The Keeper of Happy Endings(55)

Anson drains his cup in one go and carries it to the sink. “It’s time,” he says grimly. “The sun will be up soon.”

I nod, not trusting my voice. I’m afraid that if I open my mouth, I’ll beg him to let me stay, and we’ve covered that territory already.

He nods in return. “I’ll wait for you downstairs.”

I take one last walk through the apartment, checking windows and turning out lights. Ridiculous, since I’m leaving everything behind. What does it matter if someone comes in? It isn’t mine anymore. I close the door to my bedroom and go downstairs.

Anson is standing near the door, peering through the split in the blackout curtains. He turns as I reach the bottom of the stairs, frowning at my empty hands. “Where’s your suitcase?”

I point to the dress box near his feet.

He glances at it, then back at me. “A cardboard box?”

“It’s a dress box,” I correct, as if that explains everything.

“Soline, you can’t carry that. You need a proper suitcase.”

“I don’t have a proper suitcase.”

“Well, that won’t work. You need something sturdy. Something you can carry easily.” He scrapes a hand through his hair. “Don’t you have anything else?”

“I’m taking this.”

He glances at his watch, then nods grudgingly. “All right. Let’s go. Don’t talk. Just keep your head down and keep walking. No matter what happens, keep walking and don’t stop until you get to the hospital. Your ride will be waiting.”

My stomach plummets to my shoes. “Aren’t you my ride?”

His eyes slide away. “No.”

“Why? It’s what you do. You’re the driver.”

“Not this time.”

I stare at him in disbelief. “You should have said. If I’d known—”

He silences me with a look. “You know how this works, Soline. The rules are in place to protect the cell. I’m too close to this one—too close to you. I used my connections to set it all in motion, but I have to step away when we get to the hospital. For everyone’s safety. Do you understand?”

He’s wearing that expression he gets sometimes, as if he’d flipped a switch and turned off his emotions. I’ve seen it before, but never directed at me. I incline my head stiffly, mimicking his stoniness.

“The driver will have your papers. You need to memorize all the information. Dates. Places. Everything. From now on—at least until you reach the States—you’re Yvonne Dufort from Chartres. Say it.”

“Yvonne Dufort,” I repeat numbly. “From Chartres.”

“Good girl. You’re going to be fine. Now kiss me. There won’t be time later.”

I let him pull me into his arms but stand stiffly, the dress box between us. I don’t want to kiss him. I want to rail at him, not for sending me away—I understand why I have to go—but for being so cool while doing it. And for the danger I know he’ll put himself in once I’m gone. The Gestapo have already questioned him once. They won’t leave him alone until they get what they want, and when they don’t get it, they’ll arrest him.

The thought sends a chill through me and reminds me just how much is at stake. I must be brave and do my part for the Resistance, even if my part is to leave. But when he crushes me to his chest, I don’t feel brave. I cling to him, clutching his shirt as tears spill down my face, the ache of missing him already too real.

Finally, he pulls away. “We have to go, but first, I need to give you something.” He steps away briefly, retrieving the canvas satchel from the nearby chair. He fumbles a moment but finally withdraws a zippered case of smooth brown leather and puts it in my hands.

“I want you to take this.”

I stare at it, at the initials A.W.P. stenciled in gold in the lower right-hand corner, and think of the handkerchief he loaned me the day we met.

“It’s my shaving kit. My mother gave it to me the Christmas before she died. I want you to take it with you.”

“But you’ll need it.”

“I’m pretty sure I can scrounge up a razor at the hospital. Take it. Please. And hang on to it until I’m home.”

We lock eyes, saying nothing. He’s making a promise. One we both know isn’t in his power to keep, but I take the case, then reach into the pocket of my skirt and pull out Maman’s rosary. I take his hand and turn it over, letting the beads trickle into his palm. “They belonged to my mother,” I say quietly.

He stares at the loop of garnet beads, the silver crucifix with its tarnished savior. “I didn’t realize you were Catholic. I never thought to ask.”

“We’re not. We’re not anything.”

“Then why the rosary?”

I shrug. “Insurance.”

“I can’t take these, Soline. What if—”

I press a finger to his lips, unwilling to let him finish the thought. “I want you to take them—and bring them back to me.”

He forces a smile. “We’ll trade back when I get home.”

My heart squeezes as I contemplate how long it might be before I see his face again—and the unimaginable possibility that this might be the last time. This man I have known for a handful of months has become the most important thing in my life, as necessary as the air that I breathe or the blood in my veins. And yet there are things I haven’t shared with him, truths I haven’t told. It seems wrong suddenly that we should part with a secret between us.