Authors: C. Marie Bowen
Mae pulled the bullet from Billy’s side, held it up to the light for a moment,
then metal clinked upon
glass as she dropped it into a custard dish.
She released the long tweezers into the hot water on the stove and picked up a hooked needle from the towel. With steady fingers, she threaded the needle with thick black thread.
Mae hooked the needle into Billy’s skin, pulled most of the thread through, took another small stitch, then looped the needle underneath and pulled the half-knot tight. “Your friend’s not terribly injured—for being shot, mind ye.” She performed another looping stitch. “He’ll have to be kept quiet for a few days until the skin knits.”
“That won’t be easy. Billy’s anxious to find his friend.”
Mae cast a quizzical glance at John. “You have a missing smuggler?”
“Billy thinks the gunmen have him.”
“I see. And he’ll want to look for his friend.” Mae raised an eyebrow at John. “Hand me those small sewing scissors. That’s a good lad.” She clipped the thread and dropped the needle into the steaming water.
With a hand on her back, she studied at John. “Are ye going to help him?”
John looked into Mae’s steady eyes and slowly dipped his head. “Aye.”
Mae started to grin then suppressed her smile. “And Aubrielle? What are you going to tell her? She’ll be wanting to know why you missed dinner.”
“I…” John hesitated. “I don’t know how she would react to all this.”
“You care for the lass? And I see you do.” Mae untied her apron and hung it on a hook behind the door. “Would you like my advice?”
John blinked in surprise and nodded.
“A gun-smuggling patriot is more exciting than a flower peddler, no matter how handsome.” Mae felt Billy’s forehead and lifted his wrist to take his pulse. “Keep her away from the danger, mind ye, but be honest with her, as much as you can.” Mae cocked her eye at John. “And she’ll be needing some help to pack and move their personal belongings.”
“Move?”
“Aye. Lou and Brie are movin’ in with me. They’ll need to be out of their building by the end of the year.” She patted Billy’s cheek, but the young man showed no signs of stirring. “You’ll have to carry him out. I need to clean the kitchen and make Lou his breakfast before sunrise.” She removed her bib apron and folded it away with her medical kit. “Can you manage him?”
“I can. If you open the doors, I’ll carry Billy back to my place.”
Aubrielle woke to dull thumping inside the house—a persistent pounding that shook her bed.
Papa?
She hurried from her room pulling on her dressing gown and knotting the sash. Across from the kitchen, the door to her father’s room stood ajar. “Papa? Are you all right?” She pushed open the door, and her sight darted from the empty bed to her father, doubled over on the floor.
He raised his face and stared at her, his y
armulke
dusty and askew on his head. Angry tears streamed down gaunt cheeks and mingled with blood from the cut on his forehead. “
Dieu tout-puissant, pardonnez-moi
. I do not remember the words…” his voice dissolved into sobs. He collapsed forward as though in prayer and continued to beat his forehead on the wooden floor. “
Seigneur
Dieu, pardonnez-moi
.”
“Papa—no!” Aubrielle dropped to her knees beside him and gathered his thin shoulders in her arms. She hugged him to the ache in her chest.
“The words are here, Marguerite.” He pounded his knuckles against his temple knocking the skullcap to the floor. “But when I am ready to speak them, they fly away.” He covered his face. “Help me pray, Marguerite.”
“It’s Aubrielle, Papa.”
He pulled away from her arms and studied her face. “Of course, it is. My Aubrielle.” He lifted his hand to touch her face then stopped and stared at the blood on his palm. “
Qu'est-ce que c'est?
”
Aubrielle curled her lips between her teeth and struggled against tears.
He won’t understand why I cry.
“You’ve cut your head, Papa.
Ce n’est rien.
”
He touched his forehead. “I did?”
She took his hand and helped him stand. “Come. I’ll make us some breakfast and wash your face.”
“
Attends
—
I remember now.” His face fell as confusion battled with despair. “You must help me pray, Aubrielle.”
“I can't, Papa.” Her hand touched her mother's silver cross which she wore on a chain around her neck. “I only know Mama’s prayers.”
His eyes followed her hand to the shiny crucifix. “That’s true. I remember now.” He crawled to his dark wooden dresser and searched through two drawers, scattering the contents on the floor. “I bought this for your Mama, years ago. Before we wed.” His hand trembled as he raised an old velvet jewelry box to Aubrielle. “She wouldn't wear it, of course. Marrying me was a lesser sin than wearing this.”
Aubrielle opened the box. A glint of sunlight caught and flashed from the necklace chain. The six-pointed star—the Star of David—must have remained hidden in her father's dresser for years. She reached for the familiar crucifix that dangled above her collarbone and swallowed. “It’s lovely, Papa.”
“Would you wear it sometime? For me? Like you wear your mother’s cross and rings to remember her?”
“Of course, I will.” She picked up the black cap from the floor and set it on her father's bed. “Come. Sit at the table, Papa, and talk to me. I'll clean your forehead and make coffee.”
* * *
Keys jingled at the back door, and
Aubrielle looked up from her coffee.
Tante
Mae came into the kitchen. Her head wrapped in a black wool scarf that matched the buttons on her coat. A covered basket over her arm. She stopped when she caught sight of Lou’s forehead. “Did he take a fall?” She set the basket on the counter and pulled off her knitted gloves.
“Not exactly.” Aubrielle reached over and patted her father's shoulder. “He was frustrated.”
“As difficult as his illness is for us, it’s much harder for Lou.” Mae nodded to the jewelry box on the table. “I didn't know he still had the necklace.” She pulled the red cloth from the basket and withdrew a freshly baked baguette. “Does his frustration have anything to do with the pendant?” She set the crusty loaf on a plate in the middle of the table.
“No, I don't think so.” Aubrielle tore away a corner of the warm offering and placed it in her father’s hand. “He gave it to me.” She drew in a breath and lifted one shoulder. “Is it true
Mama
wouldn't take his gift?”
Mae set a tray of sliced cheese and meat inside the refrigerator. “Marguerite loved your father, you know. She loved him dearly.” Mae raised an eyebrow at Aubrielle. “The necklace now, that had more to do with your grandparents than with your mother.”
“
Mama’s
pa
rents?”
“Aye,” Mae tucked in the red cloth over the basket and put her gloves back on. “Marguerite was an only daughter, like you.”
“Mama never spoke of them.”
Her father stared vacantly at the bread in his hand.
Mae lifted the basket. “Marguerite told me she was dead to her parents after she married Lou.” Mae captured Aubrielle's attention with her steady gaze. “A thing she never regretted, mind ya.”
Her face softened, a
smile curved her lips, and she winked.
“I’d
expect a visitor today if I were you.”
“John?” Aubrielle sat straight. “But how—”
“I spoke with him early this morning, and I'm headed across to his apartment just now to check on his friend.” The back door opened and closed.
What friend?
Aubrielle brushed at her dressing gown and touched her rolled hair.
“Papa, finish your breakfast and let's get you dressed. It sounds as though we’ll have company.”
* * *
John rubbed his dark hair with a soft white bath towel, then wrapped the damp fabric around his waist and went to check on Billy.
Billy had slept on the bed last night while John had attempted to sleep on the couch. After an hour, he resigned himself to the floor. A man with his frame simply didn't fit on regular sized furniture.
Billy peered at John through gummy eyes. “Bloody hell, you're big!” He leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling. “Even when you're near naked. How’d I get back here?”
John crossed his arms and rested his shoulder against the doorframe. “I carried you, and it was no easy task. You're heavier than you look.”
Billy chuckled, then moaned and held his side. “I feel worse today, mate.” He struggled to sit, barely suppressing a groan and shook his head. “I could use a bit of help.”
John gripped Billy's hand and eased him forward, then tucked an extra pillow behind his back. He brought Billy a glass of water and placed it on the bedside table. “Mae Moroney, the woman who removed the bullet and sewed you up, said you'd be on your back for a few days.”
“I can't stay in bed. I have to find François.” He grimaced as he reached for the water. “I know he'd do the same for me.”
“Do you remember who he spoke with? Did he mention any names when he arranged the exchange?”
“Aye, he did.” Billy drank from the glass and choked. He gasped and tried to stifle a cough as he replaced the glass on the table, spilling a good portion. “Ah, bloody hell.”
“Are you all right?” John wiped the water from the floor and table with a dishcloth from the kitchen.
“Aces.” Billy leaned back and closed his eyes. “François did mention a name, but I doubt the man had anything to do with his disappearance or the gunfire last night.”
John opened his suitcase and lifted a pair of slacks. He dropped the towel from around his waist and pulled on the trousers. “Go on. I'm listening.”
“François said he met with a
Maurice Bonet
.
Monsieur
Bonet
owns a cabaret on the Right Bank, near Montmartre.
La Fleur Chantante
. Ever heard of it?”
“No.” John shook his head. “And you don’t think Bonet is involved?”
Eyes closed, Billy's pallor remained gray. He rolled his head from side to side. “I don't see why he would. He brokered the sale—”
John paused buttoning his shirt and gaped at Billy. “He what?”
“Bonet knows the buyer we met last night. He knows how to contact them.”
John pulled his shoes from under the dresser and sat in the corner chair. “You said the man you dealt with seemed as surprised as you were by the gunfire. He acted as though he thought you were the one who betrayed the exchange.”
“That's true, mate—but that René chap—he might have discovered
who
fired those shots.” Billy heaved a sigh and ran his palm along the bandage. “With luck, we might have a line on who has François, and why.”
“You say ‘we’ like you're going somewhere.” John pulled the laces on his Oxfords tight then straightened his tie in the mirror and pulled on his suit coat.
He opened the dresser drawer and pushed the gun and holster aside. Inside the
hand-tooled wooden box, h
e leafed past his work documents from
The Yankee Dream
and the
Giselle-Marie
and withdrew a cream-colored sheath with an embossed seal. The elegant envelope disappeared into his inside pocket.
A knock at the entrance halted their conversation. The men exchanged a quick glance in the mirror.
John finished his tie then crossed the apartment and opened the front door.
Mae Moroney beamed when she saw John. The short brisk walk left the apples of her cheeks bright red. “G'morning, Johnny. Don’t you look grand?” She hurried inside out of the stairwell’s morning chill. “How’s our patient today?”
“Billy's awake and feels good enough to complain.” John picked up a set of keys from the kitchen drawer. “Here. Just in case I'm not in when you check on Billy.”
The keys sank into the pocket of Mae's wool jacket. She set her basket on the couch and unbuttoned her coat. “That's good.” She indicated her container as she set her coat and scarf beside it. “I've brought a bite for the poor lad, and clean bandages, which he'll enjoy less I'd wager.” Mae looked John up and down then nodded. “She's expecting you. I told her I was coming here to see your friend.”
“You told her about Billy?” John's brows rose as he retrieved the wrapped package that held Aubrielle’s white leather gloves. He closed the coat closet and tucked the flat ribbon-adorned box beneath his arm. “What did she say?”
“Nothing that bears repeating.” She pulled a roll of gauze from the basket. “Go on, now. I'll lock up when I've finished. Oh, and I'll expect you for supper this evening at Aubrielle’s house.” She pointed at the bedroom. “You can bring a portion back for your friend and save me the trip.”