Page 2 of Beehive
We rounded a corner, and there it was—the familiar red awning of Les Bon Georges, a canvas forming a smile that warmed my heart as it flapped in the breeze. The bistro looked the same as it always had, tucked modestly between larger storefronts, its iron sign swinging gently in the breeze. Miraculously, the war had left this eatery alone.
Les Bon Georges was one of those places that looked like it had always been there, and for the resistance, it had been an anchor. George Creuset, the owner, had welcomed us, the bistro doubling as a safe house and a meeting point for fighters and operatives.
Today, though, we weren’t on duty.
Today, we were two men looking forward to a hot cup of coffee and a chance to catch up with an old friend.
A bell tinkled above the door as we entered.
George, a man with Hollywood good looks and a pencil-thin mustache to match, looked up from behind the counter, his eyes brightening.
“Ah! My American boys!” he boomed, his voice filling the room like the pounding of an orchestra’s timpani. “I was beginning to think you had forgotten me.”
I reached out to shake his hand, but George slapped me aside and pulled me into him for a hearty embrace and two quick pecks on each cheek.
“We could never forget you, George,” I said, smiling. “Besides, Thomas is unbearable without his coffee.”
Our old friend chuckled, clapping me on the shoulder before turning to Thomas. “Unbearable, eh? And here, I thought you were the level-headed one,” he said, shaking his head in mock disapproval. “Getting a bit soft on me? It must be the Paris air. You know it issweeterhere than anywhere in the world.”
“The air or the men?” Thomas grinned as he sloughed off his coat and took a seat.
“MyGeorge would say both!”
George’s George, his lover of somewhere between a decade and a lifetime—he would never confirm which—was a singer at a local cabaret. Where our George was generally humble and demur despite his gregarious welcome and booming laugh, his George was the sun beneath which all life grew and flourished. His burned so brightly that most had to avert their gazes. It was impossible to not love the man, and he usually traveled with a posse of adoring fans.
The Georges were good men.
Les Bon Georges.
George laughed, disappearing behind the counter to return a moment later with two steaming cups of coffee. He didn’t need to be told how we took it—he knew us well. With a wink and a pat on my shoulder, he left us alone, but not without a knowing grin that told me he hadn’t missed the way we leaned close as our hands brushed beneath the table.
I took a sip and savored the warmth, letting the calm of the bistro settle around us.
Despite having not yet opened his store to the public that morning, George had opened the enormous glass wall that washis front window, allowing us to better watch passersby and enjoy the morning breeze. The café was a modest place, with mismatched chairs and the smell of fresh bread lingering in the air. It had a simple charm, like a relic of a Paris that managed to survive a war, perhaps many wars.
As I looked at Thomas across the table, I felt the weight of memories.
I was sure I always would.
But today they felt lighter, softened by the quiet warmth of George’s bistro. I reached for Thomas’s hand, our fingers linking. It wasn’t much, but that one slight gesture felt like everything.
“Remember that night here with George?” I asked, my voice low.
He chuckled, the rumbling sound warm and familiar. “Leaving here was hard, but it was the first leg in our first mission.”
“Are you saying that George was our first?”
Thomas nearly spat coffee across the table. I glanced down at my coat to check for splatter. “Don’t make me laugh. That’s a waste of the best coffee in Paris.”
I reached behind and grabbed a cloth napkin from a nearby table, then handed it to him. “Feels like a lifetime ago, doesn’t it?”
Thomas’s eyes softened, and he gave my hand a gentle squeeze. “It was, but we’re here now, and that’s what matters.”
We finished our coffees and said our goodbyes, then strode into the brightening day.
The beauty of Paris awaited.
We made our way along the Seine, and I found myself noticing the finer details—tiny buds pushing through cracks in the pavement, the faint scent of blossoms in the air, the way the bridges had been patched up with fresh stones that stood outagainst the older bricks. The city was healing, slowly, in ways that were easy to miss if you weren’t looking.
