Moonlight Over Paris(16)
“I do. I mean, I have decided, and I’m happy to have just the year.”
He shrugged and looked away, and she was struck even more strongly by the notion that she’d somehow disappointed him. Which was a ridiculous thought, for it wasn’t as if he knew anything about her, or what had happened after the war, or indeed only a few months earlier.
“Have you ever been to the south of France before?” she asked brightly, hoping to find a neutral topic of conversation.
“No, this is my first time seeing the Med. I’ve gone to the Atlantic coast, though. I went to Brittany last summer with some friends. Reminded me of home.”
“You grew up at the seaside?”
“In New York City. But we went to Connecticut most summers. My parents have a house there, right on the shore. I loved it.”
“Do your parents—” she started to ask, but was interrupted by whoops and cheers from the children. Gerald had just presented them with a map for the treasure hunt, and they spread it out on the mat next to Helena and Mr. Howard, Honoria reading aloud so her brothers could follow along.
“We have to draw lines between each of these places, I think, and at the bit in the middle where they go crisscross, we dig for treasure. Is that right, Dow-Dow?” she asked her father, using the name she’d given him when she was just a toddler.
“It is. Where shall we begin?”
“With the mermaid’s perch!”
The children ran off to a chalk-white boulder at the shoreline, in their excitement forgetting to bring along the map. Helena stood, brushing sand from her posterior, and admired the beautifully detailed work of art that Gerald had created for his children, which resembled in every respect a child’s expectation of what a pirate map should be, down to its charred edges and weather-beaten appearance. He must have labored on it for hours.
Once the four markers had been located, the children decided that Mr. Howard, having the longest legs of anyone else on the beach that day, would pace out the intersecting lines. He readily agreed, though he complained piteously that the hot sand was hurting his feet. This just made the children laugh all the louder.
Once the X had been found, it remained only to dig down to find the pirates’ “bunty,” as Patrick called it. Mr. Howard was again pressed into service, though he began to protest when the hole had reached a depth of two feet with no sign of the promised treasure.
“What if we got it wrong?” he asked. “What if we’re digging in the wrong spot?”
“Noooo!” they cheered. “Keep digging!”
At a yard deep, Mr. Howard’s little spade—he was using Patrick’s sand toys to dig—scraped against something hard. A wooden box, tightly wrapped in oilcloth, emerged from the hole. As the youngest, Patrick was accorded the honor of opening the box, and he nearly swooned with delight when the lid fell back. Inside were heaps of golden coins, so many he gave up on counting them right away, and a letter from a long-dead pirate that, by some miracle, was addressed directly to the children.
Once the excitement had subsided and the treasure had been tidied away for later play—the coins were checker pieces that Gerald had gilded—the children insisted on going for a swim, and ignored Helena’s protests that she’d already been in the water. Mr. Howard excused himself, explaining that he hadn’t brought his swimming costume, but he promised to stand at the edge of the water and keep watch for sea serpents or enemy submersibles.
When they had finished their swim, which was really just an excuse for the children and dogs to frolic in the shallows, he brought her a fresh towel, which fortunately was large enough to act as a makeshift cloak. He didn’t wink or smirk or even smile at her—was perfectly well-mannered in every respect—but she did feel uncomfortable. If only he’d thought to bring a swimming costume. That would have made things easier, since they’d have been on equal footing, sartorially speaking.
“When do you start your classes?” he asked, his gaze focused on the sea.
“In September. At the Académie Czerny.”
“The name is familiar. Do you know the address of the school?”
“It’s on the rue du Montparnasse, just off the boulevard.”
“Then it’s not far from where I live.” He turned his head, one hand shading his eyes. “Will you look me up when you’re back in Paris? You can send me a petit bleu at the paper.”
“A little blue . . . ?”
“A pneumatic message. I doubt your aunt has a telephone—hardly anyone does—and the post isn’t very efficient. You can buy the forms at the post office or stationers.”
“When do you leave?”
“Tomorrow. I could only wrangle a few days off from my editor. Blochman fell down the stairs last week, and he and I are the only ones that can make much sense of the cables from New York. So back I go.”
“Is he all right? Your colleague?”
“He’ll be fine. Will teach him to avoid stairs when he’s had a snootful.”
It was the first time she’d ever heard that term, but for once it didn’t have to be explained to her. American words were so terribly expressive.
“I had better go home,” she said presently. “My aunt will be expecting me.”
“Looks as if Gerald and Sara are marshaling the troops, too.”