The French War Bride by Robin Wells Page B

no idea. I’d never been asked on a date before. But I wasn’t about to tell him that. “Of course.”
    â€œWell, then, seeing as you’re so old and mature, would you like to go to the Fourth of July picnic with me?”
    I’m sure my smile was ear to ear. I felt as though the sun were shining on my insides. “Why, Jack Bradford O’Connor, I’d be delighted.”
    â€”
    â€œJack was always direct, yet charming,” Amélie says, jarring me out of my reminiscence. “It’s interesting that even at sixteen, he was that way.”
    Isn’t it just like her to remind me that she’d had Jack for most of his adult life! I lift my chin. “He later said that asking me to that picnic was the best decision of his life.”
    At that, Amélie falls silent. She is probably wondering if Jack thoughtmarrying her was even better. I hope not. I hope nothing they ever had together equaled the thrills of first love that Jack and I shared.
    But I need to find out. I need to know what happened. “So that’s how our romance began. Tell me how yours started.”
    â€œI was leading up to it.”
    I wave my hand. “I really don’t need all the background information about you before the war.”
    â€œYes, you do. None of it makes sense without it.”
    â€œI’m pretty sure I can figure it out.”
    She inclines her head. “I will tell it my way, or not at all.”
    I should have known that she would be difficult. “All right, all right.” I sigh. “Continue.”

5
AMÉLIE
    1939
    I was out of breath from rushing when I arrived in the reading room at the Sorbonne library the next afternoon. I paused in the entryway to gather myself. With its soaring ceilings, elaborately carved millwork, and long tables that resembled pews, the room looked more like an ornate church than a study hall. The walls were covered in green silk damask and the ceilings were edged with gold. At the front were three enormous paintings of the world’s great thinkers set behind a curved archway that looked like a chancel. Even the silence in the room was church-like. All that was lacking was a cross and an altar table.
    I found Joshua sitting at the end of a table by an enormous paned window, backlit by the setting sun.
    He was not particularly handsome, and he certainly wasn’t well dressed—he wore a hand-knitted sweater in rough, undyed wool, and the cuffs of his shirt were frayed—but something about him—his bearing, his wide shoulders, his thick unruly hair—sent a thrill straight through me.
    He rose to his feet when he saw me. “You’re here,” he said in a hushed tone.
    â€œSo are you,” I inanely replied, my heart pounding wildly. He pulled out the chair next to his, and I sank into it, grateful to be off my suddenly wobbly legs.
    He closed the book he had been reading. “Which school do you go to?”
    I was crestfallen that he didn’t just assume I went to university. I’d hurried home after class and changed out of my uniform, not wanting him to know I was still in lycée. “I don’t think I should tell you,” I said in what I hoped was a flirtatious tone. “You warned me to be careful what I said.”
    â€œOnly if you think it might incriminate someone.” His brown eyes were amused. “Do you fear incriminating yourself?”
    My face heated. “Of course not.”
    His gaze stayed on me. “I’m guessing that you don’t want me to know how young you are.”
    â€œThat’s not true.”
    â€œNo? So what’s your age?”
    â€œEighteen.”
    â€œYou’re a terrible liar.” He looked me up and down. “I think you’re no more than fourteen.”
    â€œFourteen!” The word came out as an outraged squeak, louder than I intended.
    â€œAha!” He grinned. The expression totally transformed his face.