Catching the Wind(14)

Brigitte collapsed back into the wet leaves. The darkness. “I’m staying here,” she said. “Forever.”

He knelt beside her. “We have to go a little farther, Brigitte. Until we reach the channel.”

Her eyes closed. “Mama and Papa are waiting for me.”

“No,” he replied, his heart stricken at the mention of her mother. “They are waiting for us on the other side of the water.”

When she shook her head, he tugged on her arm, repeating their mantra. “We must run.”

“We’ve run and run,” she whispered. “Yet we never get anywhere.” Her body stilled, limp on the ground, an edifice of grief when they both needed wings.

The dogs weren’t far now. Their howls resonated through the forest, echoed between the trees.

Was the Gestapo tracking them?

“Please, Brigitte,” he begged. They couldn’t stop running now.

When she didn’t answer, he strung his knapsack over his shoulder and lifted her in his arms.

If she couldn’t run, he would carry her.





CHAPTER 8





_____

While Lucas met privately with Mr. Knight inside, Quenby stepped out onto the back patio of the castle, overlooking the white froth of sea. On a terrace below, deck chairs surrounded a tropical swimming pool.

Her hands shook slightly after her conversation with the man inside. A dozen questions sprouted in her mind and then tangled together like the shoots of vine running over the trellis on the patio, blocking the sunlight.

Mr. Knight had told her the story of his childhood, about fleeing from Germany in 1940 and traveling through Belgium with Brigitte. The country was about the size of Maryland—a journey that would take three hours by car today—but he said they’d spent almost two months dodging both Germans and Belgians who feared their occupiers more than they wanted to help two German kids.

He hadn’t told her yet how he and Brigitte had been separated. Nor what information his investigators had discovered when they’d searched for her.

If his detectives could find out about Quenby’s mother, why couldn’t they find Brigitte?

Perhaps she’d gotten cynical during her four years as a journalist, but she’d talked to plenty of people willing to make up a story—embellish a few facts even—to see their names in print. If he didn’t seem so averse to the spotlight, she’d suspect that Mr. Knight might be making up a story, seeking attention in his last years.

Then again, Brigitte might be a means to some sort of end she wasn’t privy to. Or Mr. Knight’s memories of this journey could have altered over the years.

He said he would hand over the file he had on Brigitte and the Ricker family after she decided to search for Brigitte. Other questions she had were for the girl that he’d lost, the most pressing one being, if she was still alive, where had she been hiding for the past seventy-five years?

Maybe Brigitte didn’t know that Mr. Knight was searching for her. Or maybe—like Quenby’s mother—she didn’t want to be found.

Quenby’s fingers twitched again at her side, and she lifted her face to bask in the glorious sunshine, something that had evaded London for weeks.

Mr. Knight was correct—the yellow-and-pink strands of a sunrise were her favorite colors this time of year—but how did he know that? How did he know the name of the man she’d dated last year? And most disconcerting—how did he know her mother had abandoned her? She’d thought that story had been buried two decades ago. Never to be exhumed.

In spite of the warm air, she shivered at the memories.

Impossible to love—that’s what Brandon had said about her when he’d ended their short-lived dating relationship. And he’d been frustrated with her obsession for work. She might physically leave the office at night, but her mind was always churning, putting together the pieces of a story. Chewing was what he’d called it their last time together. Chewing the cud.

Nasty business, this chewing. It drove other people crazy, but it kept her sane. Working on someone else’s story kept her from having to reflect on her own.

Leaning against a pillar, she removed an envelope from her handbag. This visit wasn’t about her. It was about a girl lost long ago. A girl who’d never seemed to find her way home.

Mr. Knight had given her a copy of a black-and-white photograph. The image was grainy, but there was a girl with braids in the center, a bow over the wide collar of her dress, a ruffle around her hem. She was holding the hands of her parents. Smiling. Her mother’s eyes were hidden behind her glasses, but her father looked worried, his lips pinched.

Had Brigitte reunited with her father? Perhaps she had returned to live a quiet life in Germany after the war, taking care of a man who’d been broken in a concentration camp.

Quenby slipped the envelope back into her handbag. Then she descended the steps toward the lower terrace. The patio was surrounded by boulders and a man-made waterfall that cascaded over rocks, into the swimming pool. Water bubbled out of the pool near the rock wall, into a creek bed that trickled across the terrace before pouring over the edge of the cliff.

Quenby took off her sandals and sat on the tiled edge of the pool, dipping her toes into the cool water.

One thing was clear to her—to this day, Mr. Knight loved Brigitte deeply. She saw it in his gaze that kept wandering down to the princess toy in his feeble hand. Heard it in the tremble of his voice as he talked about the girl he’d struggled to keep alive.