Catching the Wind(37)

Frau Terrell busied herself in the smoky kitchen, boiling two eggs over the stove while Brigitte sliced pieces of bread to toast. The woman didn’t complain about the thickness of the slices. Perhaps she was hungry as well.

Brigitte sat beside the kitchen table, the images of fire still blazing in her mind.

Should she tell Frau Terrell about the canopy that dropped from the sky? Her English was better now—she’d been mimicking the Terrells in the secrecy of her room—but she didn’t know the right words to explain what she saw. And if she should speak to this woman at all.

But what if one of Hitler’s men had jumped from the plane? What if he’d come across the water from Germany? If he found her, he might take her back. Then she would never find Dietmar.

Frau Terrell spooned the eggs from the hot pan, and as she rolled them in a separate bowl of water to cool, Herr Terrell burst into the kitchen. When Frau Terrell looked at him, her face flushed red. “Where have you been?”

“Lady Ricker is expecting a delivery tonight.” He reached for one of the eggs and peeled it. Then he popped it into his mouth. “I was waiting near the toolshed.”

“That egg was for the girl,” Frau Terrell reprimanded him.

He glanced over. “She won’t starve.”

Brigitte clutched the bread in both hands lest he take that as well. No need to toast it.

“Did the delivery arrive?” Frau Terrell asked.

“The plans were botched.”

“What do you mean, botched?”

He glanced at Brigitte again but kept talking. “We can’t seem to find it.”

Frau Terrell’s eyes darted toward the window. “It has to be out there.”

As Herr Terrell ate the second boiled egg, Brigitte devoured her dry brown bread. Then she picked up a pencil and paper and began sketching.

Herr Terrell sat down at the table. “Lady Ricker has a new assignment for you.”

His wife’s eyebrows climbed. “Why doesn’t Lady Ricker assign it to me herself?”

“It’s a bit more complicated this time.”

From the corner of her eye, Brigitte saw Frau Terrell look at her.

“The girl won’t understand,” Herr Terrell said.

Brigitte drew the rounded edges of a canopy, the body of a man dangling below. An aeroplane, flying below the moon.

“You don’t know that—”

“She’s not mute, Olivia. She speaks German.” He leaned toward Brigitte. “Sind Sie Deutsche?”

Her eyes flew up at his question. The words, he pronounced them all wrong, but somehow he’d discovered her secret.

Her gaze dropped back to her paper, and she pulled it down onto her lap. She wouldn’t answer his question.

“See.” Herr Terrell turned back to his wife. “She can help all of us.”

“What does her ladyship want from me?”

“There’s a house, about an hour from here. No one will suspect what you’re doing there.”

“We have to move?” Her voice quivered with her question.

“Not both of us. Lady Ricker needs me to work from here.”

Frau Terrell shook her head, and Brigitte watched a tear trail down her cheek. “I’m not going without you.”

“The girl will help you with chores. And the messages.”

“This is ridiculous, Eddie.”

“Lady Ricker will double your wages. I’ll bring them to you every weekend along with supplies.”

“It’s not about the money.”

“Then do it for me, love,” Herr Terrell said, scooting toward her.

“The girl,” Frau Terrell whispered.

He motioned toward the staircase, and like the dog that followed Brigitte across the pasture, Frau Terrell followed him up to their room.

Brigitte finished her picture, and with the paper clutched in her hand, she walked upstairs. Words were softer now behind the Terrells’ door, whispered until Frau Terrell’s tears turned into laughter.

Inside her room, Brigitte tore her picture into a thousand pieces. Then she opened her window and released them to the embers and snow.

What would the Terrells do, now that they knew her secret?

She plugged her ears so she couldn’t hear the laughing next door. For some reason, it seemed to her even worse than the fighting.





CHAPTER 22





_____

Quenby sautéed chopped garlic and slices of red pepper in a pan, simmering it with olive oil. She hadn’t made chicken cacciatore in eons, but the dish had been her grandmother’s favorite meal. They’d made it together in the cramped kitchen back in Tennessee, Clint Black or Tanya Tucker blaring from the stereo, Grammy twirling around the butcher’s block with her spoon in hand like she was boot scootin’ across a dance floor.

Lucas arrived at eight with a bottle of pinot noir, wearing jeans and a white polo shirt. “I’m glad we’re working on the same team now,” he said as he stepped into the kitchen.

She stirred diced tomatoes and capers into the sauce. “Mr. Knight didn’t mention being part of a team.”

“I’m supposed to assist you in any way that I can.”

“I work best when I’m alone,” she said before facing him again. Making the expectations clear now would eliminate any surprises—or distractions—in the weeks ahead.