The Winemaker's Wife(91)

Antoine had tried to laugh off her threats, but something in Inès’s expression stilled him, and he ultimately agreed.

“But you’ll owe me,” he said darkly as she began to walk away.

“Oh, make no mistake,” she said, turning back, fury burning a hole in her stomach. “You will get everything you deserve. I won’t rest until you do.”

He nodded, clearly taking her words as a promise and not a threat, and as he closed the door, she spat on his front step. As much responsibility as she had, as much guilt as she would always carry, at least her betrayal had been accidental, her tongue unwound by alcohol and sorrow. Antoine, on the other hand, might as well have murdered Michel with his own hands. She hated him nearly as much as she hated herself.

She drove next to the Brasserie Moulin and carried the baby inside. Edith was behind the bar, and when she saw Inès, her eyes widened. She gestured toward the back stairs, and Inès walked quickly across the restaurant, avoiding the stares of the Germans.

“My God, Inès, I heard about Michel,” Edith said when they were alone in the apartment. She put her arms around her friend and then stroked the forehead of the baby. “I’m so sorry. Are you all right? What happened? Is this Céline’s child?”

“Yes, this is David.” Inès took a deep breath as Edith reached out to stroke the infant’s arm. “And as it turns out, he’s Michel’s son, too.”

Edith’s head jerked up. “What?”

“Oh, Edith, what have I done?”

Through sobs, Inès told her friend the whole story, and as she did, she could feel Edith withdrawing, pulling away from her. She couldn’t blame her friend, but Edith’s physical recoil from Inès’s sins only served to solidify Inès’s own shame.

“I don’t know what to do now,” Inès said. David stirred, began to cry, and Inès pulled out the bottle she had prepared from the last of Madame Foucault’s formula.

Edith took David gently from Inès’s arms, then she took the bottle, too, offering it to him with such tenderness that Inès’s heart ached. David gazed up at Edith with wide eyes while he gulped down the creamy liquid, and she cooed at him, tears filling her eyes, too. “It doesn’t matter what you have done,” she said. “All that matters now is keeping this baby safe.”

“Of course it matters what I’ve done, Edith. Please, stop with the platitudes.”

“Fine, have it your way.” Edith rocked the baby gently, but her tone was firm, hard. “Michel was a good man. He did more for the cause than you will ever grasp. Was he a good husband to you? Perhaps not, but can you say you were a good wife?”

“No,” Inès whispered. “I know I was not.”

“Céline will die, too, you realize.” Edith’s tone had softened a bit.

Inès looked up, anguish twisting her heart. “What? No, I think they’ll ship her east, to a work camp.” But she knew she was fooling herself to hope that the camps were anything other than what Samuel Cohn had described, a place where most people disappeared upon arrival.

“She will almost certainly not survive,” Edith said, her eyes glinting with tears.

Inès swallowed hard and stared down at her own hands as if there might be blood on them, visual evidence of the guilt she would always bear. But they were white, unmarred, and the lifelines on her palms disappeared inexplicably into infinity. “There’s a chance, though,” Inès said.

“Yes, there’s a chance,” Edith admitted. “But in the meantime, you must protect their child with your life.”

“Yes, of course.” But as she watched Edith soothing the baby, singing to him softly, rocking him gently until his tiny eyelids began to grow heavy, she had a sudden realization. “May I ask you something?”

Edith looked up from David, her small, peaceful smile disappearing. “Go ahead.”

“Why have you and Edouard not had a baby?”

Edith sighed. “We tried before the war. And then we stopped, because it felt too dangerous to bring a child into a world like this. But after a while, we realized that life is too short.” She turned her gaze back to David, stroking his face as he slept, and when she spoke again, her words were so soft that Inès had to strain to hear them. “So we began trying again, more than a year ago. But it seems God does not want us to be parents.”

“Or perhaps you’re destined to raise this baby,” Inès said, and Edith’s head snapped up.

“What?”

“Think about it, Edith. What do I have to offer David? I’m selfish, foolish. I’m responsible for stealing his parents from him. You were born to be a mother. I was born to be alone. I’m no good for anyone.”

“That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?”

Inès could see the answer written in Edith’s eyes, and as her friend turned away, Inès felt her own cheeks burning in shame.

“I could take over your work with the underground,” Inès said. “You would be safe. You could keep David safe.”

Edith looked back at her, her eyes wide. “You can’t be serious, Inès. Do you really think anyone will trust you after what has happened?”