The Room on Rue Amélie(20)

“Miss him?” Ruby was puzzled. “He hasn’t gone anywhere.”

Charlotte shrugged. “I only mean that he’s often away. I wonder if it’s hard for you being alone.”

Ruby took a deep breath. Charlotte didn’t miss a thing. “In truth, I think it is easier to be by myself than to be with someone who doesn’t seem to trust me.”

She worried that it was the wrong thing to say to a child, but Charlotte nodded in immediate understanding. “You wish he would not keep secrets from you.”

Ruby blinked. “Yes.”

“I wish that too.”

Later, after Charlotte had gone, Ruby was left wondering what the girl had meant. How had she guessed that Marcel was keeping secrets?

Marcel surprised Ruby by arriving home at six that evening, toting a fresh chicken wrapped in newspaper. “I’ve brought dinner,” he said.

“But where did you get it?” Certainly this wasn’t the sort of thing that was easy to come by anymore. Her mouth watered, but she could also feel her stomach twisting with concern.

He frowned. “Does it matter? I’ve done nothing wrong, if that’s what you’re suggesting. I had hoped you would be as excited as I am about the prospect of a good meal.”

“I’m sorry.”

Marcel studied her for a minute, then seemed to deflate. “No, I suppose I don’t blame you.”

He walked into the bedroom without another word, and Ruby began to prepare the chicken to roast. She would use the carcass for broth later and would share some soup with the Dachers.

She had just slid the chicken into the oven when Marcel reappeared in the kitchen, his tie gone and his shirt loosened at the collar. He looked more relaxed than she’d seen him in months. Handsome, even. “It smells wonderful in here,” he said.

“Thank you for bringing the chicken.” She felt oddly formal with him, like he was a guest in her home.

“Thank you for cooking it.” He was being just as proper with her. They had become strangers. “You’ve been well?”

She nodded and moved across the kitchen to uncork one of the two dozen remaining bottles of wine they had. Marcel had kept a small collection before the war. She poured a glass for him and one for her, and they toasted. “To peace,” she said.

“To victory.” His reply was immediate. “Peace without victory means nothing.”

She nodded and turned away, sure he was scolding her.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean that as a criticism. I—Sometimes things come out wrong.”

“It’s all right.” She was surprised to realize she meant it.

“And I’m sorry, too, about the baby, Ruby. I really am.” The words hung between them, and he waited until she looked up before continuing. “I feel very sorry that he died. You needed me, and I wasn’t there for you. I haven’t been there for you much at all, in fact. But things will be different soon. I promise.”

“Does that mean you’ll be able to tell me what’s going on? Maybe let me help?”

His smile faded. “We’ve discussed this, Ruby. It would put you in danger.” He raised his glass again. “But I want to become once again the man you married. I will, Ruby. I will.”

They toasted, looking into each other’s eyes. And for a long time afterward, as she sipped her wine, Ruby could see the hazy possibility of a different future.



MARCEL LEFT AFTER DINNER, THANKING Ruby politely for the meal and promising to be back soon.

Two hours later, Ruby had delivered some soup to the Dachers and was just finishing scrubbing dishes when there was a knock at the door, so tentative that at first she wondered if she’d imagined it. But then she heard it again, stronger this time. Ruby’s eyes went to the clock. It was past curfew. A chill ran down her spine as she considered the possibility that it was a Nazi soldier, here to arrest Marcel for whatever he was doing. But when she peered out the peephole, it wasn’t a German uniform she saw; it was what appeared to be a greenish-gray jumpsuit. And the man wearing it—dark blond hair, six feet tall or so—was bent down on one knee in the hall, breathing heavily.

Ruby backed away from the door, puzzled. A moment later, he knocked again, and when she didn’t answer, there was a pause, and then she heard a series of strange noises from the hall. It took her a few seconds to recognize the sounds as sobs. The man began to mumble to himself, and she inched closer to the door, hoping she could catch a few words. She nearly fell back when she realized he wasn’t speaking French or even German. He was speaking English. “Have to get to . . .” he was muttering. “They said it was here . . .”

Before she could second-guess herself, she pulled the door open. The man nearly lost his balance, tripping into her apartment before scrambling to his feet and backing away. “Oh, I’m so sorry, miss. I’m sorry. I mean, er, Je suis déso . . .” He trailed off, apparently unable to remember the final syllable in the French apology. “I’m, um, just really sorry, miss. I don’t speak much French.”

“Who are you?” she asked in English, which seemed to startle him.

“You—you speak English? Oh, thank heavens. Dexter. My name is Dexter. And, um, forgive me, but I’ve been walking for two days, and I haven’t had anything to eat at all, and I’m afraid that the small wound I have on my shoulder has perhaps gotten a bit infected, so—”