Catching the Wind(20)
“None that are still living.”
“Did he ever marry?”
Lucas shook his head as the server delivered their main course. She picked up her fork to eat the risotto. “Surely you can tell me about his life as an adult.”
He leaned forward, pressing his knuckles together as he spoke. “Mr. Knight has worked his entire life to right this upturned world. He’s a generous man who is fascinated by heroes from history, discounting the fact that those who know him think he’s a hero as well for his compassion and willingness to help people in need. And he’s determined to find out what happened to Brigitte before he passes away.”
“What if Brigitte doesn’t want to see him?”
Lucas took a bite of mahimahi, spiced with coriander and lemon juice, before responding. “He would be disappointed but relieved knowing that she’d survived the war.”
“And if she didn’t survive?”
His eyes met hers, steady and calm. “Perhaps we’ll withhold that information.”
She set her fork beside the plate. “What do you mean ‘we’?”
“Mr. Knight has asked me to help with whatever you need.”
“But I haven’t agreed to look for her—”
“He’s convinced that you will.”
These men were exasperating. They had certainly piqued her interest, but she hadn’t made any promises. Nor would she until after she talked to Chandler.
“I can have an answer to you next week,” she said. “In the meantime, I have a story due for the syndicate by Friday.”
He leaned forward again. “If I help you finish your story, will you ask your boss for a week off?”
She stiffened. “I don’t need your help on my story or any search.”
“I spent almost two years trying to help one of the investigators find Brigitte.”
“And—”
“We kept smashing into dead ends.”
She glanced over at him. “What happened at the monastery?”
“Are you trying to derail me?” he asked, reaching for his glass of wine.
“Trying to put you back on track.”
He stared at her for a moment, his glass in front of him.
She shook the hair off her face. “What?”
“I was just thinking,” he said, taking a sip of his wine.
“Thinking about telling me the rest of the story?”
“No.” The server refilled his wineglass. “I was thinking I was still hungry.”
“You’re a rotten liar.”
He laughed. “Do you really want to guess my thoughts?”
“I wouldn’t dare.”
“You are a wise woman, Quenby Vaughn.”
She shook her head. A wise woman would step away from this story before it consumed her.
“Why did you decide to become a journalist?” he asked.
She hesitated. “The answer is as complex as my family.”
“You’re nosy?”
She laughed with him. “I suppose that’s part of it, but I really like capturing the heart of a story. Digging deep to find what others missed.”
He considered her words. “It would be impossible, I imagine, to really capture someone’s heart on paper.”
“A good writer shows someone’s heart by recording their actions.”
“Out of a person’s heart come evil actions,” he said. “That’s what Jesus said, in the book of Mark.”
She leaned back in her chair, surprised to hear him quote the Bible. “But every good and perfect gift is from above—”
“The book of James.”
“Exactly.” She smiled. “We each choose between good and bad in our hearts, and our actions follow. The hardest choices are when we don’t know if something is good or bad.”
“Or someone, I suppose.” He set down his glass. “Mr. Knight doesn’t want to wait until next week for you to begin searching for Brigitte.”
“But it’s been more than seventy years since he lost her.”
“The matter is quite urgent to him.”
She didn’t like to be pushed, and yet . . . “I’ll let you know in two days.”
“He’s asked for tomorrow.”
She didn’t respond, either way. While she wouldn’t admit it to the man across the table, she was hooked on the heart of this story.
Chapter 12
English Channel, October 1940
The night fog was thick as paste, so dense that Dietmar could rub it between his hands. After a few hours, the monks had awakened Brigitte and him and led them away from the monastery, under this cloak of black sky and haze, until they reached a strip of sand along the channel waters separating captivity from freedom.
In the late hours, after Hitler’s men had left, the monks had burned his knapsack and given both him and Brigitte a clean set of clothing, the pockets stuffed with their treasures from home. The monks had no shoes to spare, but Dietmar told them it didn’t matter. He’d thought he’d lost Brigitte, but after a warm meal and some sleep, she was walking beside him again, clinging to his hand.
They were stored like fish in the dark hold of a trawler. Wind and waves battered the wooden frame as they motored across the channel, shaking them like glass marbles in a jar. Brigitte vomited her meal on his new trousers, but she didn’t say a word. Nor did she cry.