Home by Nightfall (20 page)

“But you’re feeling better?” Susannah asked.

“Yes, I was lucky. It didn’t last long.”

Mae handed her another wet dish from the sink. “You know, I don’t think Shaw looks so good. Have you still got him taking that aspirin?”

“When he remembers,” Susannah put in. She felt Jess tense up at the question, though. The aspirin was a subject of ongoing
debate between Jess and Granny Mae. The old lady believed it was poison.

“Granny, how often do you give people willow bark tea?”

“All the time. It’s got lots of uses.”

“Do you know that aspirin had its origins in white willow bark?”

“Yeah, and I think they took the good parts out and added some bad.”

Jessica sighed, resigned to the frustrating defeat of trying to win this argument.

“I still say Shaw doesn’t look right.”

“I suppose if any of us drank a quart of whiskey every couple of days, we wouldn’t look very good, either. I’ve told him he can’t do both, and that the whiskey is probably much worse for him than the aspirin.” She shrugged. “I’m not his mother or his wife, thank God. I’ve given him my best and most straightforward advice. If he won’t listen to me, there’s nothing more I can do. He’s going to live—and die—however he wants.”

Susannah was busy getting plates for dessert, a chocolate Yule log cake that looked delicious, artistic even, and she wanted to stay out of that conversation. Shaw was becoming more unpleasant with every day he aged, and she wasn’t sure that any of his medical problems were much to blame. So far, he hadn’t forgotten how to get home and still recognized them all, and that was about the best she could say about him.

After the dishes were finished and the coffee made, they began carrying cups, saucers, and other dishware back to the table. Susannah stayed behind to gather silverware and to fill the creamer. As she carefully tipped the cream can, Riley came in.

“That’s great news about Cole and Jess, isn’t it?” he said.

She smiled with sincere joy. “Oh, it is. What a wonderful Christmas present.”

“Need any help?” he asked.

“No, I think I’ve got it all,” she said, checking the sugar bowl. “We’ve got this beautiful cake for dessert.”

She felt his eyes on her and she glanced up. “What?”

“That’s a nice locket. I don’t remember seeing it before.”

Automatically she put her hand to it. “No, it was a Christmas gift.”

“From Tanner?”

“Yes. He gave it to me last night.”

His shoulders sagged. “It’s—it’s very nice,” he repeated, then left the kitchen.

After dessert, everyone except Shaw and Riley gathered around the piano. Jessica and Susannah took turns playing carols and they all sang. Granny Mae, whom Susannah would have expected to be as tone-deaf as she was deaf to Jessica’s advice, turned out to have a decent alto voice and she could harmonize. Susannah and Jess grinned at each other, and everyone applauded the old lady after she finally bowed out to sit beside Shaw.

“It’s not polite to look so surprised,” she said archly.

When only an hour of daylight remained, Cole said, “Well, Granny Mae, it’s been a real treat having you here with us for Christmas. The food was great and so was the entertainment. But I want to get you home before dark.”

“I believe I’ll come along,” Shaw said, making a slow, painful climb to his feet. “I don’t think I’ve gotten all my presents yet.”

Wade looked him and asked, “Why does Pop-Pop get more presents? Do we?”

“No, sonny. What I’m getting don’t come with a ribbon on it.” The old man looked at Mae and winked. “Leastways, I don’t think it does.”

Mae shook her head and whacked him with her apron. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, old man, and neither do you.”

“Okay, okay,” Tanner interrupted. “You kids get your coats and mittens on. We’ll be heading out too.”

After lots of handshaking, back slapping, and kisses, everyone went their respective ways and left Jessica in peace.

A cold, soaking rain fell as Véronique worked to cut kindling beside the shelter of what had once been a bedroom in her house. Last summer, she and Christophe had managed to rearrange some of the debris left from the shelling to create a little niche that helped keep some of the weather off her back. There was no firewood to be had here on what had been part of the Western Front, and Germany had destroyed French coal mines during the war. Fortunately, one of the relief agencies had arranged to bring her a load of wood brought in from other regions that had not suffered the obliteration of their forests. Édouard had split and stacked it for her.

Her coat was warm but it would not withstand much more of this weather. And she could now close only one button because her belly had grown too big. She would have to hang it by the stove to let it dry. Her basket was filling with the sticks she had split off with her hatchet, and it would be enough to get her through the next couple of days. Just a few more…

But the hatchet slipped. She gasped and swore and dropped the tool. Looking down she saw she had cut a gash in her left hand between the forefinger and thumb. Blood flowed.

Then she felt a hand on her shoulder and she nearly jumped out of her boots. Turning, she saw Édouard. The rain had plastered
his light-brown hair to his skull, and he was soaked to the skin. “You should not sneak up on me like that,” she snapped irritably.

He held out his hand to indicate that she should let him see her injury.

“Really, I can manage it myself.”

He gave her a skeptical look and gently took her injured hand in his own, feeling along the bones near the wound, apparently checking for breaks. Then he removed a clean, white handkerchief from his jacket pocket and bound the injury.

She gave him a searching look. “What a curious man you are, Édouard LaFontaine. I know nothing about you, you will not speak to me, and yet the priest tells me he has overheard your voice when you believed you were alone.”

He looked away and shrugged.

“You also took it upon yourself to inform him of my condition, which was none of your business, and what is more, he said you offered to marry me and give my child a name. Did he tell you of my response?”

Still he would not look at her, but nodded.

“You can understand why I have not accepted this offer? You are a stranger to me. I know your name and your face, and that is all. But most important—I love another man and always will, even though I will never see him again.” Since Christophe had not answered her letter, she knew that he was lost to her forever. But he lived on in her heart.

He took her arm and shoulder and turned her toward the house, giving her a nudge in the process. She looked back at him and saw that he had picked up the hatchet and was about to finish her task.

She let him do it.

• • •

One night a week later, Véronique woke to the sound of running feet and men’s voices. Alarmed, she bolted upright and then heard the bleating of her sheep. She jumped out of bed, rushed barefoot over the cold stone floor and flung open the door. It was a clear, frosty night with a bright moon, and she saw four men running across her field with the sheep tethered to leads.

“Come back here you thieves, you filthy cows!” It was a grave insult she hurled, the worst she knew, and they deserved it. But they did not come back. She heard only the sound of their laughter and the plaintive cries of her animals.

No one in this area had ever had an animal stolen except when invading armies had come through. It was the middle of the night, she had no one to turn to, and it was too early to walk to town to lodge a complaint—for all the good that would do.

She had not felt vulnerable here until tonight. Her single-minded goal to restore the family farm consumed all of her waking thoughts and time. Even before Christophe came and the war was still being waged as close as twelve miles away, she had not been afraid or even lonely. With this single cruel and wicked act, now she was both.

She did not sleep for the rest of the night. Just as dawn broke, she got dressed, put on her good wool coat, and walked the two miles into the village. Anger took the place of rest to fuel her determined steps. The little town was still waking up when she arrived, and the smell of baking bread and cooking breakfasts scented the air. Trips into the village were infrequent for her, and despite the horrible events of the night before, she was pleased to see that reconstruction was steadily underway. She was headed
in the direction of the police office when she was hailed from a doorway.

“Mademoiselle Véronique, good morning.”

She looked over and saw père Michel emerging from the bakery with a small box tied with string. She had not seen him or spoken with him since the day he came to her farm.

“Monsieur le curé,” she responded, and nodded, but did not stop walking.

He caught up to her and gestured with the box. “I admit I have a dreadful weakness for profiteroles.”

“Indeed, you must, to be out buying them this at this hour.” She did not mean to be rude but he was not on her list of favored people right now.

He put his hand on her arm and stopped her. “You are troubled. Has something happened?”

“I am on my way to report a theft to the police. Four men came to my farm last night and stole my sheep. The ewe was carrying a lamb.”

“I am so sorry.” He seemed sincere, but in light of recent events, she was less inclined to trust anyone. “Do you have any idea who it might have been?”

“No.” She looked directly into his face. “Do you?”

His brows rose and he was silent for a moment. Then, “Véronique, please come to my office for a moment. We will get this sorted out.” The tone of his voice softened.

“I see nothing to sort out, Monsieur le curé. I have been robbed; I wish to report it, for whatever good it will do, and return home. I do not have much of value left except my mother’s rosary, so I probably will not be troubled again. Unless, of course, the offended neighbors you warned me of decide to bomb my house like the Germans did and put me out on the road. Or kill me.”

The priest grimaced. “I know you are angry. Please, come and let me take care of this for you. I will contact the police immediately.”

She probably would not have agreed, but her back ached and her feet hurt. Sighing, she said, “All right.”

He led her to a side door of the church, which opened into a small room that held a desk, a couple of bookshelves, and two upholstered chairs. A highly melodramatic painting of an anguished-looking Christ at Gethsemane hung above the mantel.

“Sit, Mademoiselle. I shall report your loss right now.” He waved her to one of the chairs and sat opposite her at his desk. She was surprised to see that he had a telephone at his disposal. It seemed like an extravagance in this small town that was just getting back on its feet after four years of a brutal war. Père Michel made contact with someone on the line and told them about her sheep and all the details she had, which were not many.

When he had finished, he said, “Perhaps my putting a word in will help give this higher priority and solve the crime.”

She supposed it was possible, but rather doubted the police would pay more attention to her problem than any other. Still, he had made the effort. “Thank you, mon père.”

“If the thieves are not caught or your animals are not returned, I will look into getting you another pair of sheep or goats.”

She inclined her head in gratitude.

He tapped the desktop with his forefinger while he considered her. A long silence fell between them. At last he said, “I think I have lost your goodwill.”

She adjusted her coat but did not respond right away. Finally, she said, “The last time you and I talked is not a pleasant memory for me. You want me to feel shame for my situation—I do not. I loved the baby’s father with all my heart. You want me to marry
a man who is only a name and a face to me—I will not. Édouard LaFontaine could be a murderer for all you know.”

“You did not worry about that when you took Christophe into your home?”

“Christophe was more dead than alive after he’d been shot and that ambulance was shelled. Édouard is young and strong. There is a great difference. You tried to frighten me into agreeing to the matrimonial plan by telling me what would happen—it did not work. But now, conveniently, my sheep are gone.”

He gaped at her. “Surely you do not believe that I masterminded this misfortune.”

“Of course I do not. But I took in Christophe, and I lived with him for two years, unmarried. No one thought to bother us then. I find it strange that I am now a target for theft. Édouard himself could have planned it.”

Père Michel sat back in his chair and took a deep breath. “There is bitterness in your heart, Véronique. Do not let it poison your spirit. You are a strong-willed woman with a lot of kindness. I believe you regret that the
Croix Rouge
discovered Christophe and sent him back to America.”

“Every day of my life,” she said simply. “He wanted to stay, but fool that I am, I urged him to return. I thought I must do the right thing. And I cannot even be sure it
was
the right thing. For all I know, he might be as miserable as I am.”