3
Marie
I stumble back into the house, dazed. Iˇve tried to discourage Gerard but right now I find myself smiling too broadly at him. When each of your expressions is feigned, theyˇre impossible to modulate. His eyes drop to my lips, which feel swollen and raw, a visible symbol of my guilt .
¨Why on earth were you outside?〃 he asks. ¨Itˇs brutally cold .〃
I blink, smile, search my brain for an answer. Why were we outside? What was it that possibly led to his mouth on mine, his hands tight at my waist, his sharp inhale as my body curved into his? ¨I...〃 I begin. ¨I canˇt remember, exactly. Father Edouard wanted to, um, see the orchard .〃
¨In November?〃 he asks, brow furrowed. ¨And has he never seen an orchard before ?〃
My God heˇs right. It was a ridiculous request. ¨Perhaps he felt out of place inside,〃 I offer. ¨He and Henri havenˇt always seen eye-to-eye .〃
Itˇs somewhat true, I guess. I know that Edouard judges my brother rather harshly for certain things, like the fact that Henri doesnˇt want me to go away to school. I think of that conversation Edouard and I had about it, ages ago-when he told me I was brilliant, looking at me all the while as if I was the single bright object in a pitch-black room. ¨You should be at university,〃 heˇd said at the time, sounding almost angry, ¨not hemmed in here like a caged bird .〃
I convinced myself he was merely being kind, but now I see it all differently: the times he looked at me too long, the times Iˇve seen his gaze on my lips or that startled awareness in his eyes at the mere brush of our hands. Todayˇs kiss has shifted the entire world on its axis. Iˇm not sure I will ever look at anything the same again .
¨Well,〃 concludes Gerard, ¨it was thoughtless of him. You might have caught cold .〃
No, I think. Not thoughtless it was senseless . The two of us let instinct take over, instead of common sense. No doubt heˇs already besieged with regret .
I tell myself this, and yet when Edouard walks in a moment later, his eyes vividly blue and fixed on mine, I find myself saying a silent prayer: dear Lord, please give him up. Let him choose to be mine instead of yours .
That evening I return to the church for the evening dinner service. Edouard has organized so many things for the town over his few years here. Before the war, his gatherings were focused on community, on bringing people together and assisting the ill. Now, with rationing and so much of our food and resources going to the front, heˇs turned the cathedral into a refuge for those in need. A place where the poor can still get warm clothing and one hot meal a day. When a regular doesnˇt show up for dinner two nights in a row, Edouard or I will drop by just to check in and make sure theyˇre well, always with a bit of food on hand. In war time, people are easily lost, and Edouard is determined that weˇll lose as few as possible here .
What will happen to the parish if he has to leave? My stomach clenches, thinking about it. If I persuade him to leave or-far worse-if someone saw us together today, we might easily end up with the sort of priest weˇve had in the past, one who believes his only duties to the town are mass, confession and last rites. One whoˇd rather send the parishˇs funds and collections on to Rome rather than helping those who suffer right here .
Wanting Edouard the way I do, praying he chooses me instead of his God, is pure selfishness on my part. And perhaps the surest proof that I donˇt deserve him .
I arrive at the parish hall, searching for him the moment I walk in, as I always do. Hungry for the sight of his face-the sharp angle of his jaw and cheekbones, offset by his lovely soft mouth .
Heˇs off talking to Monsieur Hilliard, who is probably complaining about the leg he lost in the first world war because he still talks of little else. Edouard bends a little to lessen the difference in height between them. He has the spirit of a priest, yet his body is lean and muscular, the build of a man who spends long hours working outside-perhaps because he does. I canˇt begin to count the number of times Iˇve found him at someoneˇs house, chopping wood or helping a widow repair a leaky roof or carry in bags .
And I felt the strength in those arms when he held me today. I have no experience with men, but it was unlike anything I ever imagined. And so much more .
I remove my coat, flushing at the memory, just as his head turns my way. Iˇm pierced by the look on his face when our eyes meet-itˇs a single long look full of want, but also grief. I know, when I see it, that he has made his choice...and it is not me .
I take a deep breath, ignoring the way my heart seems to have compressed into a tight knot of pain. He was never yours , I remind myself. He was always Godˇs .
I lift the casserole I brought and begin walking toward the food tables. I have lived through worse-but it doesnˇt feel that way right now. I donˇt remember ever aching the way I do in this moment, in a way that feels permanent .
I greet the other volunteers as I place my casserole on the table, ignoring the tepid reception I get in response. Madame Arpin and Madame Coard say nothing, greeting me with small, tight smiles and eyes full of disdain. Irene Rousseau is the only one who returns my bonjour , and she too does so reluctantly .
Things are changing in this town. There has always been anti-Jewish sentiment in France, but many here now want to find someone to blame for the struggles with Germany. Iˇve heard it said or implied many times before-none of this would be happening if the Jews had left well enough alone . As if it isnˇt a madman to blame but the object of his rage. Henri and I-with one Jewish parent but raised Catholic-are not exempt .
¨I heard Henri was strolling through town today with your American cousin,〃 says Madame Coard, her mouth pinched into a grim line. ¨As a couple .〃
I give her a small nod, busying myself as I slice the casserole into pieces. ¨Yes,〃 I reply mildly. ¨She is not a cousin by blood. Itˇs in name only .〃
¨How convenient for you all to say so, now that sheˇs warming Henriˇs bed .〃
I draw my shoulders back. I put up with a great deal from these women, but this is asking too much. Iˇm already too raw over Edouardˇs dismissal. ¨Such things are perhaps best not discussed at a church gathering, no ?〃
Her expression grows more severe. Mild though it was, my rebuke is just one more thing sheˇs going to hold against us. Were it not for Edouard, I would be desperately glad to leave this town and its citizens behind in April .
Parishioners begin to line up and I put it all behind me, focusing on serving food. And focusing on Edouard, who walks between the tables, greeting people, helping the older parishioners carry their plates. Each time I look up, his gaze catches on mine before it flickers away. No smile, even though thereˇd have been one at almost any point in the past. Those secret smiles of his were what I lived for-a single moment of camaraderie that made me feel less alone. And now itˇs gone, because of what happened. Iˇm a foolish girl to have ever hoped he might choose me, but I never dreamed I would lose his friendship because of it too .
I continue to serve dinner with my throat so swollen I feel choked when I speak, and when the crowd disperses, Irene offers to put the food away on her own. ¨You should get home,〃 she says with a forced smile. ¨You have a long walk ahead.〃 As if itˇs my well-being that concerns her and not her constant desire to be alone with Edouard .
Which is something I can hardly judge her for .
I cross the hall to get my coat. By now, Henri and Amelie will be in their room, doing their best to muffle sounds Iˇd rather not hear. The two of them are incandescent with joy, so besotted with each other they barely seem to notice the world around them .
It shouldnˇt, but my brotherˇs newfound happiness only makes me feel more alone-never more so than at this moment .
Iˇve just pulled on my coat when I hear Edouardˇs tread behind me. After three years of being desperately in love with him, Iˇve memorized every one of his sounds-his footfall, his laugh, the length of his sighs. I could probably even identify his silences with my eyes closed .
¨We should talk,〃 he says, and I turn reluctantly. His face is so grave, his eyes so full of regret that I already know exactly what heˇs going to say .
I tug the coat tight around me. ¨Itˇs not necessary. I already know .〃
His mouth opens to reply-an apology, no doubt .
¨I know you regret it,〃 I whisper. ¨But Iˇd rather not hear you say so .〃
I open the door and walk out into the clear cold night as tears stream down my face. I hear him step out after me just as Irene calls to him, and Iˇm grateful when he retreats. He doesnˇt need the added guilt of my misery, and I donˇt deserve to be consoled .
Twenty-four hours ago, I didnˇt dare hope Edouard would think of me in this way. I shouldnˇt be so hurt by something I never had a right to want in the first place .