The Nightingale(61)

Isabelle let them pass and then walked to the captain. “My papa is ill.”

“He is?” Vianne said. “Why don’t I know this? What’s wrong with him?”

Isabelle ignored Vianne. “He has asked that I come to Paris to nurse him. But…”

“He wants you to nurse him?” Vianne said, incredulous.

Beck said, “You need a travel pass to leave, M’mselle. You know this.”

“I know this.” Isabelle seemed to barely breathe. “I … thought perhaps you would procure one for me. You are a family man. Certainly you understand how important it is to answer a father’s call?”

Strangely, as Isabelle spoke, the captain turned slightly to look at Vianne, as if she were the one who mattered.

“I could get you a pass, oui,” the captain said. “For a family emergency such as this.”

“I am grateful,” Isabelle said.

Vianne was stunned. Did Beck not see how her sister was manipulating him—and why had he looked at Vianne when making his decision?

As soon as Isabelle got what she wanted, she returned to her bicycle. She took hold of the handlebars and walked it toward the barn. The rubber wheels bumped and thumped on the uneven ground.

Vianne rushed after her. “Papa’s ill?” she said when she caught up with her sister.

“Papa’s fine.”

“You lied? Why?”

Isabelle’s pause was slight but perceptible. “I suppose there is no reason to lie. It’s all out in the open now. I have been sneaking out on Friday mornings to meet Henri and now he has asked me to go to Paris with him. He has a lovely little pied-à-terre in the Montmarte, apparently.”

“Are you mad?”

“I’m in love, I think. A little. Maybe.”

“You are going to cross Nazi-occupied France to spend a few nights in Paris in the bed of a man whom you might love. A little.”

“I know,” Isabelle said. “It’s so romantic.”

“You must be feverish. Perhaps you have a brain sickness of some kind.” She put her hands on her hips and made a huff of disapproval.

“If love is a disease, I suppose I’m infected.”

“Good God.” Vianne crossed her arms. “Is there anything I can say to stop this foolishness?”

Isabelle looked at her. “You believe me? You believe I would cross Nazi-occupied France on a lark?”

“This is not like running away to see the circus, Isabelle.”

“But … you believe this of me?”

“Of course.” Vianne shrugged. “So foolish.”

Isabelle looked oddly crestfallen. “Just stay away from Beck while I’m gone. Don’t trust him.”

“Isn’t that just like you? You’re worried enough to warn me, but not worried enough to stay with me. What you want is what really matters. Sophie and I can rot for all you care.”

“That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it? Go to Paris. Have your fun but don’t for one minute forget that you are abandoning your niece and me.” Vianne crossed her arms and glanced back at the man in her yard who was supervising the looting of her house. “With him.”





FOURTEEN

April 27, 1995

The Oregon Coast

I am trussed up like a chicken for roasting. I know these modern seat belts are a good thing, but they make me feel claustrophobic. I belong to a generation that didn’t expect to be protected from every danger.

I remember what it used to be like, back in the days when one was required to make smart choices. We knew the risks and took them anyway. I remember driving too fast in my old Chevrolet, my foot pressed hard on the gas, smoking a cigarette and listening to Price sing “Lawdy, Miss Clawdy” through small black speakers while children rolled around in the backseat like bowling pins.

My son is afraid that I will make a break for it, I suppose, and it is a reasonable fear. In the past month, my entire life has been turned upside down. There is a SOLD sign in my front yard and I am leaving home.

“It’s a pretty driveway, don’t you think?” my son says. It’s what he does; he fills space with words, and he chooses them carefully. It is what makes him a good surgeon. Precision.

“Yes.”

He turns into the parking lot. Like the driveway, it is lined in flowering trees. Tiny white blossoms drop to the ground like bits of lace on a dressmaker’s floor, stark against the black asphalt.