“First things first,” Melac said.
SHADOWS LENGTHENED OUTSIDE the window. Yellow light from the quai glowed in the mist. The empty decanter sat between them on the beach mat under the umbrella.
She ran her fingers through Melac’s hair and stuck an orange umbrella behind his ear.
“There are things I can’t tell you, too, Melac.”
He propped himself up on his elbows. “You mean you joined MI6 or Israeli intelligence? I’d have to arrest an enemy agent?”
She averted her eyes. “Someday I’ll need to make a choice.”
Worry creased Melac’s brow. “About us? So you’re really married? Or have a lover in Rouen?”
Startled, she laughed. “Not that simple.” Shook her head, stood and looked out into the dusk. “Choosing sides, that’s all. We could end up on opposite ones.”
A long silence broken only by the rain drizzling on the wrought-iron balcony outside, the toot of a barge on the Seine. And she found herself in Melac’s arms. Understanding shone in his gray-blue eyes. “Blood ties?”
“Life’s not black and white.” Her gaze went beyond his shoulder, past the bare plane-tree branches, to the rain-swollen Seine.
“Don’t borrow trouble, we Bretons say. It finds you soon enough.”
She nodded. From the window she caught a glimpse of a figure shrouded in mist on the Pont Marie.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My huge gratitude goes to the many brilliant and patient people who helped with this story: Dot; Barbara; Jan; Max; Susanna; John; Mary; Libby Hellmann; Jassy Mackenzie; Steven Bunting; Isabelle and Andi; forensic pathologist Terri Haddix, M.D.; the amazing Jean Satzer; and generous inspiration of Remy Sanouillet, graduate of Ecole Nationale Supérieure d’Arts et Métiers.
Mercis in Paris to Carla Bach; Sauveur Chemouni; the Archives National; Monsieur X in the RG who told me “no one dies in Chinatown”; Adrian Leeds; Benoît, Nathalie and Gavroche Pastisson; Naftali Skrobek, a true Rèsistant; Andre Rakoto, Chef de cabinet, service historique de la Défense; Kati, Jo and Elise for les Bains; the real Chez Chen; Gilles Thomas; Julian Pepinster, Metro master; the gardeners at Square du Temple; Bijoux Fantasie on rue du Temple; Gilles Fouque for les crevettes raviolis; Donna Evleth; Sarah Tarille; and toujours Anne-Françoise Delbegue.
And always to the treasures in my corner: Linda Allen; James N. Frey, without whom; Ailen Lujo; Michelle Rafferty; my publisher, Bronwen Hruska and editor, Juliet Grames; Jun and my son, Tate.
