The Keeper of Happy Endings(36)

I spend the rest of the day looking for his face in the corridors and wondering what the letters stand for.





FIFTEEN


SOLINE

Before proceeding, one must be certain the lovers are destined for happiness. It is not a matter of attraction. Rather, it is a question of capacity. The potential to be happy must be there in both parties. If it is not, no charm, however skillfully worked, can guarantee a happy outcome.

—Esmée Roussel, the Dress Witch

10 March 1943—Paris

A week has passed with no sign of my American Romeo. I bring the handkerchief with me to work every day, hoping for a chance to return it. Not because I’m worried he might need it—a man who carries a monogrammed handkerchief in a war zone will have plenty more just like it—but because I want him to know I’m still here, that I haven’t quit.

In fact, I’m getting used to the place, the smells and sights, the long hours and war-battered faces. I give sponge baths and fill water pitchers, deliver meals and empty bedpans. I even help write letters to sweethearts. The hardest part has been learning my way around, to know which doors are off-limits and which are allowed, which ward holds which type of casualty, and the quickest way to get to the mess when I finally get a break. And that’s where I am when I finally see him again—Romeo.

I’ve just finished a letter for a Canadian airman with two broken arms when I look up from my coffee cup and see him in the doorway. I can tell from his expression that he’s been there awhile, watching me, and I feel my cheeks color.

My pulse skitters as our eyes meet. He’s smiling that big American smile of his, lounging against the doorframe with his arms folded across his chest. When I return his smile, he drops his arms and heads for my table. There’s a bandage on his forehead, a bruise at his temple.

“You’re still here,” he says, grinning. “I wasn’t sure you would be.”

“You’re hurt.”

He shrugs, rubbing a hand along his jaw. “One of the field hospitals got caught short, and I was stuck for a few days. Things got a little hairy one night, but we managed. Anyway, it looks like you’ve settled in for the long haul.”

“I had no choice. I owe you a handkerchief.”

His blue-green eyes flash mischievously. “My plan worked, then. I’m glad.”

I feel timid suddenly, and breathless, and giddy, and I find myself wondering if this was how Maman felt the day she met Erich Freede. “The monogram,” I ask shyly. “A.W.P. What does it stand for?”

“Anson. My name is Anson William Purcell. Now you.”

“I’m Soline Roussel.”

“Pleased to meet you, Soline Roussel.” He holds out a hand. I take it, briefly startled by the warmth of his fingers. “So how are things? Easier now that you’ve found your footing?”

“A little, yes. One of the other volunteers has taken me under her wing. She knew my mother before she passed away and has been very kind.”

His grin disappears, his face softening. “I’m sorry about your mother. When did she die?”

“Three months ago now, I think. I’m losing track of the days. We had a small bridal salon in the Rue Legendre, but she got sick and the boche came. I thought since I had nursed her, I would be prepared. But that first day, seeing those poor boys . . . I wasn’t ready.”

“Of course you weren’t, but you stayed anyway. That was brave.”

I peer at the red-and-green American Field Service patch on his sleeve. I’ve heard stories about the American drivers, how many of them had joined up before the United States even entered the war and had come over at their own expense, earning them the nickname the Gentlemen Volunteers.

“There’s a lot of talk about the drivers. They say you volunteer to come and that you actually pay your own way. Is it true?”

He makes a face. “It’s not as big a deal as it sounds. Most of us are rich boys from Princeton and Yale, looking for adventure.”

“Which are you?”

“Yale. Like my old man and his old man. Or was.”

“You left university to do this? Why?”

He shrugs, but there’s something evasive about the gesture, as if the subject makes him uncomfortable. “I wanted to do my part. And I liked the AFS’s motto—that freedom and mercy shall not perish from this earth.” Another shrug. “Anyway, here I am.”

“Your family must be proud.”

“My mother’s been gone almost three years, so it’s just my sister and my father now. And proud isn’t exactly the word I’d use. The Purcells have always been navy men, and I was expected to fall in line. My father was set to pull the required strings to get me into Officer Candidate School when I graduated, but I didn’t want that. Any more than I wanted to get roped into the family business. Needless to say, he was pretty steamed when I told him I’d quit school to sign up.”

I survey the damage to his face. We’ve all heard stories of AFS drivers killed in the line of duty or detained and questioned by the Gestapo for aiding escaped prisoners. “Perhaps he’s just concerned for your safety and thinks you’d be safer as an officer in the American navy.”

The corners of his mouth twitch with something like a grimace. “No, I’ve just spoiled his plans.”