced as she flounced past him.

"After you, mademoiselle," replied Bobby with an exaggerated bow. Katy, already on the stairs, ignored him, and Bobby rushed to follow her from the pension. They hurried through the celebrant-packed streets of Ste. Claire to Brigitte's house, arriving on time. Bobby knocked at the door, and Brigitte answered it immediately, her chestnut eyes lighting up at the sight of him. She was wearing her favorite dress -- green linen with an intricately embroidered neckline -- and looked absolutely stunning. Bobby told her so. "Bon Anniversaire, Brigitte. You look beautiful, as always." He gave her a quick peck on the cheek, inhaling the soft floral fragrance of her skin and hair.

"Flatterer," she laughed, tugging at his hand to lead him into the house. "Katy," she called over her shoulder, "Thank you for coming."

"Oh, anything to further the cause of true love," Katy answered breezily.

That stopped Brigitte momentarily in her tracks, but she quickly recovered. "Well, thank you. My grandmother is looking forward to meeting you both," she informed them as she lead the way down a narrow hallway to the dining room.

They were greeted by a reserved woman in her early sixties. Brigitte introduced them, and Madam Gantrell invited them to sit down to dinner. After helping each lady into her seat, Bobby took his, next to Brigitte. The four chatted amiably for a few minutes, and then Madam Gantrell asked her first question. "Robert, Brigitte tells me that you and your family are visiting Ste. Claire for the summer. This is true?"

"Oui," agreed Bobby smiling. "My Aunt Elaine -- Katy's mother -- has waited sixteen years to return to Ste. Claire. She was a member of the Curtis College Relief Unit stationed here during the Great War," he explained in his most charming manner. This was his trump card, and he was playing it early. Brigitte had warned him that her grandmother was wary of their relationship, and he didn't want to give her any reason to question his veracity. Luckily, the Curtis College Relief Unit and Ambulance Corp was universally beloved in Ste. Claire. Even now, the legend of the fifty young American women stationed in the city during the war won Elaine Blackwell, and by association, her family, instant friendship everywhere they went in Ste. Claire. In fact, two years previously, the town had commissioned a replica of the city's main gate for installation at the college in the United States. It was the nostalgia engendered by her attendance of the dedication ceremony which had prompted Bobby's aunt to request this trip of her husband as an anniversary present.

"Ah, yes, the Ambulance Corp," repeated Madam Gantrell somewhat distastefully. "It was a difficult time, and we all made sacrifices. Still, I do not approve of young women traveling unchaperoned. And, the Curtis College girls often dressed in pants," she charged.

"They did?" asked Katy, her eyes going wide. "I can't imagine mother in dungarees. Why, just before we left for France, I overheard her talking with the minister's wife, and --"

"Minister's wife?" interrupted Madam Gantrell. "You are not Catholic?"

"No," admitted Bobby miserably. "We're Methodist."

"I see," remarked Madam Gantrell enigmatically.

This sent Bobby's spirits plummeting. He knew that Madam Gantrell would not allow Brigitte to see him after this fiasco, and while Bobby had known her less than three weeks, he was pretty sure he had fallen in love with Brigitte.

"However, Brigitte's father was treated by the Curtis Relief Unit," remembered Madam Gantrell with a deep sigh. "He was injured in a mustard gas attack. It weakened his lungs, but I was glad for the extra years I had with my son."

"Perhaps, Grandmere, Bobby's aunt even treated Papa," offered Brigitte hopefully. No one had ever mentioned her father's association with the relief unit to her, but now this precious knowledge gave her hope that her grandmother might not send Bobby away. That, she felt, would hurt too much. He had become such an important part of her life.

"Perhaps," murmured Madam Gantrell, rising from the table to retrieve something from the kitchen. When she returned, she seemed in a better frame of mind. She had been concerned by the sudden change in her granddaughter's behavior, but now felt better about Brigitte's friendship with this American boy. Brigitte had always been a solitary child, preferring her own company to that of other children,

and it had seemed odd to suddenly hear her neighbors' reports of Brigitte running around town in the company of the two Americans. But, he seemed sincere, even offering her the truth when he must have known she would not approve. Madam Gantrell vowed to keep a close eye on Brigitte and Bobby, while not interfering in their friendship. Yet.

When dinner ended, Bobby moved to help clear the table, but stopped at the touch of Brigitte's hand. Katy, meanwhile, made a quick offer to help Madam Gantrell with the dishes. "Grandmere, I want to show Bobby the garden," announced Brigitte warily.

A concerned look passed over Madam Gantrell's face, but she consented. "Oui. It is a nice evening. But, take your sweater."

Brigitte smiled, answering, "Oui, Grandmere." She led Bobby out the back door and into the garden. The sun was setting, dappling the simple and practical yard in a hundred different shades of gold. There was a vegetable plot, as well as a small patch of flowers. Brigitte led him past all of this, to the back, where they found a small weather-worn bench, hidden by a tree and out of sight of the kitchen window. "My father built this bench for my mother while she was carrying me. She would sit out here in the cool of the evening, when the house was still hot and stuffy," Brigitte told Bobby softly. "She died before I could remember her. When I was little, though, my father would bring me out here, and we would sit on this bench, and he would tell me stories about her. About how pretty she was, and how smart."

"Just like you," added Bobby, smiling affectionately at her.

Brigitte smiled back, and continued. "For my eighth birthday, Papa gave me this bench, as my very own. I didn't know he was sick then. He died before I turned nine."

"I'm sorry, Brigitte," murmured Bobby, his eyes full of empathy. He gave her hand a gentle squeeze, and flashed an encouraging smile.

"Thank you," she nodded. "But, it is okay." They shared a grin at the Americanism Brigitte had picked up from Bobby. "I have only told you this because I wanted to thank you for making my birthday this year so special. My grandmother is a good woman, but she has never made me feel special the way my father did, and the way you do now." Brigitte blushed and stopped speaking, unable to look at Bobby and into those eyes which always seemed to pierce straight through to her soul.

Bobby tipped Brigitte's chin up so he could see her eyes. "Don't be embarrassed," he ordered gently. "I'm honored that I make you feel special. You are special, Brigitte. You amaze me. I'm amazed that you want to be my friend, that you spend time with me. And, then, when you look at me and smile, you make me feel like I'm the special one. I don't know what I did to deserve this, but I lo--"

"Bobby, please, shhh!" whispered Brigitte, holding her hand to his lips to stop him. "You shouldn't say that."

"Why not?" he protested, catching her hand and kissing her fingertips before letting go. "It's the truth."

"You shouldn't say it because it will only make things worse," explained Brigitte quietly, turning away from him. Bobby concentrated on her elegantly sculpted profile, the way the gentle breeze tugged at her raven curls. Firmly, she continued, "We can't say things like that because you will go away soon." No matter how much we -- I -- want to say them. No matter how true it is, she thought sadly. "We cannot say them because we will not see each other again."

"You don't know that. I could come back to France, or you could come to America."

"You may get home, and decide that this was all a . . . 'summer romance'." she argued, choosing a phrase she knew from any number of American films she'd seen.

"I won't," said Bobby, stubbornly crossing his arms over his chest. "I know how I feel, and that's not going to change."

Brigitte turned back toward him. Not speaking for a moment, she concentrated intently on his face. He appeared sincere, which was not unusual. Bobby Davis appeared sincere even when telling the most outrageous whopper. It was only at the end, when he smiled broadly and allowed a twinkle to invade his eye that she ever caught on. Then, she would groan his name and hit him lightly on the arm, which was his cue to kiss her. But, right now, he was serious, and Brigitte knew that he believed what he said. She believed him, too. She just didn't see how any good could come from their declarations. She had already realized that it would hurt -- probably more that anything had hurt her in her life -- when Bobby left her at the end of the summer. Knowing how he felt was bad enough. Hearing him say it would be torturous.

"Bobby," she sighed. "Why can't we just enjoy our friendship, the next six weeks? Leave the future for the future. Let's not ruin now by speaking about later," she pleaded tiredly.

Bobby sighed with her. "If you don't want to talk about it, we won't," he promised finally. "But that won't keep it from being true," he added obstinately. They fell quiet, both scuffing their feet back and forth against the smooth packed soil nervously. When the sound grew overpoweringly loud, Bobby spoke again. "I got you a birthday present," he admitted. "But, I don't know if I should give it to you now."

"Oh," murmured Brigitte, taken aback. "I suppose that is your decision," she told him unhelpfully.

"No," contradicted Bobby. He'd given in and not told her how he felt, even though she must have known. He deserved some indication of what her feelings were, even if she wasn't willing to actually tell him. "I'm leaving it up to you."

He fished a small, tissue-wrapped package out of his coat pocket. Opening it carefully, he presented it to her. It was a gold oval-shaped locket suspended on a delicate chain. "If you look closely, you'll see that it has a 'B' engraved on the front," he explained, placing the necklace in her hand. "I once heard my aunt say that the nicest present she ever got was a locket for her eighteenth birthday. It was from her great aunt, but it made her feel 'all grown up'. I remembered that when I passed the jewelry shop with Katy last week, so we went in. I don't think you need anything to make you feel grown up; you're one of the most mature people I know. You take care of yourself, your grandmother. But, I do want you to know how special I think you are." Bobby looked at her expectantly.

"Bobby," she whispered, fingering the locket. "This is beautiful, and much too expensive," she protested. And much too meaningful, she thought warily.

"Don't worry about the money," he told her. "I started saving every penny of my allowance after my grandfather agreed that I could come to France . . . . The money isn't important, Brigitte," he assured. "I wanted to get you this. Will you accept it? Please?"

Brigitte studied his face for a few more seconds before answering. As much as she knew she should turn down his gift, she didn't want to. She didn't want to hurt him anymore than she already had. And, she had to admit to herself, she wanted something tangible to remember him by. "Oui," she agreed with a decisive nod. "I will accept the locket, but only if you give me a lock of your hair to put inside," she bargained.

"Okay," laughed Bobby. Brigitte had strange rules. He wasn't allowed to tell her how he felt about her, but then she'd go and sentimentally ask for a lock of his hair. He doubted he'd ever figure her out completely. He doubted he wanted to. "But, you're going to have to cut it yourself," he told her, challenge in his eye. "I can't do it, and I don't trust my aunt or Katy to cut my hair."

"I will cut it for you," she agreed, startled. She hadn't expected this, although she should have. Bobby, despite his promise to not say anything, to not pressure her, was not backing down. "Will you put the locket on for me?" she whispered. Bobby nodded yes, so Brigitte handed him the locket, turned her back to him, and lifted her hair to allow him access to her neck. He fastened it in place, taking time to enjoy the fresh perfume of her hair. Impulsively, he placed a quick kiss at the juncture of her neck and shoulder, sending delicious shivers up and down her spine. He definitely wasn't backing down, she realized. Ignoring the pang in her heart, Brigitte concentrated on the lovely feelings which fluttered through her body. She turned back to face Bobby. "Merci. Thank you for the locket. Thank you for . . . . Thank you for a very special birthday," she said, moving to kiss him.

"You're welcome, Brigitte," answered Bobby, tangling his hands in the hair at the base of her neck, and kissing her in return.

 

August 20, 1936

 

"Stop wiggling," Brigitte ordered crossly, placing both hands on top of Bobby's head to still him. "I can't do this if you keep moving," she admonished. Brigitte waited a moment, then let him go and sat back on her heels, testing him.

"I can't help it," Bobby defended himself with a low laugh. "It tickles," he continued, throwing Brigitte an apologetic grin over his shoulder.

"If you don't move, it won't tickle," she reminded, leaning forward to run her hand down his back. The soft, blue cotton of Bobby's shirt was warmed by the sun above and his skin below, and Brigitte let her hand linger at his waist before turning back to her task. "Now stay still," she commanded squeezing his shoulder. "It will only take a few seconds."

With one last, soft smile and a wink, Bobby dutifully turned back around, indicating that he was ready for her to begin.

Brigitte knelt behind him on their picnic blanket, the skirt of her yellow and lilac print dress pulling taut. She turned her full concentration to the business at hand, studying the back of Bobby's head closely. Unfortunately, it would be too obvious to cut a lock from the front, where it was curliest. She'd considered that possibility initially, running her hand through the hair which framed his face, prompting Bobby's initial protests that she was tickling him, but it wasn't the right choice.

Brigitte had never cut a man's hair before, and it was this fact which was causing her such consternation now. All she wanted was a single snip, and since Bobby hadn't given her a choice in the matter, she had to cut it herself. Brigitte had put it off for over a month, embarrassed by her own sentimentality. However, Bobby's time in Ste. Claire had grown short, and she had realized she couldn't wait any longer. So that morning, Brigitte had decided that this would be the day, and had slipped her sewing scissors into her satchel before leaving to meet Bobby in the park.

"Ready?" Bobby inquired lazily, leaning back on his hands, looking up at the clear, cloudless sky.

Startled out of her contemplative mood, Brigitte leaned around Bobby, studying the hair on the side of his head. "Almost," Brigitte answered, catching her tongue between her teeth in concentration. She traced her hand through Bobby's blond curls, measuring the length right above his ear. Too short, she decided. Slowly, Brigitte worked her hand through his hair, trying to find the best spot. It needed to be thick and long enough that no one would notice. Finally, her hand located the perfect strand.

"Still tickles," Bobby murmured sleepily, bringing his right hand to his mouth to cover a half yawn. Brigitte couldn't see his face, but she didn't doubt that Bobby's eyes were now closed as he enjoyed the warmth of the late afternoon sunshine, just as she enjoyed this chance to study him. To touch him.

"I'm ready," Brigitte announced, her voice carrying throughout the small clearing.

"Go ahead, then," Bobby advised, his voice thick with late afternoon lassitude. "I trust you."

"Okay," she replied quietly, taking a deep breath. Mindful not to pull Bobby's hair, she lifted one curl, holding it away with the heel of her hand in order to isolate the lock underneath. Her target. Without looking down, she felt around on the old blanket for her scissors. Working the shears onto her fingers, Brigitte lifted them to Bobby's head, poised to carefully snip the single lock of hair.

"So, did you get it?" Bobby asked, lifting his head slightly.

Brigitte's left hand shifted against the side of his head, a few strands of the hair she was holding back slipping free. And, in her right hand, the scissors blades clicked together. A chunk of hair -- a much larger chunk than she'd intended -- fluttered softly to Bobby's shoulder, while Brigitte watched, more than a little stunned. She emitted a small gasp, covering with her answer of, "Oh! Yes!" just as Bobby repeated his question. "Yes, I did. Right here," she continued seconds later, clearing her throat to suppress a nervous giggle as she carefully scraped the hair into her palm before the slight breeze could pick it up and scatter it.

"Great!" Bobby decided, turning around to look at Brigitte.

"Well, I should ..." Brigitte trailed off, not quite sure how to tell him what had happened. Clamping her fist around the lock, she glanced to the side, trying to assess the damage. It wasn't noticeable, she convinced herself. She could only tell because she knew where to look. After all, there was plenty of hair still there. Not on the top layer, to be sure, but it wasn't a bald patch.

"I should put this in my locket," Brigitte announced, letting out a deep breath. She opened her hand, allowing Bobby to see the tuft of his own hair, now sticking to her palm. "I guess I should have taken this off first," she realized, her free hand going to her necklace, pulling the gold pendant from its place against her skin, just above the collar of her dress.

"Well, I can help with that," Bobby offered, his voice a low rumble. "Turn around," he instructed. He waited while Brigitte did as told, shifting around on her knees to face the small stand of trees which had afforded them privacy all afternoon. Scooting up behind her, Bobby gathered her long, chestnut hair together in a loose pony tail, twisting it up on top of her head. "Hold this," he requested, guiding Brigitte's hand up to keep her own hair in place. With free access to her neck, Bobby worked the delicate clasp open, pulling the chain back, and then reached around to catch the locket as her let go of the necklace. He opened the oval locket and presented it to her. "Here you go."

Letting go of her own hair, Brigitte accepted the open locket, carefully placing most of the strands of hair inside. "Maybe I took too much," she chuckled nervously, glancing up at Bobby.

"As long as you have enough," Bobby shrugged, watching as Brigitte snapped the pendant shut.

"Thank you," Brigitte murmured, brushing the last few hairs from her hand. Silently, she fastened the chain back around her neck, her eyes never leaving Bobby's. The locket settled against Brigitte's skin, now much more than a simple reminder of her birthday and the special summer they were sharing. From now on, she would always have this small piece of him with her, no matter what happened when he left Ste. Claire, a looming reality which Brigitte wasn't ready to face.

A serene silence settled thickly, though not uncomfortably, around them. In the distance, for the first time since their arrival at the picnic site a few hours earlier, Bobby could make out the quiet rush of the low, late summer river. He imagined he could even hear the sounds of the mill on the other bank. Sighing contentedly, he sat back, realizing that this was one of the things he liked most about Brigitte. Ever since their first picnic-date, they had always been comfortable in each other's presence, even without conversation.

"We should get to your French lesson," Brigitte announced, breaking the fragile intimacy of the moment. She returned the scissors to her satchel, trading for a pencil and notebook. "We did tell your aunt we were going to practice today," she reminded with a knowing smile. It always took prodding to get Bobby working on his grammar or accent.

"We're not going to fix my French today," Bobby groused, throwing himself back on the blanket. "We've only got --" he paused, counting the days over in his head. "I'm leaving in a week," he sighed. "I'm never going to get all those conjugations. It'll take years!" he predicted, pulling at the grass in his frustration. Tearing one blade in half, he breathed in the sweet, pungent odor, sighing in obvious frustration, "I'll never get French."

"It's not that hard," Brigitte countered, attempting a stern look. "You just need to concentrate. And, you can't be embarrassed to try," she advised. "Bobby, I'll help you."

"You will?" Bobby inquired, his interest piqued. He sly smile crept onto his lips as he sat up, sliding across the wool blanket to be closer to Brigitte. Taking her hand into his own, he spoke hesitantly, asking, "So, if I write to you --in French -- you'll write back?"

"Bobby," Brigitte pleaded, her eyes clouding with doubt before she looked away from him. "I don't know," she hedged, biting her lip.

Feeling distinctly like a bully, Bobby watched the emotions which flitted across her face. Fear wrinkling her brow, while uncertainty tightened unpleasantly around her mouth. There was even a hint of distrust in her eyes, and it tore at Bobby's heart. He had never wanted to pressure her, and so, when Brigitte had told him that she didn't want to discuss what would happen after he left France, he had reluctantly obliged her, avoiding the topic for weeks. But today she'd given him an opening, and well aware he was leaving in a week, Bobby had thrown caution to the wind, and broached the subject.

But, it wasn't worth ruining their last few days with one another, he decided. "Never mind," Bobby dismissed looking over Brigitte's head at some imagined point in the tree line. "If you --"

"You will write to me in French?" Brigitte asked, her voice husky. "Only French?"

A look of mild shock passed over Bobby's face before he recovered, offering a small smile as he conceded, "Well, maybe not only in French. There are a lot of things I don't know how to say yet. You will have to teach me."

Brigitte didn't answer right away, instead studying Bobby's expression carefully. His brilliant blue eyes were wide with hope and sincerity. Not that Brigitte thought he didn't mean everything he said, and many that she hadn't allowed him to say. But, she wondered, would that all change once he returned home? "I will think about it," Brigitte agreed reluctantly, forcing a wan smile. "Especially if you will write to me in French."

"French, English, pig latin, iambic pentameter, whatever you want," Bobby teased, grinning.

Brigitte found herself shaking her head at him and grinning back. "Bobby!" she grumbled in mock exasperation, socking him in the arm. "No pig latin. I still get a headache whenever I think about that," she shuddered.

"Okay," he agreed easily, capturing both of her hands with his. "No pig latin," he repeated, leaning in to press a chaste kiss to her mouth. Bobby let go of Brigitte's hands to pull her into his arms, deepening their kiss.

Brigitte moved gladly into Bobby's embrace, her hands tangling in his hair. And, when her fingers encountered an oddly square and rather thin patch of hair, she simply stroked it with the pad of her thumb, smiling into Bobby's kiss.

August 29, 1936

 

"It's too bad Brigitte couldn't make it to see you off," Elaine Blackwell told her nephew. He had turned wretchedly unhappy overnight, and she wasn't sure what to do with him. She supposed they had an uncomfortable voyage ahead of them, if Bobby continued to mope this way. But, once he starts college in a few weeks, his mood should improve, she thought hopefully.

"We said our good-byes last night," mumbled Bobby dully. "It was better that way." Bobby believed that it really had been. He and Brigitte had enjoyed one final evening together, silently agreeing not to mention the fact that he was leaving the next day. Brigitte's grandmother had even allowed her to stay out an hour later than usual. But, in the end, it had felt like he was ripping out his own heart when he'd kissed her good-bye one last time. He had then quickly shoved a letter into her hands, extracting the promise that she wouldn't read it until he had left Ste. Claire. After that, Bobby had run all the way back to the pension, in a futile attempt to block his memory of the tears which had filled her eyes as she'd whispered "Au revoir" one last time. No sense in drawing the pain out. It was better to have parted in private.

"The conductor said we'll be allowed on board in another five minutes," announced Edward Blackwell, rejoining his family. It was the fifth time he'd checked with train station management to ensure that everything was proceeding according to plan.

"And our luggage?" queried his wife.

"All secure," he promised.

While her parents went over their travel plans for the umpteenth time, Katy looked sympathetically at her miserable cousin. Squeezing his hand, she suggested, "You can always write one another."

"Maybe," nodded Bobby sadly. "We'll see. It's up to her."

"Oh, I think she will," assured Katy soothingly.

"I dunno, Katy. She kept telling me this was a summer romance only. I guess I should be grateful for what we --"

"Bobby," growled Katy, elbowing him in the side. "Look up, already," she ordered.

"Huh?" responded Bobby, doing as he was told. And there she was. Standing across the terminal, glancing around nervously. Bobby didn't think she'd spotted him yet. He stood, looking for the quickest way to her, all the while praying she wouldn't change her mind and leave.

Bobby, choosing the fastest route, scrabbled over a bench, startling an old woman. He lurched into the wide aisle, ignoring his uncle's anxious reminder that they needed to be on board the train in three minutes. Jogging, he, nervously skimmed his hand across the tops of the rough wooden benches, absently counting each in turn. One, two, three, four rows, and then he was standing before her. "Brigitte," he whispered, almost as a benediction.

"Bobby," she smiled weakly, her eyes once again filled with unshed tears.

"I thought you weren't going to come," he reminded, pulling her close, and twisting slightly to allow a portly gentleman to pass.

She took a deep breath and glanced at the large station clock over his head. Exhaling, she rushed, "I had to come, Bobby. Je t'aime. I love you, Bobby. I love you, too."

"I told you not to read the letter until I was gone," he reminded with a gentle grin.

"I couldn't sleep. I had to," Brigitte defended, her voice tremulous. "I tossed and turned and cried all night. So I had to read it," she lamented. "And, Bobby, I love you, too."

"Will you write me back, then?" asked Bobby carefully, gently brushing at the dark smudges under her eyes in a futile attempt to remove them.

"Oui," sighed Brigitte, reaching up for his hand. "I will write to you. I thought -- I thought if we didn't say it, things would be easier, but they are not. This will be very hard, but I will write to you," she promised.

"Good," nodded Bobby, his eyes never leaving hers. "Je t'aime. I love you Brigitte," he smiled widely, his deepest desire suddenly realized. "I love you so much --"

Bobby's further words were cut off by a train whistle, and his uncle's bellow of "Bobby!" from across the station.

"You must go," Brigitte informed him sadly, her eyes still bright with tears. She gave his fingers one more squeeze, then slowly let go of his hand.

"Yes," agreed Bobby breathlessly. "But -- I love you," he smiled once more. Quickly, he wrapped his arms around her and kissed her soundly. The train whistle blew again, and they regretfully broke apart.

"Go," ordered Brigitte, pointing at the train. "Go, and write me another letter. I've already read this one," she teased him, pulling the letter he'd given her the night before from her purse.

"I'm going, I'm going," grumbled Bobby good-naturedly. Pulling her hand to his heart, he gave it a final squeeze. Kissing her on the forehead, he murmured "I love you," turned, and ran for the train.

Forward to Part I: What The Interfaces Told Them -- Apart

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