The Winemaker's Wife(86)

As the sun crept toward the horizon, Michel still hadn’t reappeared, and the baby was shivering incessantly, even when wrapped in blankets, even when cradled in Céline’s arms. She heard Madame Foucault whisper to Theo, “I’m not sure he’ll survive.”

But he had to. He had to live, or what did any of this matter? So Céline stroked his tiny head, which was covered in a dusting of black fuzz, and kissed his small cheeks, which were still too blue. “My baby, my baby,” she whispered to him again and again. “You are a fighter, like your father. Please, my darling son, fight. Fight for me.”

By the time the old woman’s husband arrived to take her home, darkness had fallen, and the baby was finally breathing regularly. His tiny eyes—blue and clear—had opened as he gazed up at his mother in wonder, and his lips had even managed to find Céline’s breast. He nursed for a little while, his swallows greedy.

“I will try to find a doctor in the morning,” Madame Foucault promised. “Just keep him warm. It’s a good sign that he’s eating.”

“How can I ever thank you enough?” Céline asked, never taking her eyes off her son.

Later she dozed while Theo kept watch over the baby breathing on her chest, and when she awoke, Theo kissed her gently and stroked the baby’s forehead.

“He is a miracle,” Theo whispered. “To arrive so early and to live . . .” He wiped his eyes. “A miracle.”

Céline searched his face, but she saw no sign of suspicion, and she relaxed slightly. “A miracle.”

“What should we name him?”

“I—I don’t know yet.” The truth was, she wanted Michel to have a say in the decision.

She had just fallen asleep again, cradling the baby, when there was a pounding on the front door. Theo tensed and gave Céline a worried look. “Who could it be at this hour?”

Céline could only shake her head. Her mind spun. How would she protect the baby if the Nazis had arrived? “I’ll come with you,” she whispered, and Theo helped her out of bed and handed the baby to her before they made their way across the parlor.

Theo swung open the door, and there stood Inès, her hair wild, her eyes glassy and red. “Oh, thank God. I’ve come to warn you that—” Inès began, but then her eyes slipped past Theo and landed on Céline and the sleeping bundle in her arms. She stopped abruptly. “You had the baby?”

“What is it, Inès?” Theo asked. “What’s wrong? What did you come to tell us?”

But Inès didn’t answer. She was frozen, and as the baby stirred slightly and turned his head toward Inès, she gasped. “The baby looks just like him,” she whispered, and Céline’s eyes filled with tears, for Inès was right. How had Theo not noticed it yet, the slope of the baby’s nose, the point of his chin? He was the spitting image of Michel.

“Inès, I—” Céline said, her voice hollow, but Inès was shaking now, her hand over her mouth, and before Céline could say another word, Inès turned and ran, stumbling across the dark garden to her own empty house. Michel still hadn’t returned.

“What was that all about?” Theo asked as he shut the door.

“Perhaps she was just worried that the baby is so early,” Céline said without meeting Theo’s gaze.

“Yes.” He nodded. “She’s very strange these days, isn’t she?”

? ? ?

Despite her sheer exhaustion, Céline couldn’t sleep. As the hours ticked by, her worry over Michel’s absence slowly morphed into terror. Something had to be terribly wrong. And what had Inès been trying to warn them about? Céline’s stomach swam with fear.

Just before midnight, she heard the sound of an engine approaching. She leapt up, still cradling her sleeping son, and pressed her face to the window. An unfamiliar car drew to a slow halt outside, and then, as she held her breath, Michel emerged from the driver’s seat, shutting the door softly behind him. The car must have been the one he’d borrowed from the neighbor. As he glanced at Céline’s cottage, he didn’t seem to see her in the window. He turned and hurried into his own house, and Céline closed her eyes and backed away, thanking God that he was safe and wondering what came next. She knew Inès would tell him about the baby.

As if sensing Céline’s tension, her son stirred and began to root around. She helped him find her nipple and sat down with a sigh as he suckled weakly, his tiny hands resting on either side of her breast. “Dodo, l’enfant do,” Céline sang in a whisper, the lullaby her own mother had used to soothe her to sleep two decades earlier. “L’enfant dormira bien vite. Dodo, l’enfant do. L’enfant dormira bient?t.”

When the baby was done eating and had fallen asleep again, Céline dozed a bit on the couch in the parlor, slipping in and out of consciousness. She dreamed that her father and grandparents were somewhere in the darkness, crying, but their sobs sounded just like her own new baby’s tiny mewling: helpless, sad, hungry. She awoke with tears streaming down her face and realized that there was a faint knocking on her front door. She glanced at the clock. An hour had passed since Michel had returned home. Surely it was he.

When she opened the door, the baby still cradled against her, Michel looked exhausted, but the instant his eyes landed on his son, something changed in his face. Where there had been worry, there was now only joy. Where there had been fear, only hope. “He’s beautiful,” he said softly. His eyes traveled up to Céline’s. “My God, are you all right? You must have been so frightened.”