On one shelf is a framed photo of Garrett, Zara, and another woman, whose skin is a shade darker than Zara’s copper-brown skin. The photo looks like it was taken over ten years ago, and all three of them are smiling at the camera. Zara’s hair is pulled up with a scarf. The other woman’s hair is a medium length Afro. She’s gorgeous.
“Who’s that?” I point to the photo.
“You mean Kenda? She was my college girlfriend and one of Zara’s close friends.”
“Does she live in Maple Ridge?”
“No. I don’t actually know where she is now. I haven’t heard from her in a few years. She has a journalism degree and had planned to make her mark on the world with it. And to travel.”
“Is that why you broke up?” Zara has never mentioned her.
I’m assuming they broke up. Maybe she died.Crap.Hopefully I didn’t just pour vinegar on an old wound.
“Partly. She had ambitions that didn’t involve settling down any time soon. And I was going into the Marines. So it made sense to end things.” He begins pulling books from a different shelf. I get the feeling there’s more to the story, but I don’t push for additional details. It’s not my place to ask. Besides, I’m writing about Angelique and Johann’s love life, not Garrett’s.
“With your journalism background, your prose and ability to do research is already strong.” He slips another book off the shelf. “But as you’ll soon find out, writing a novel is very different from writing an article for a newspaper.”
Two more books are extracted and added to the growing pile in Garrett’s arms. With each book he pulls out, more panic sets in.
Will this be like what happened with the wedding photography? Something that sounded like a good idea at the time but in the end didn’t put me any closer to figuring out who I am than when I was released from Beckley?
It didn’t put me any closer to getting Amelia back in my life.
And it didn’t put me any closer to untangling my feelings for Troy.
20
ANGELIQUE
October 1943
France
Fear pressesin on me from all sides even though Johann is with me, and I consider the low stone wall that separates the road from the copse of trees and the open farmland. Are we truly safe here? Or are the Nazis close by? Maybe word has already gotten out that I’ve escaped and the Gestapo is trying to hunt me down.
The car door clicks open behind me, and the handcuffs fall open, freeing my wrists. I could almost cry out in partial relief, but the intense throbbing of my right hand strangles that possibility.
I twist to face Johann and rest my hands on my lap. Now that we’re in daylight, I can see the mangled mess of what was once my right hand. My knuckles are bruised and swollen, two of my fingers are badly twisted, and the bone sticks out of my index finger. On top of that, a thick red band encircles my wrists where the handcuffs dug into my skin.
Johann curses in German as he gently inspects the damage.
My gaze flicks from his long fingers that are inspecting the ugly wound to his equally ugly uniform. A shudder rolls through me, so intense my hand jerks from his.
“I need to get you to a doctor,” he tells me, switching to French. He inspects my damaged lip and temple.
I open my mouth to utter something but change my mind. Afraid if I do talk, this dream will end, and I’ll be dragged into another real life nightmare. One where I am at Avenue Foch.
He brushes his thumb over the part of my mouth that isn’t split open. The last time I witnessed this level of pain and guilt in Johann’s eyes was when he was telling me about what happened to his sister. “Is the…” His words tumble out on a croaked whisper. “The baby?”
“I think it’s fine,” I say through a dry mouth, my words barely audible.
He closes his eyes and rests his brow on mine. “Thank God.” He moves his head away, his expression still pained. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there to protect you. I didn’t know.”
“H-how did…how did you…find me?” The shudder gripping my body is getting worse.
He reaches over my lap, removes the blanket folded next to me, and gently wraps it around my shoulders. The blanket helps a little but it’s not enough. “I returned to the farmhouse and found Jacques muttering that the Gestapo had come for you.”
He’s alive. Jacques is alive and he’s home.I close my eyes in relief.
