Her eyes widen. My love life has never been up for discussion. That’s not to say she hasn’t tried to push me to find someone. When she was younger and realized she was the only girl in her class without parents, she wanted me to find her a daddy like all her friends had.
“Who?” she asks.
“You didn’t know him. It was during the war.”
Lizzie is familiar with the war that cost her the love of a father she never got to know. I’ve talked about him. But she believes Charles was her father—only he’s not the man I describe. The man she knows in her heart to be her father is all Johann.
She makes an exasperated sound. “Auntie, that ended almost twenty years ago. You don’t get only one love in your lifetime.” She walks around a young couple who stopped to take a photo of the New York Life Building.
I smile at her. “You do when he’s your soul mate.”
“There’s no such thing as soul mates. Gosh, do you realize what a bummer that would be if there was only one love for you out there, and he died, and you could never experience love again?”
I chuckle, the volume barely noticeable against the New York City hustle. A cab drives past, honking. “I thought you were the romantic. I’m the practical one.”
“I am. But that’s just sad to believe you can’t love again if your so-calledThe Oneis dead.”
I hitch my shoulders. “I guess you’re right.”
“Glad you think so. Does that mean you’ll give love another try?”
“We’ll see. It’s not as if I have found anyone who has captured my heart.”
“That’s because you live in a small town with no possibilities.” She makes a funny face, her eyes—Johann’s eyes—going cross-eyed.
This time I laugh, the sound hearty, carefree, full of life. “You might be right about that.”
It’s not as though I haven’t met men over the past twenty years who have shown interest in me. But I am also not the same woman who went off to war, ready to serve her king and country. That woman went through so much while living in France during the Nazi occupation. She still struggles with frequent nightmares that have her waking in the middle of the night, gasping for air. She keeps expecting the Gestapo to show up at the house and drag her away to interrogate her.
I wiggle my fingers—the ones Christian damaged. Even after all these years, my hand is not the same as it once was. The war might have ended for most people almost twenty years ago, but for those of us who lived in the heart of it, the memory never goes away. It lurks in the dark corners.
But I was lucky. I am alive. So many SOE agents perished at the hands of the Nazis. So many lives were changed due to the sacrifices we made. Changed for the worse and changed for the better. We helped pave the way so D-Day could happen. We helped pave the way so the war could end with the Allies the victors.
“Oh, look at that dress.” Lizzie grabs my hand and pulls me to the shop window that shows off a simple pink sheath dress hanging on the mannequin.
“It’s pretty.” I scan my surroundings, my body tense for no reason. The reaction is another souvenir from my time in occupied France. While it’s not as bad as it once was, every so often I feel like I’m back in Paris, watching out for the Milice and collaborators. The sensation is worse in big cities. Another reason I prefer Maple Ridge. The memories of the Gestapo don’t taunt me as often there.
A man and two women are strolling towards us. The younger woman, who looks to be five or six years older than Lizzie, glances at the window with the dress.
My daughter turns to me, her expression bright with excitement. I recognize it. Lizzie is a talented seamstress, a gift she inherited from her Austrian aunt. Johann once told me Anja had a special knack for designing and sewing beautiful dresses. That expression means Lizzie is thinking of how she can replicate the dress for herself.
A small sound from the direction of the man and the two women has me turning my head. The man stares at Lizzie as if he’s seeing an apparition.
He says something to the older of the two women. Her eyes shift to my daughter and go wide. Her mouth forms a perfect “O.”
Something about the man and woman tug at a recollection buried deep in my mind, but I don’t know why. They’re about my age, but they aren’t anyone I’ve recently met.
Their gazes move from Lizzie to me and recognition flares in their eyes. The pair closes the distance between us, and the younger woman, who appears oblivious to their conversation, continues walking to the window where Lizzie is standing.
“I’m so sorry,” the man tells me, a slight accent staining his words. It’s weak, but there’s a quality about it that makes me think he once lived in Austria or possibly Germany. “I don’t mean to be rude, but your daughter…well, she looks so much like someone we once knew.”
“She’s not her, though,” the woman says before I can correct him and tell him Lizzie is my niece. “Anja died during the Second World War. And she was a few years older at the time than your daughter.”
At the name, it’s as if the world has leapt back in time, and I’m standing outside of Jacques’s barn, watching Johann talking to the young family. I look between the pair. “Oskar? Margrit?” Their names are whispered, the feel of them rough against my throat.
And now I’m not the only one back in occupied France. I can see it in Oskar’s shocked expression. “Angelique?” My cover name stumbles past his lips.
Lizzie hasn’t notice what is happening behind her. She and the other woman—who, if I am right, is Sonja—are busy chatting about the dresses in the window.
