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Return to Part I: What Remains Unspoken | Return to The Memory of You Table of Contents
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Book Two -- Part II:
How Decisions are Reached
Saturday, October 21, 1944
Evening
"So, Johnson, where'd everybody go? 'Side from you, I'm beginning to think the whole squad's gone AWOL."
Startled, the young corporal looked up from the letter he was reading, greeting his commanding officer almost over-enthusiastically. "Lieu!" Johnson declared, scrambling to his feet. Quickly, he shifted the paper in his right hand to his left, moving to salute.
"At ease, Johnson," Bobby dismissed before Butch could fumble his fingers into proper form. "It's your day off, same as mine," he reminded the taller man, waving him back to his seat on a fallen and rotting log. "I'm just looking for a quiet place to eat my grub," Bobby explained, lowering his mess kit for Johnson to see.
Butch nodded automatically in agreement, refolding the letter and tucking the sheets away in their envelope. "Oh! Of course," he answered, brushing his hand over a spot on the log next to him. "Have a seat, Lieu," Johnson invited. "It's a little damp, but you can't tell if you roll up your poncho," he instructed, standing up so Bobby could see that he had followed his own advice.
"Good idea," Bobby agreed, depositing his mess kit safely on a flattened portion of the log. After three straight days, it had finally stopped raining at about noon that day. Although the skies were still threatening, they were all taking advantage of the opportunity to soak up some of the spotty sunshine. It was a welcome change from the incessant, drizzling rain that had permeated their clothing and skin so often in the preceding weeks. Still, they all recognized this break as nothing more than a temporary respite, and carried their rain gear with them.
Settling himself on the log, Bobby sniffed his dinner appreciatively, commenting on it to Butch. "Just smell that, Johnson," he instructed, heaving a contented sigh. "Smells good for once. And," Bobby confided, grinning, "I happen to know that there's a genuine, pork pork chop buried under all that gravy. Those are real, too," he said, pointing to the healthy portion of mashed potatoes in his kit. "Not reconstituted."
"It all looks good, Lieu," Butch agreed.
"Oh, it's going to be," Bobby nodded knowingly, taking another deep breath of the steam rising up from his plate. "Some of that captured Kraut meat finally made its way down from the quartermaster's to us," he explained, scraping some of the gravy off the chop with his knife. "Actually, Old Sarge is throwing a fit back there," Bobby continued, gesturing back over his shoulder toward the field kitchen. "Hardly anybody's shown up to eat yet, so he says we can all just eat Spam tomorrow because of it." Bobby made a face at the thought, beginning to cut his meat.
"Well," Butch sighed, "I don't know when McKinney and that lot are gettin' back. They headed into town a couple hours ago, and I don't think they were plannin' on comin' back for supper. Besides," he protested in afterthought, "I like Spam!"
Bobby shrugged. "That's good, because the Army's got lots of it to feed us. But tonight," he smiled, raising his fork to his lips, "Pork chops. And, if everybody else stays in town, there'll even be seconds," he predicted, already chewing.
"You betcha," Butch agreed, pulling himself up off the log. He tucked his letter into his coat, then announced, "So, I think I'll go get some."
"Well, trust me, Johnson," Bobby called back over his shoulder after the retreating corporal, "This is one dinner you're not going to regret eating!"
Turning back to his meal, Bobby retrieved his knife and fork, starting in again on the pork chop. It was awkward sometimes, talking to Johnson, he decided, still contemplating their short exchange. But, at least it tended to be worth the effort. Not that he was supposed to have too close a relationship with anyone under his command, of course. One of the cardinal lessons of command school, Bobby reminded himself, spitting out an unchewable piece of gristle. However, Johnson at least offered the chance to discuss something besides sex -- the favorite topic of McKinney and his buddies -- or battle tactics and Army procedure -- about which, Bobby had come to learn, his bunkmate Blake could drone on for hours. So, given the first truly edible meal they had seen in weeks, not to mention the sunshine, Bobby didn't think he could be blamed for choosing Johnson's more welcome company over that of others.
"You're right, Lieu, this does look good," Butch announced, rejoining his commanding officer.
The younger man resumed his seat on the log without even waiting for a nod of approval. Good! Bobby thought, glancing at Johnson. He was already digging into his dinner with gusto, and seemed much more relaxed. "You were fast," Bobby commented, scooping a bite of potatoes.
"No line," Butch shrugged. "People just don't know what they're missing," he continued, fumbling for his silverware. He dropped his fork in the grass at his feet, but retrieved it quickly, wiping it clean on his knee. "God made dirt, so dirt don't hurt," he offered, taking a stab at his own mound of mashed potatoes.
Bobby laughed in appreciation. "Yeah, we used to say that, too," he grinned. "A kid I grew up with, Andy," Bobby began, still smiling. "His mom would send us out to pick the blackberries growin' on this big bush at the back of their yard, and we'd end up eating all the ones we dropped 'cause dirt don't hurt." Sighing, Bobby cut the remainder of his pork chop into three small pieces, spearing one with his fork. "Good thing it doesn't, seeing how often we see the truck showers out here."
"You're tellin' me!" Butch agreed with a snort. "Every letter I get from my wife -- got one today, in fact -- she asks if I've got enough clean socks and underwear." Butch sighed, a wry smile forming on his lips. "But, what can I tell her when I write back? 'Sure do, honey, but that's because if I change clothes once every two weeks I'm doing good'? Well, I'm not gonna tell her that," he declared.
"Nope," Bobby agreed with a sympathetic nod. That just wasn't the sort of thing anyone wrote home about. In his case, Bobby did ask his aunt to send him socks, but he never explained why it was he needed so many pairs. Even in his correspondence with Katy --who was with the Army Nursing Corps somewhere in New Guinea, last he'd heard, and was working under what had to be pretty primitive conditions at times -- Bobby never wrote much about the daily drudgery of being at war.
"So, how is your wife, Butch?" Bobby asked, forcing a cheerful note -- one he certainly didn't feel -- into his voice. Butch's reminder of mail from home was not a welcome one. Although there were times it felt like he lived for mail call, the letter Bobby had received earlier in the day from Katy had done little to improve his mood. The way their letters passed in transit, they were always a month or so behind on the news of each other's lives, and so Katy's letter had been full of carefully veiled questions about his location, and whether he had "heard from B." Bobby had felt like kicking himself -- or, maybe, like he'd just been kicked -- for having written to tell Katy that his company was being sent "to the one place in France he'd always wanted to visit," which he had hoped would be vague enough to keep whoever had censor duty from blacking out the line. It was almost as embarrassing as having to face Captain Miller every day, knowing that the other man knew about Brigitte, and what had happened with them. Or, maybe it would be worse, eventually having to explain everything to Katy.
Exhaling deeply, Bobby consciously forced thoughts of Katy and Captain Miller from his brain, returning his attention to Butch. "Ruby, isn't it?" he asked the corporal, stabbing the last piece of pork chop with his fork.
"Yessir," Johnson answered, smiling widely. "Ruby," he confirmed, abandoning his mess kit on the log beside him in order to reach into his coat. "They're doing great," Butch continued, opening the letter he'd pulled from his pocket. "Ruby sent me a picture of the baby, so I could see what he looks like now. Here," Johnson said, fishing a small photograph out from between the letter's pages. He handed the photo over for his commanding officer's inspection, declaring soberly, "Paul Johnson, Junior, sir."
Wiping his hand clean on his pant leg, Bobby accepted the picture. He peered down at the photograph, surprised to find himself studying it intently. Bobby had never paid much attention to babies, having always considered children the province of his aunt and his grandfather's housekeeper, Mrs. Logan. Those two women had happily cooed over every new baby in the neighborhood, and, since he didn't understand it, he'd always written it off as one of those "female" things.
The picture was sweet, Bobby decided, still carefully inspecting the grainy photograph. Johnson's wife, smiling radiantly, the toddler held closely on her hip. Ruby squinted against the sunlight, while Paul Junior nuzzled his head shyly against her shoulder so that only half his face was visible. Still, Bobby found himself assuring Johnson, "He looks just like you, Butch. And, she looks real happy, too."
It was, Bobby acknowledged to himself, exactly what he would want to hear, if he were ever a father. But, that thought only reminded of his conversation -- though maybe confrontation was a better description -- with Brigitte in the alley outside Le Coeur de Lion four days earlier, and he quickly shoved it aside. "So, how are they doing?" he asked Butch.
"They're good," Johnson answered quickly, swallowing a mouthful of food. Still, he couldn't bite back a sigh as he continued, telling Bobby, "Ruby says he's growin' like a weed. Not even two years old and he's already close to two and a half feet tall!" Johnson bragged.
"That's good," Bobby agreed with a grin. They both fell silent, and he glanced down at his now empty mess kit, deciding that he could go for another pork chop. "Well, I think I'm gonna get some of those seconds," Bobby told Butch, standing up. "Can I get you anything? A refill on your coffee?"
"Naw, I'm good to go."
"Okay," Bobby answered, turning away. Slowly, he crossed the muddy field to the camp kitchen, his mind full of thoughts about Johnson, his wife, and their baby. It didn't seem fair that Johnson, who was four or five years younger than Bobby, had so much going for him. A wife and child, not to mention the family farm his father was waiting to turn over to him as soon as the war was over. At Johnson's age, he hadn't been thinking of marriage or babies. Back then Bobby had still been lost over his separation from Brigitte, busy with school, and easy prey for whatever mischief Andy Grant had planned for the weekend. But then, the first rumblings of war in Europe had begun to appear on the front page of the newspaper, and he'd gotten worried. Without a second thought, Bobby had written to Brigitte, proposing marriage, and asking her to come to the United States.
Of course, things had changed once he had mailed that letter, Bobby recalled, stepping into line behind three new recently arrived replacements who were queued up waiting for their dinner. Confident in purpose, Bobby had let his imagination run away with him. Every free, waking moment had been filled with daydreams not only of Brigitte, but also his suppositions of married life. He had even idly considered children. Not babies, but older children, like the little boys who used the ball field in the afternoons before Bobby's games, and whom he sometimes coached. He had pinned all his hopes on that letter, on that proposal, on Brigitte. Now, Bobby realized, he didn't have anything. Not Brigitte or the family they should have had together. Not even a career, as he'd abandoned law school to join the Army. It didn't seem fair, and Bobby, as he waited for Old Sarge to dish up another pork chop, found himself hating Johnson -- or, at least jealous of his good fortune.
"How much you plannin' on havin', anyway?"
Old Sarge's gruff inquiry startled Bobby from his private musings. He looked up, blushing when he saw how high the cook had piled the food in his mess kit. Quickly, he pulled the plate back, stammering, "Uh, this -- this should do me. Thanks."
"Well, bond appetoot, as the Frogs say," Old Sarge answered, already turning to serve his next eager customer.
His face still burning, Bobby hurried back across the open field to the log where he'd left Butch. The enlisted man looked up at his commanding officer, taking in the pink of his skin, just beginning to fade. "Everything all right, sir?" he inquired.
"Uh, yeah," Bobby answered quickly, seating himself next to Butch. "Sarge was just giving me a hard time about the seconds," he explained.
Johnson nodded. "Well, couldn't have been too bad," the younger man offered, gesturing at Bobby's full plate. "Looks like he gave you more this time than last!"
"Guess I'm just a growin' boy," Bobby shrugged, contemplating the mountain of mashed potatoes before him. "So, any other news from home?" he inquired, eager to distract Butch.
"Not really. Nothing important," Butch answered with a sigh. "They've already had a couple of snowstorms. Got a foot on the ground, Ruby says, so I guess they've got worse weather than us," Butch chuckled, taking a sip of his coffee. "Oh!" he declared, setting the tin cup away. "One funny thing she wrote me about. Ruby's kid brother -- she's livin' with her folks since I'm over here -- Well, Donnie was milking on Saturday morning, big dance that night, and managed to get himself kicked in the head!" Butch laughed. "Now, I hafta feel sorry for the poor kid, but you'd think he could keep his head outta the way of a cow, growin' up on a farm.... Anyway, black eye, loosened a tooth so they had to watch it for a week -- make sure he didn't lose it -- couldn't go to the dance, and he lost a pailful of milk to boot," the corporal catalogued, shaking his head. "Still, knowing Ruby's dad, you gotta feel bad for Donnie. The poor kid musta caught hell from him."
"And, here we thought we had bad luck, stuck here in re-training," Bobby joked, throwing Butch a lop-sided grin. But, Johnson wasn't listening. "Butch?" Bobby queried. Then, more loudly, "Butch?"
"What?" Butch looked up, startled. "S--Sorry, Lieu," the younger man stammered, frowning. "Guess I'm not very good company, right now," he shrugged. "It's great to hear from Ruby, always glad to get a letter from her. But, you know, it makes me miss her more. And," Butch continued, sighing, "I'm glad for a picture of the baby.... Though, he's not really a baby anymore, now that he's walking and starting to talk...." The corporal trailed off, looking away. A moment later he turned back, declaring decisively, "Well, you don't need to listen to my bellyaching, Lieu. 'Course, you'd think after two years I'd stop getting homesick."
Bobby didn't answer -- didn't know what to say -- and, instead, sat quietly, watching Butch who was again looking away. Bobby understood homesickness, although, for the most part, he wasn't plagued with it the way so many of the men under his command were. But then, he didn't have a wife waiting at home for him, either, he reminded himself, frowning at the thought. His aunt and uncle, yes, but no one else. Even Katy was overseas, as were the few friends from childhood Bobby bothered to keep track of. If, over the past few years, he'd been homesick for anything -- anyone -- it hadn't been his civilian life in Philadelphia, but rather, Brigitte, and by default, Ste. Claire.
Not that any of that compares with Johnson, Bobby reminded himself, ruthlessly shoving thoughts of Brigitte from his mind. Not that they stayed at bay for very long, he knew. Expelling a frustrated growl, Bobby glanced at Butch, and decided that he needed to try and cheer up the younger man. He'd never seen Johnson so glum. "Aw, you'll see 'em soon, Corporal," Bobby tried, casting about for something reassuring to say. "Real soon."
"You think so, Lieu?" Butch questioned, shooting Bobby a disbelieving look. "You really think we're going home any time soon?" he demanded. Crossing his arms defensively over his chest, Johnson looked away, staring blindly out into the descending darkness. "You'd know more'n me, but the way I see it, with the weather turned bad, it's gonna be awhile before we finish off the Krauts," Butch shrugged. "And, then, they're as likely to send us after the Japs as they are to send us home."
Bobby waited, silent and completely still for a moment, then nodded slowly, emitting a tired sigh. "Yeah," he agreed, frowning. "Not that HQ is telling me anything -- I don't think even the Captain knows what we're supposed to be doing much ahead of the rest of us -- but, I wouldn't expect many of us'll make it home for Christmas this year, either. Still," Bobby continued, hoping to offer Butch some sort of reassurance, "It won't be forever. So, you're not home for the holidays this year. Maybe you'll get there by the Fourth of July." He smiled then, conjuring up a picture of Butch with his wife and son. "You'll all go to the parade, and it'll be like you were never gone."
"Oh, I think Ruby'll remember I've been gone," Johnson chuckled humorlessly. "The parade in Custer isn't big enough to be that distractin'," he muttered. Sitting up straight, Butch turned toward Bobby again, his gaze boring through his commanding officer. "All I know is, in a couple of months, my boy's gonna be two years old, and he's just gonna keep growing, only I'm not there."
"Aw, hell, Butch," Bobby murmured in commiseration. "I'm sorry."
"Thanks, Lieu," Johnson sighed. "I shouldn't be telling you all this, anyway. If you only had a nickel -- or a pork chop -- for every time some homesick dogface decided to spill his guts, huh?" he joked weakly. "But, really, none of this is your problem --"
"I don't mind, Johnson --"
"And, it's harder on Ruby, anyway," the corporal continued as if he hadn't heard Bobby. "Like I said, she's livin' with her folks for now, and her dad's not the easiest person to get along with. Her ma, too. Always telling her she's not taking care of Paul Junior right..." Johnson trailed off, half-heartedly scuffing one boot against the solid-packed earth at his feet. "Well, like I said, I shouldn't be bothering you with all of this, Lieu."
"Really, Butch, it's okay," Bobby argued, even though it made him uncomfortable as well. After all, these weren't the sort of feelings you admitted to in the Army. Hell, you weren't even supposed to admit it if you were scared, and there were times when if you weren't scared, then you were crazy. But Johnson was his friend, as good as any he had in the Army, and the least Bobby could do was offer to listen, the way Miller had --
Johnson scrambled to his feet, turning his mess kit over in his haste. "Naw, Lieu, never mind," Butch contradicted. "It'll be all right. Just all this waiting around gets to me, you know? I," he exhaled deeply, standing taller. "I think I'll go write Ruby back. Have a good evening, Lieu."
"Sounds like a good idea," Bobby called after Butch's retreating back. "Good night." Still looking over his shoulder back toward camp, Bobby considered finding another conversation, but didn't see anyone he figured he could stand exchanging more than five words with. As much as he didn't want to be alone with his own thoughts, the idea of further conversation simply didn't appeal.
He understood Johnson's need to write his wife. He remembered many an evening when all he had wanted to do was retreat to his bedroom, and pour himself into a letter to Brigitte. It had been all right to tell Brigitte of all the things that had seemed stupid or weak to admit out loud to his grandfather, or Andy Grant, or even Katy. Butch, he was sure, felt the same way about his Ruby.
As if Brigitte and I were anything like Butch and Ruby! Bobby expelled a frustrated sigh, acknowledging to himself how different the two situations were. Sure, the Johnsons were separated by the same unfathomable distance which had divided Brigitte from Bobby all those years, and they didn't know when -- or if -- they would see one another again, but the Johnsons also had a lot more at stake.
Feeling more than a little stupid for comparing himself with Johnson, Bobby, climbing to his feet, abandoned his sprawled out position on the log. He stooped down, gathering the remains of his mess kit, still contemplating his corporal's problem. Butch's situation was wrought with difficulties Bobby had never had to consider. Butch and Ruby were married after all! They had a child, a son whom Butch had never laid eyes on. A growing boy, Bobby realized, a sour pit forming in his stomach as he recalled their earlier conversation, Butch was worried he might never see.
His head in a haze, Bobby ambled slowly across the open field, heading for the farmhouse he was currently quartered in. As he walked, he tried to imagine how he would feel in Butch's place. Not hard, the way he couldn't get Brigitte out of his head.
What if Brigitte and I had married? The question ricocheted through his brain, like a stray bullet, shredding the layers of self-defensive numbness he'd built up over the preceding days. What if we'd been married, and then separated by the war? And if we'd had a child? But, that was a laughable supposition, Bobby told himself, noticing a puddle in the path just in time to veer around it. They hadn't been ready for marriage, he knew, probably not even when he had written to propose. The Johnsons had married at eighteen, an age where Bobby and Brigitte had had a hard time admitting their love for one another. Still, juggling his dirty mess kit, trying not to drop it, Bobby contemplated those last few moments in the train station with Brigitte from the Johnsons' point of view. If we had been married, would I have been able to force myself out of her arms and onto that train?
In the distance, a clap of thunder rolled ominously, reminding Bobby that the break in the weather had been fleeting. Automatically, he pulled his poncho on over his head, peering up into the rapidly darkening sky for a sign of rain. Things were beginning to look threatening, and so Bobby continued on toward the farmhouse.
Worst part is, he thought, stepping over a low stone wall, Ruby Johnson has to be in worse shape than Butch. Forced by circumstance to live with her parents and care for her child without her husband's support. It was no wonder Butch worried about her to the exclusion of his friends here. In Butch's position, Bobby knew he'd be worried about Brigitte, too.
Coming around the long barn, Bobby jogged across the small farmyard, reaching the front door just as the first drops of rain began to fall. He nodded to the private on post, and entered the building. Shoving the heavy door closed behind him, an errant thought crossed Bobby's mind, causing him to stop short. Poor Ruby Johnson's a lot like Brigitte, he realized, his stomach turning over with the thought.
Whether or not Bobby liked it -- and he certainly didn't like it -- she was about to be in the very same position as Ruby Johnson, only with no hope of -- and no desire for -- the eventual return of her baby's father. Of course, that was for the best, as far as Bobby was concerned. Brigitte felt the same way, too, he was pretty sure. Still, it meant that she was facing a life alone with her child. That was going to be a tough row to hoe, especially in Ste. Claire.
It's been a horrible month, Bobby thought, chuckling bitterly to himself. He pulled off his poncho, dropping the mess kit so it clattered open on the floor. Nothing was going like he'd expected, he decided, that was for sure. Grumbling, he bent over and scooped the tin kit up, remembering that he still needed to clean it up. "Damn," he muttered, changing course to head toward the primitive kitchen at the back of the small house.
Trudging down the hallway, Bobby found himself wondering, suddenly, if he wasn't being selfish and self-pitying, thinking only of himself. Not about the mess kit, of course, but about Brigitte. Even when he had told her he was sorry, Bobby realized, he had been thinking more of his own feelings than of hers. He had felt betrayed. Worse, he'd taken it out on her, he knew, remembering their confrontation in the alley.
How could I do that to her? Bobby demanded of himself, entering the kitchen. Things have to be hard enough for her without me making it worse. Her future was so uncertain, and all he had done was make things tougher for her. His mind reeling, Bobby dropped his kit in the stone sink then looked around for the water bucket, only to discover that it was empty. Well, that figures, he thought, glaring at the offending pail.
Abandoning his mess kit, Bobby decided that it was time for bed. He hadn't been sleeping well for weeks -- hell, for the whole war -- and rooming with Blake didn't help. He would be wise to grab the chance while the other man was out. Reaching the foot of the stairs, Bobby started up, ploddingly. Inescapably, his thoughts returned to Brigitte. How will she support herself and the baby? he wondered. Who will she rely on? Who would be her friend?
Sunday, October 22, 1944
Morning
His fist closed, Bobby pounded on the locked front door of Le Coeur de Lion, undoing his rain poncho with his other hand. "Come on, come on," he muttered under his breath, attempting in vain, once again, to peer through the curtained window. The only thing he could be sure of, though, was that the dining room itself was dark. "Come on," he repeated. "Somebody's gotta be home," he implored. Balling his hands, Bobby began to beat on the door again.
Seconds later, it flew open, unbalancing Bobby so that he stumbled. "What in the world --" Celeste stepped forward, out of the shadows behind the door, stopping short as she recognized Bobby. "Vous!" she declared with not a little venom.
"Oui," he agreed, meeting Celeste's glare with an even look of his own. "Moi."
"What are you doing here?" she demanded, stepping into the doorway to block Bobby as he moved to enter the building. Celeste planted her feet wide, crossing her arms so that her elbows stuck out, completely barring him from the restaurant unless he chose to knock her down. "What do you think you're doing?" she continued, challenge in her eye. "We're not open today," Celeste informed him frostily. "It's Sunday, or don't you observe the custom where you come from?"
"Sure do," Bobby answered. "And, I've already been to services, first thing this morning," he assured her, smiling pleasantly. "You?" he inquired. "Been to mass, have you?"
For a moment, Celeste's only response was a wide-eyed stare. She recovered quickly though, admitting grudgingly, "I -- I'll be going this afternoon. But," she continued, a sharp note in her voice, "That doesn't explain what you're doing here."
"Glad to hear it," Bobby answered, still matching Celeste's hostility with congeniality, a tactic acquired during his summers clerking for his grandfather and uncle. Still, Celeste gave no sign of softening. He smiled again, then took a deep breath, screwing up his courage. "And, I'm -- I need to see Brigitte," he told her, leaning ever so slightly forward. "May I come in?"
"Why?" Celeste countered, unmoved. She took a step forward, forcing Bobby to back out onto the landing before the restaurant's entrance.
"I -- I just need to talk to her," he explained lamely. "It's a personal matter, if you don't mind. But," Bobby said, trying another smile, "Well, I'm sorry for the other night, and I promise, no yelling this time. I just need to ask her something." Celeste watched him, her expression unreadable, and he forced himself to continue smiling, growing more self-conscious by the second. "Celeste, please," he begged after a long moment. "It's important."
"Undoubtedly," she grumbled, still eyeing him with distaste. Then, however, she gave a deep sigh, and relented. "You can come in," she conceded, taking a step back. "I'm sure Katrine would love to speak with you," Celeste drawled sarcastically. "But, Brigitte isn't here."
Bobby followed Celeste in the door, depositing his still damp poncho on the counter of the empty coat check booth. "What do you mean she isn't here?" he questioned, his wet boot squeaking on the polished floor. "You said yourself, it's Sunday," he reminded, trailing after Celeste. She shrugged uncaringly, but otherwise gave no indication that she was even listening. "Where did she go?" he tried again, following Celeste down the stairs and across the empty dining room.
Celeste glanced back over her shoulder at Bobby, frowning, then pushed through the door separating the dining room from the kitchen. She held it open long enough -- barely -- for Bobby to slip through himself. "Madam Lattier," he greeted, spotting Katrine, seated at the small table against the wall. "Bonjour."
"Bonjour, Lieutenant Davis," the restaurateur replied, her voice and expression warm. "How nice to see you! But, please. We're all friends here," she insisted. "Call me Katrine."
Bobby nodded in acknowledgement, but didn't commit. Celeste, who had already resumed what was presumably her seat, glared in his general direction, then motioned him toward an empty chair. "Please ... Lieutenant," Katrine invited when Bobby hesitated, "Have a seat."
"Merci," Bobby replied, sliding into the chair across from Katrine. "And, please, call me Bob -- Robert," he invited.
"Well then, Robert," Katrine smiled, setting her tea cup aside. "To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit? And, may we offer you some breakfast?" she continued, gesturing to the substantial spread before them on the table. "Henri will be joining us shortly, but I think there's enough for all of us."
"Oh, no thank you," Bobby answered quickly. "I've eaten," he assured, trying his most genuine smile on Katrine. "I'm here, actually, to see Brigitte," Bobby explained, scooting his chair closer to the table. Nervously, he smoothed a wrinkle out of the tablecloth, then glanced again at Katrine. "Do you expect her soon?"
"Brigitte?" Katrine questioned, her expression confused. She looked left, at her employee, seeking an explanation. "Celeste?"
The younger woman shrugged, rolling her eyes in irritation. "I told him she wasn't here," she snapped.
"Oui," Bobby agreed, ignoring Celeste's censure. He shifted restlessly in his seat, leaning forward over the table, closer to Katrine. "But, I need to know, when do you expect her back?"
Celeste snorted, drawing Bobby's attention again. She skewered him with another unforgiving look, crossing her arms over her chest. "I told you she wasn't here," she repeated, frowning. "And, I meant it. We didn't send her off on an errand, and we don't expect her back," Celeste informed him, her tone growing shrill. "Brigitte's gone. She's left Ste. Claire."
"What do you mean?" Bobby asked, feeling his heart beginning to thump in his chest. There was such a thing as a joke, and he could understand why Celeste might try to keep him from seeing Brigitte, but that didn't explain Katrine's reaction. He glanced back and forth between the two women, looking for some sign that they were putting him on. "What do you mean?" he repeated. "Brigitte can't leave Ste. Claire. This -- This is her home," Bobby insisted.
"Not anymore," Celeste shrugged, tearing a piece from her croissant. She lifted the pastry to her mouth, chewing twice before swallowing hard. "She said -- She said that she wouldn't have her baby in Ste. Claire." Celeste looked up from her plate, staring Bobby directly in the eye, her chin thrust forward defiantly. "I might not like it," she declared, "But I certainly don't blame her."
"You just let her go?" Bobby demanded, not bothering to hide his incredulity. He pushed back from the table, his chair leg scraping loudly on the hardwood floor. "You can't possibly think it's safe for her to travel now!" he accused, glaring first at Celeste, then at Katrine. "You should have stopped her!" he insisted.
"Stopped her?" Katrine echoed, her eyebrows arching in consternation. "You don't know Brigitte, Lieutenant," the restaurateur assured him, her tone sharp. "When she makes up her mind, there is no stopping her."
Bobby clenched his fists beneath the table, forcing himself to take a deep breath. "I do know her," he insisted, taking care to not sound too strident. "I know her better than either of you."
Katrine's eyebrows rose again, but she didn't say anything. Celeste, however, had no such compunction. "Well, you thought you did," she muttered, staring up at the ceiling, her lips pulled into a taut, thin line.
Surprised, Bobby twisted in his seat to face her head on. "What -- what do you mean?" he asked quietly, searching Celeste's face for some sign as to the depth of her knowledge of his relationship with Brigitte.
Celeste shrugged, glancing sideways at the silent, though highly attentive Katrine. Bobby followed her gaze, swallowing nervously in the face of the restaurateur's frank appraisal. But, he reminded himself, she'd know soon enough, if he could only find out where Brigitte was.
"You didn't know Brigitte was planning to leave," Celeste answered Bobby finally, dragging his attention away from Katrine. Her expression was defiant, daring him to argue. "And, she's been planning that for months. Six months ago she said she'd go to Paris --"
"She's in Paris?" Bobby interrupted, his heart racing again. "Celeste, where in Paris?" he demanded, half out of his chair.
Celeste glared at Bobby yet again, asking haughtily, "You think I would tell you where she --"
"Lieutenant Davis, this is a pleasant surprise."
Henri's greeting surprised them all, bringing an abrupt halt to Bobby and Celeste's battle of wills. As one, the three at the table turned to stare at the barkeep. Still wondering at the other man's soundless arrival, Bobby leaped up from his chair, quickly crossing the four steps that separated them. "Monsieur Voisin, bonjour!" he greeted, holding out his right hand. The two exchanged a handshake, Bobby pumping Henri's arm enthusiastically. "Perhaps," he began, hoping that Henri would prove more accommodating, "You would tell --"
"He wants to know where Brigitte is," Celeste informed Henri, interrupting Bobby as she jumped to her feet. She came barreling around the table, skidding to a halt only when she stood between the two men. "You shouldn't tell him anything, Henri," she insisted.
"Of course not," Henri agreed, glancing quickly between Bobby and Celeste. He turned then to look at Katrine, raising a questioning eyebrow. "We are in Brigitte's confidence, after all," he explained to the room. He gave Celeste's shoulder a reassuring squeeze, then, slipping around her, moved to join Katrine at the table. "You must understand that, Lieutenant," he addressed Bobby, his tone conciliatory. "Brigitte doesn't want anyone in Ste. Claire to know where she's gone."
"I don't think she'd mind --"
"Well, I think she would!" Celeste contradicted. She wheeled on him, pulling herself up to her full height, practically yelling in his face. "She's had enough trouble already, without you causing more."
Bobby took a defensive step back, and turned to speak to Henri and Katrine. "I'd never cause Brigitte any trouble," he assured them earnestly. "I know you don't believe that," he continued, pausing for a moment to look at Celeste. "And, given the other night, I can understand that," he admitted, grimacing as he recalled the scene Celeste had witnessed. "But, I -- I care about Brigitte," Bobby insisted with quiet authority. "Very much."
Bobby braced himself, waiting for Celeste's next challenge, and was surprised when Katrine spoke first, breaking the silence she'd maintained throughout the argument. "You say you know Brigitte, you care about Brigitte, Lieutenant," the restaurateur declared, pursing her lips as she contemplated her next statement. "And yet," she continued, watching his face closely for a reaction, "We've met you only four or five times." Katrine paused to take a sip of her tea, still studying Bobby over the rim of her cup. "You'll understand then, I'm sure," she told him, "Why I'm left to wonder how is it that you've come to know and care about Brigitte, in so short a time? Sylvie, I'd understand," Katrine conceded with a shrug. "You Americans seem to fall from the sky whenever she steps outside these days. And, Brigitte is a pretty girl, I'll admit, but most men don't pay much attention to expectant mothers." Katrine glanced at Celeste, her eyes narrowing. "Perhaps you could explain, Celeste," she suggested, a razor sharpness in her tone. "That is," she finished, throwing a hard look at Bobby, "If Lieutenant Davis cannot."
"I can explain," Bobby rushed to answer before Celeste. He swallowed hard, smiling grimly at Katrine. "I -- I knew Brigitte from before," he admitted, exhaling softly. "I've been in Ste. Claire before, almost ten years ago, now," he told Katrine, maneuvering around Celeste to rejoin the couple at the table. "For a summer," Bobby explained, dropping into his chair. "Brigitte and I were -- we were friends, then."
"I see," Katrine murmured, nodding rhythmically. "And yet," she reminded him, lazily stirring the remains of her tea with her spoon, "Neither of you said anything about this, for weeks."
Bobby swallowed again, his Adam's apple bobbing. He knew he didn't have a satisfactory answer for that one. Certainly, he wasn't satisfied with his behavior over the preceding month. He turned toward Celeste, still standing off by herself near the door. He threw her a beseeching look, pleading miserably, "You know I'm telling the truth. I can tell that she told you about me."
"The only thing Brigitte told me was about a 'summer romance' with a boy named Robert whom she never saw or heard from again --"
"What?" Bobby interrupted, practically leaping, again, from his seat. "Brigitte wouldn't have told you that, because it's certainly not true!" he declared, struggling to keep himself from shouting. He looked around the room, his gaze darting among the three of them, trying to gauge their reactions. "We wrote letters, at least one a week, for almost three years," Bobby explained, trying to sound calm. "I -- I only stopped writing because of the war."
Celeste's scowl faded, replaced by a look of confusion. She frowned, eyeing Bobby carefully. "Then -- Then, those are your letters?" she stammered. "All of them?" she added, an incredulous note tingeing her tone.
"Oui," Bobby agreed, sighing softly. He scrubbed one hand over his face wearily, stumbling back into his seat. "Ten pages, sometimes. Two or three times a week, sometimes. I wrote to her all the time." A raspy, humorless chuckle escaped him. "If you had them, you could compare handwriting."
"Well, do we have them, Celeste?" Katrine inquired, not missing a beat. "Where did Brigitte keep them? Did they survive the rocket?"
Celeste looked away, above all their heads, chewing her lip. She exhaled in frustration, finally admitting, "Oui."
A look passed between Katrine and Henri. After a long, silent moment, Henri nodded in concession, clearing his throat. "Where are the letters, Celeste?" he questioned gently.
All eyes turned toward Celeste who licked her lips nervously, then frowned, but gave no indication she'd answer. Henri started to speak again, more forcefully this time, though he betrayed no hint of frustration. "Celeste --"
"I know where they are," she admitted churlishly. Flopping back in her chair, she hugged herself, clasping each elbow tightly with the opposite hand. She darted a look at Bobby, chewing her lower lip guiltily. Sighing, she shrugged, "They're here."
Bobby pulled yet another shoe box from the ancient trunk, checking its contents label automatically. Bobby: December 1938 -- March 1939. Just as he'd expected. If there was one thing digging through Brigitte's trunk had reinforced for him, it was the fact that she was organized. Not only did each box contain exactly four months worth of letters, they were even stacked within the trunk in chronological order.
"I'll have you know, you're going to have to put everything back exactly as you found it," Celeste informed him haughtily from her perch on the panty's desk. "If it had been up to me, I wouldn't have even let you look in there," she reminded him, tapping her fingers impatiently on the wooden desktop.
Bobby shrugged. "My handwriting matched," he reminded her, opening the box to check it's contents. Quickly, he thumbed through the letters stacked inside, examining each postmark. December 7, December 12, December 18, December 23, Bobby cataloged, still finding the sight of Brigitte's name, written in his own steady script, jarring. It had been so long since he'd written her a letter after all. But not too long, Bobby assured himself, flipping to the end of the pile. March 15, March 21, March 28. They were all there, exactly what the label specified, for all the good that did him. None of these letters was the one he was looking for. With a heavy sigh, Bobby placed them all back in the box, then deposited the cardboard container behind him, on top of the growing and teetering tower of boxes he'd already searched.
"Be careful with those!" Celeste practically screeched, watching the pile sway precariously. "Those are Brigitte's things, and she's ... particular."
Bobby chuckled genuinely, for what felt like the first time in weeks. "Believe me, I know," he told Celeste, throwing her a quick grin as he extracted the next shoebox. "I always thought it was ... cute," he confided with a deep sigh. Looking down at the box in his hands, Bobby checked the label. Bobby: April 1939 -- July 1939. It was the one he'd been searching for, and Bobby felt his throat go dry as he slipped the top off the box. Sitting back on his heels, he looked to Celeste again, asking as casually as he could manage, "Did Brigitte actually say.... what you said she said?"
"Huh?" Celeste answered, startled out of some sort of personal reverie. "What?" she questioned, her eyes narrowing as she watched Bobby closely. "Did you find what you're looking for?" Celeste demanded, waving at the box balanced on Bobby's knees.
He looked down, squinting to read the first postmark. April 3. "I hope so," he answered, pulling the stack of letters from the box. "But -- But, did Brigitte really say I was just a 'summer romance'?" he asked softly.
"Non," Celeste admitted grudgingly. "She didn't tell me much about you at all, actually," the girl admitted, scooting back on the desk to lean against the wall. "Even when she did, I assumed you were French, and she didn't correct me. It wasn't until the other night...." Celeste trailed off, shrugging. "Brigitte is a private person."
"Yeah," Bobby agreed, turning back to go through the stack of letters in his hand. Celeste's words cutting through him guiltily. Brigitte was a private person, and it had taken a lot of effort on his part to penetrate her reserved nature. "I'm only doing this because I have to know where she went," he told Celeste. "If there was any other way --"
"Katrine and Henri said you could look through the letters, but they didn't say they were going to tell you where Brigitte is," Celeste reminded bluntly. "I can't imagine what you think you're going to find which will change that. So she loved you," the girl admitted, picking lint from her skirt. "And you wrote to one another. That doesn't change things now," she declared.
Bobby didn't respond, instead concentrating on the letters in his hand. June 16, June 22, June 28, July 5, July 9 -- Surprised, he looked into the shoe box at his feet, expecting to find one last letter, but it wasn't there. "This isn't right," he muttered aloud, a note of panic creeping into his voice.
"What isn't right?" Celeste asked, leaning forward.
"There's a letter missing," Bobby explained, distracted. He dropped the stack of letters he held back into their box, shoving it away carelessly. Sitting up on his knees, Bobby moved forward, digging through the items still inside the trunk. The Gantrell Family Bible, a stack of bed linens, or maybe, tablecloths, three more unmarked boxes, old clothing, Bobby catalogued. But, no letter. "It's got to be here," he insisted as Celeste knelt beside him at the open trunk.
"How could you know that?" she questioned, her tone, for once, more inquisitive than hostile. "I don't know how you had the time to write them all, but there have to be a hundred and fifty letters in those boxes," Celeste reminded him. "How do you know there's one missing?"
"Because it's the last one," Bobby told her, beginning to remove the remaining items from the trunk. "July 14, 1939," he continued, handing Celeste a stack of clothing. "Brigitte's birthday. It was one of the last letters I sent her, and I know she got it. I asked her, and she said she had."
Quickly, with Celeste's help, Bobby emptied the trunk, placing the more delicate items up safely on the desk. "There's nothing there," Celeste observed, sounding almost disappointed by the fact. "Are you sure the letter wasn't in the box?"
"Non!" Bobby declared emphatically, his face contorting with frustration. "They're all in perfect order," he reminded, practically growling. "Besides, I looked at every letter, every postmark. The last one's just missing. Celeste," he grumbled, turning to face her directly, "I need to find that letter!"
"Well," she answered, twisting around to look at the cramped space, now littered with Brigitte's belongings, "Where did you put those other boxes?"
"They weren't marked," Bobby dismissed with a wave of his hand. "Brigitte marked all the boxes with my letters in them."
Celeste grumbled at Bobby under her breath. "Do you want to find this letter or not?" she demanded, giving him a frustrated look.
"Of course I do!" he exclaimed. "But, I don't know what's in those boxes...." Bobby reminded, glaring at the three mismatched containers Celeste had placed on the chair. "And," he continued, frowning, "You said it yourself, Brigitte deserves her privacy. If my letter isn't here," Bobby shrugged helplessly, "I'll just have to convince them -- you -- some other way."
Chewing her lower lip, Celeste studied Bobby closely, her inner conflict playing out clearly on her face. Practically growling in her frustration, she let out the breath she'd been holding. "There -- I can't believe I'm telling you this!" Celeste groaned. "There are letters -- a few," she explained, "In at least one of those boxes."
"What?" Bobby exclaimed, shoving passed Celeste none too gently to retrieve the first box. Without another thought, he pulled off the lid, only to find a sheath of loose papers. "Just bills and receipts, mostly," he informed his companion, rifling through them. "Legal documents."
"Then, try another box," Celeste ordered, grabbing the next one. "I know what I saw. Brigitte was down here the other night. Packing," she continued, slipping off the knotted string which bound the lid to the box. "I found her going through one of these boxes," Celeste explained, gesturing at the carton Bobby had retrieved from the desk. "I never knew about the letters -- your letters -- never knew about anything in this trunk," she admitted, exhaling softly. "But, Brigitte was down here looking for this necklace she used to wear. All this time I'd thought she'd sold it, or lost it," Celeste shrugged, pulling the lid loose. "Here!" she exclaimed, retrieving a small, ribbon-secured bundle from the box. "This is it," she told Bobby, presenting the packet to him with a self-satisfied smirk.
Wordlessly, Bobby shoved his half-opened carton back onto the desk, then accepted the package from Celeste. First, with his fingers, he quickly counted the letters, finding ten of them. Then, mindful of Celeste's eyes upon him, Bobby undid the yellowed satin ribbon, setting it aside, and fanning the envelopes out like a poker hand to study them. "Half of these are to me!" he announced in surprise. "From Brigitte."
"They are?" Celeste questioned, stepping closer to examine the envelopes herself. Indeed, five on them were addressed to Mr. Robert Davis. "I wonder when she wrote them," the girl mused as Bobby, dropping to a seat on the floor, extracted the first of the bunch, setting the rest of the letters -- his and hers -- aside.
"There's only one way to find out," he told her, but he made no move to open the envelope. Glancing up at Celeste, who'd settled herself on the edge of the open trunk, Bobby inquired, stalling, "The necklace you mentioned.... What did it look like?"
"Oh!" Celeste exclaimed, her nose wrinkling in surprise at question. "It's gold," she answered, her hand going to her throat where she unconsciously pantomimed playing with an imaginary chain. "It was well-made, expensive. A locket --"
"Oval, with an engraved 'B'," Bobby supplied with a sigh, cutting Celeste off. "I gave Brigitte that necklace for her birthday."
"Oui, that's it exactly," Celeste answered, her eyes wide. "It's a -- a very nice gift," she added uncertainly. "And," she admitted, her mouth turning up in the slightest of smiles, "Brigitte was wearing it when she left for -- when she left Ste. Claire."
Bobby nodded in acknowledgement, but didn't say anything, not trusting himself to speak. It had to be a good sign, he argued to himself, that Brigitte had taken -- was wearing! -- the necklace he'd given her. Encouraging, at least. So, taking a deep breath, Bobby slipped his index finger under the corner flap of the letter Brigitte had left him, and tore.
With great care, Bobby extracted the heavy, cream-colored paper -- nicer stationary than she'd ever actually mailed to him, given the cost of international postage -- and unfolded the letter. It was short. Ridiculously short, he thought, his brow wrinkling with dismay as he quickly read the letter in one glance. Dated early May 1943, it consisted of only one line. That one line, though, was enough to remind Bobby, in the worst way, of how exactly he'd come to find himself sitting on the floor of Le Coeur de Lion's pantry. He had a date, a time frame, now, he decided, his throat tightening painfully with the thought. Only, that wasn't what he'd come for, and it certainly wasn't getting him any closer to Brigitte. Still, Bobby couldn't keep himself from contemplating, yet again, how Brigitte could have come to make what had to have been such a personally abhorrent choice.
Celeste studied Bobby, puzzled by his reaction to the letter. He'd barely glanced at it before looking up to stare, unseeingly, at the ceiling, his head resting on the sharp edge of a low shelf. Already forgotten, he let the sheet of paper dangle loosely from his fingers, and taking advantage of the fact, she swooped down, grabbing it from him. Celeste stepped back quickly, surprised by the complete lack of reaction from Bobby.
Seating herself, Celeste looked down at the letter, inspecting the sheet. It was short, she realized, absurdly short. It was also in English, and therefore incomprehensible to her. "Well, what does it say?" she demanded impatiently from her perch on the edge of the open trunk.
"Mon amour, je suis si désolé," he quoted. "Mai 1943. Brigitte." Bobby forced himself to look at Celeste, his eyes finally focusing. "So, that was it, then? That's when it ... began?"
Celeste's eyes widened, a breathy gasp catching in her throat as Bobby's translation and questions registered in her brain. "Oui," she acknowledged softly, clearing her throat in order to speak. Celeste looked away then, her shoulder sagging as she murmured, "We didn't -- I didn't know."
"You didn't know?" Bobby echoed harshly. He stared at Celeste, his expression one of irate confusion. Surely, he thought, the idea clenching at his stomach, Brigitte hadn't chosen her path on her own! "You're her friend," Bobby accused, "But, you didn't know what -- what she was doing?" he managed to choke out, his voice ringing, tinny and high, in his own ears.
Still staring at the ceiling, her arms crossed protectively over her chest, Celeste gnawed her lip, unable to face Bobby's accusation. "Non, I knew," she admitted finally, sighing. She frowned, quickly covering her mouth with her hand for a moment before forcing herself to continue. "I knew ... some things."
Celeste glanced down finally, her eyes locking with Bobby's. She grimaced, acknowledging, with a slight dip of her head, his silent order to continue. "Brigitte told me some of it," she repeated nervously. "She told me what Katrine and Henri said. That the Kommandant had expressed his interest in her to them, and they'd said it was an -- an opportunity," Celeste stammered, trying to decide how to fold her hands in her lap. "It was an opportunity," she repeated, looking away again, "We had to take advantage of. Brigitte agreed," she added quickly, "And that was that. She never talked ab -- about it, about him," she shrugged. "I couldn't ask.... She would have told me if she had wanted me to know."
It was Bobby's turn to look away, and he found himself studying the hand-drawn calendar posted above the desk. Brigitte's handwriting, he recognized, though it was mostly numbers and block letters. She'd carefully X-ed out every day, up until Thursday -- up until she'd left Ste. Claire. I need to know where she is, Bobby reminded himself. That's what is important. Still, turning back to face Celeste, he couldn't help but ask, "Would you have wanted to tell Brigitte anything if you'd been given the same 'opportunity'," he drawled sarcastically. "In her place?"
"Non," she admitted, her expression grim. "But, Brigitte didn't say much about anything -- she never mentioned you," Celeste reminded. "I knew -- I knew it had to be hard," she murmured, slumping from her perch on the trunk's edge to the floor. "But, I don't think I knew how hard," she sighed.
"Right." Bobby's reply was clipped, almost accusing, but he felt no triumph as he watched Celeste's eyes flood with tears she was quick to wipe away before they could fall. Without another word, he returned his attention to the small stack of envelopes he'd abandoned on the scuffed, uneven floor. He glanced through them, ignoring Brigitte's letters for the moment, in favor of his own.
There it was. Slowly, his hand not quite shaking, Bobby pulled the well-worn envelope free from the others, checking the smudged postmark one more time. July 14, 1939, just as he'd remembered. It was here, after all.
"Is that it, then?" Celeste murmured, motioning, across the six inches that separated them, at the envelope Bobby held clutched in one fist. "The letter you were looking for?" she sniffed, breathing deeply to compose herself. "That's it?"
"Yeah," Bobby answered, slipping back into English for one distracted moment. "Oui," he agreed, tapping the envelope against his knee, "This is it." He set it aside, picking up the four remaining letters from Brigitte. "I'm wondering if I should read these, though...." Bobby looked them over again, trying to discern an idea of their contents. "Guess I'm kind of scared," he admitted, offering Celeste a sour grin. "Not that these could be any worse," he muttered.
"I thought you were going to show that letter to Katrine and Henri," Celeste reminded.
"I was -- I am," he answered, off-hand. Bobby's concentration returned, again to the letters in his hands. Brigitte had written to him, five times in four or five years, but for what purpose, he wondered. What did these letters contain? He glanced up at Celeste, surprised by the almost encouraging expression on her face. "Maybe I'll read one more," he shrugged. Taking a deep breath, Bobby selected the bottom letter, the one that had been nearest his own last letter in the stack, ripping it open before he could think better of it. He began reading, not bothering to check the date.
Bobby, my love,
Yes, of course I will marry you.
Bobby felt his heart soar at Brigitte's words, written so clearly in her precise handwriting. But, as he continued to read, his elation began to fade.
Although, how that will be accomplished, now, I can't say. They say the port at Le Havre will be closed any day, and, even if I had the money required to purchase a ticket these days, there aren't any free to buy. I've waited two months, hoping, but I don't think that will happen now. All I can do now is wait. But, I will wait, Bobby, as long as I have to.
Brigitte's own sense of disappointment was apparent in the downward slant of her script. That same feeling knifed into Bobby's heart as he thought, for the umpteenth time, about how different things would have turned out had he only cabled his proposal to Brigitte. Less romantic, for sure, but she might have had time to get out of France. With a frustrated growl, Bobby shoved the thought aside. He didn't have the time to wallow in what-ifs, now.
Forcing his concentration back onto the pages clutched in his right hand, Bobby glanced through the rest of the letter. Brigitte had gone on, for pages, in the most scattered manner, declaring her acceptance of his proposal over and over, writing that she loved him -- and how -- repeatedly. Most important was that opening paragraph, he knew, flipping back to the first sheet to re-read it. This would convince them, he decided, even if his own letter didn't. Without another thought, Bobby gathered the scattered sheets together, and scrambled to his feet. He was out the door before Celeste could even ask what the letter said.
Bobby rushed into the kitchen, surprised to find that François had arrived while he'd been searching the pantry for the letter he hoped would convince them they should tell him where Brigitte had gone. He ignored the cook, though, charging purposefully toward Katrine, still seated at the small table. He slapped the two letters down on the table before her, declaring, "Ici! This should be enough to convince you!"
Always unflappable, the restaurateur finished her sip of tea, then set the cup aside, finally reaching to pick up the first letter. "What is this?" she inquired slowly, studying the envelope in the gray light which filtered in through the side window.
"A letter I wrote to Brigitte five years ago," Bobby announced to the room at large, his tone urgent. With a quick glance over his shoulder, he confirmed that Celeste had followed him from the pantry. Holding her gaze, he added, "I -- I asked her to marry me." Spinning back around to face Katrine, Bobby gave her a pensive smile. "Check for yourself, please," he implored.
"Ce qui?!" François growled, turning to Henri for an explanation. The portly cook finished tying on his apron, waiting for a response from the bartender. Impatient, François stalked past Bobby and Katrine, now reading the letter, stopping in front of Celeste at the pantry door. "What is he talking about?" he demanded of the young woman.
"Lieutenant Davis is an old friend of Brigitte's," Henri interrupted, throwing Celeste a warning look. Placing the teakettle in the center of the stove to heat, he crossed to the table, stopping behind Katrine, reading over her shoulder for a moment. "He would like to know where she has gone," Henri added, his calm tone calculated to soothe their agitated cook.
"But -- But, what is this about marriage?" François sputtered, gesturing dismissively at Bobby with one beefy hand. "Is this why you fetched me, Henri?" he demanded, glaring at the barkeep.
"Now, Lieutenant," Katrine interrupted, ignoring François's blustery outrage. "I'll admit I don't read English as well as I speak it," she muttered, her expression somewhere between confused and amused. "But," she continued, her mouth quirking oddly, "All I find in here is -- is ... sentimental musings," Katrine decided finally, waving a sheet of paper at him. "No request for marriage."
Bobby let out a strangled, "Oh!" and, blushing, reached across the table to take the letter from her. "You didn't need to read all of it," he muttered. "It's -- It's at the end." Quickly, Bobby flipped to the last page, re-reading the letter quickly. "Here it is," he informed Katrine, passing the sheet back, his finger still marking the pertinent passage. Turning, Bobby faced the cook, informing him quietly, "Brigitte and I, we've known one another for a long time. Years. I -- I love her," Bobby continued, smiling softly at the thought. "That's why I have to know where she's gone."
"This is a marriage proposal," Katrine agreed almost immediately, smiling in relief. She glanced around Bobby, making eye contact with François. "And, this is the lieutenant's handwriting," she advised the cook with a pointed look before settling back into the comfort of her chair. "Henri and I already verified --"
"Well, that's all fine and good," François interrupted, scowling. "But," the chef argued, crossing the kitchen with a spryness that belied his age and size, "That was years ago, oui?"
"Written in 1939," Katrine confirmed from the table, checking the postmark on the envelope.
"And, Brigitte has never said anything of this," François reminded, fixing Bobby with an intimidating glare. "You might want to know where she is, but she wants to be left alone," the cook told him, his face growing redder with each argumentative word. "She's been hurt enough. We aren't going tell you where she's gone."
"I won't hurt her," Bobby tried to assure the older man. "Never. Besides," he added, his frustration obvious in his tone, "She accepted my proposal!" Bobby spun around, dropping into the open chair across from Katrine. With a beseeching look, he shoved the second letter at her. "Read her answer," he begged. "You'll see."
Everyone waited, barely breathing, while Katrine extracted the letter from its sheath. She unfolded the pages, nodding in confirmation almost immediately. "She did," Katrine sighed. "And," she added, slowly returning the pages to their envelope, "Brigitte did tell me, once that she'd planned to go to America. Before the war," Katrine recalled, biting the inside of her cheek in contemplation.
"Oui!" Bobby crowed in agreement. "You see?" he demanded, turning back to François. He continued, pleading with the cook. "You have to tell me where in Paris she went. I'm -- I'm her fiancé!" Bobby declared, casting about for any reason François might accept.
No one said anything for a few seconds, until Celeste, with a sigh, broke the silence. "Maybe we should tell him," she suggested hesitantly, moving from her spot by the back wall to join the four others, now clustered around the table. She looked up at Bobby, offering him a weak smile that he chose to interpret as support. With an apologetic glance for the other three, she threw her shoulders back, standing tall. "I think -- I really think Brigitte might want us to."
"I believe we can trust Celeste's instincts on this matter," Henri added, cutting off François's protest. "We were unaware of Brigitte's relationship with Lieutenant Davis when we made our promise," he reminded, glancing back and forth between Katrine and the cook. "And, in point of fact, the promise was only to conceal her location from her neighbors and acquaintances here in Ste. Claire," he stressed. "Not from the Lieutenant."
Katrine nodded in agreement, but François overruled her. "It is very nice that you are so concerned for Brigitte, Lieutenant Davis," the cook harrumphed. "But, there are other concerns," he reminded. "What of her child?" François demanded, crossing his arms over his chest, and glaring at Bobby, the glint of challenge in his eye.
Bobby drew a deep breath, meeting François's gaze without blinking. "It'll need a father, yes?" he replied.
"Oui," François agreed with a sharp nod. Still, the cook would not give in. "And, you would be one to him?" he demanded. "You'll marry Brigitte, and raise the child?"
"Brigitte and I.... I always thought we'd have children," Bobby murmured, failing in his attempt at a smile. He held François's gaze dully, his tired, blue eyes clearly betraying all of his desperation. "Oui!" he promised, scrubbing one hand carelessly across his face. "I'll raise the child. I'll care for it -- him -- and Brigitte. I love her," Bobby reminded, dropping his shaking hand to his side. "And, I'll marry her," he declared tiredly. "That's all I've wanted for so long, anyway. If she'll have me," Bobby sighed, "I'll marry her."
François snorted, almost grumpily, but his expression, at least, softened into something akin to sympathy. "Oui, if she will," he muttered, combing a fist through his sparse patch of hair. Grimacing, he watched Bobby closely for another few moments, still considering the younger man's veracity. Finally, with a weary sigh, the cook relented. "But," he predicted, "You may find convincing Brigitte to be the hardest part of all."
Afternoon
The truck slowed, dragging Bobby's attention back to the present. Glancing past François and out the window, he checked the scenery, confirming their location as Henri turned the vehicle sharply off the main road into the even bumpier lane. Ahead, Bobby identified the squat house surrounded by outbuildings. They had arrived at the Lescure farm.
Holding his breath, Bobby swiped one sweaty palm dry on the knee of his thin cotton fatigues. He'd been surprised, then thankful, to learn that Brigitte had not, in fact, traveled to Paris, but had rather moved out to the farm of friends not quite seven miles from the city. Katrine had volunteered Henri to run him out, and Bobby had accepted gratefully, although not without first arguing that he could find his own way.
So, here he was, wedged tightly between Le Coeur de Lion's cook and barkeep, as they chugged up the narrow farm lane in the restaurant's ridiculously antiquated Renault truck, on his way to Brigitte. The trip out had been torturously slow. The roads, already in disrepair due to the war, had been rendered almost impassable by the recent rains. More than once, they'd had to stop to push the truck free of the muck, lengthening the normally half-hour journey to over two hours. Worst of all, Bobby realized, at some point during the impossible day, he'd lost his hold on what he originally wanted to say to Brigitte, everything he'd planned and rehearsed laying in his bed the night before, and then this morning, going through the regular Sunday morning in-camp routine.
"There's Martin now," François announced, pointing out the mud-spattered windshield at a figure rounding the side of the barn. The cook had insisted on coming long, and, luckily, had proven to be more help than Bobby would have guessed he could be when it came to winching the truck out of the mud. "You said you know Martin?" he reminded, with a sideways glance at Bobby.
"Yeah, uh, oui," Bobby agreed as Henri brought the truck to a stop in the open yard. The other man cut the engine, popping his door open, then climbed out, all without saying a word. On Bobby's right, François exited