THIRTY-SEVEN

PARIS
SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 19, 1938

“Where have you been, Miss Brand?” Hamilton Chase’s voice boomed through the wires from London to Paul Aubrey’s bookshelf-lined study. “No one’s heard a word from you in almost two weeks—not Keller, not New York, and certainly not me. Do you know how many big stories you’ve missed?”

Evelyn leaned her hip against the massive wood desk and glanced at Peter in the corner chair. “I’ve been rather busy living out a story myself.”

Leaving out Norwood’s role, she related everything—the switched passports, the eviction, the attack, Peter’s rescue, and the flight to Paris.

After she finished and Chase gave the appropriate expressions of shock and concern and gratitude for her safety, he drew in an audible breath. “That is indeed a good story, but not for the ANS.”

“No, sir. It isn’t news.”

“One of the ladies’ magazines is sure to buy it.”

Evelyn rolled her eyes. Only women would read a story by a woman and about a woman? Ridiculous.

“Meanwhile,” Chase said, “you’re useless to us.”

Evelyn winced. “Can I help at the Paris bureau while waiting for my new passport?”

“Without papers? Absolutely not. Once you have your passport, we’ll discuss your new assignment. Meanwhile, with you gone, I’m down yet another reporter in Germany. I’m almost desperate enough to hire back George Norwood.”

“Norwood! Anyone but him.” She bit her lip. She’d promised herself not to mention him.

“I have no intention of doing so, even though he’s called several times in the past week.”

Evelyn’s fingers coiled hard around the cool black phone. “Has he now? Almost as if he knew I was on the run.” Oh, why couldn’t she control her tongue?

Peter sat up straighter, his gaze riveted on her.

“No, but he said he’d been trying to reach you,” Chase said. “He wants the pen you borrowed at the Putsch ceremony—it was a gift from his father. He asked if I’d heard from you.”

“A pen? I didn’t borrow anything from him.” She pushed away from the desk, but the cord stopped her from pacing. Due to Peter’s phone call, Norwood knew she was in danger, and yet he’d said nothing to Chase. More proof that Norwood had tipped off Otto.

And he wanted to find her.

Evelyn set her hand on her hip. “Do not tell that man where I am. Don’t even say you’ve heard from me. I have nothing of his, and I never want to hear from him again.”

The European bureau chief laughed. “Neither do I. Listen, write a killer story for Ladies’ Home Journal, and call if you need my help with the passport office.”

“Thanks, sir. Any idea where you’ll send me next?” Evelyn cut her gaze away from Peter and out the window to the back garden.

“I have no idea. Other than Germany, I have no positions in Europe. I do know we have openings in the States—New York, Boston, DC.”

Evelyn’s heart drifted low. She’d loved being a foreign correspondent. But how could she complain? At least she had a job. Peter had lost his entire career.

Evelyn hunched with Peter and the Aubreys at the top of the Eiffel Tower, all holding on to their hats in the stiff, cool breeze. Simone had lent Evelyn a dress and coat while her suit and overcoat were being cleaned.

Simone had also given Evelyn powder and lipstick. After living in Nazi Germany, where makeup was considered immoral, wearing it again felt deliciously defiant.

Aubrey pointed to the northeast. “Across the Seine, right off the Place de la Concorde, there’s the US Embassy.”

“I wish it were open today,” Peter said.

“Monday morning, first thing.” Evelyn leaned against his arm. For warmth, she told herself. Out of habit, she reasoned. Out of the sheer pleasure of it, she had to admit.

“Now that you’ve seen Paris from above, let’s see it from the ground,” Aubrey said to Peter, who had never been to the City of Lights.

They edged through the crowd to the elevators. One was waiting, and the foursome squeezed in.

As the elevator descended, Simone smoothed her brown curls. “Remember, you two are welcome to stay with us as long as you want.”

“Thank you.” Peter turned sideways to make more room. “I hope we won’t inconvenience you long, but it can take weeks to get a passport replaced.”

“We?” Evelyn gaped at him. “Not you. Right after we visit the embassy, we’re getting your ticket home.”

Under the brim of his fedora, twin furrows split Peter’s brow. “I’m not leaving until you do.”

“You have important business. It can’t be delayed.” She gave him a significant look. She didn’t dare mention the list.

“It can wait until you’re safe.” The set of his jaw said he’d be hard to sway.

Pressure built in Evelyn’s ears, and she yawned to pop them. This evening she’d talk to him in private.

The Nazis wouldn’t care about Evelyn anymore—they’d only wanted to kick her out of the country, which they’d done. But they couldn’t afford to let Peter take that list to the FBI.

Evelyn hadn’t thought it wise to leave the safety of the Aubrey home to sightsee, but she’d been outvoted. According to Aubrey, the French fascists weren’t connected to the German Nazis, and their nationalism inspired them to hate Germans as much as they hated communists. Because of that, Peter insisted the French fascists wouldn’t care if German agents in the US were compromised. They might welcome it.

The elevator doors opened to the crowd in the plaza, and Evelyn stuck close to Peter’s side. Never would she have believed she’d be the voice of caution.

They passed the giant slanting steel legs of the tower and crossed to a broad walkway along the Seine. Across the river, the magnificent Palais de Chaillot stretched long in the cool hazy day. The men walked ahead, and Evelyn and Simone fell behind.

Evelyn scrutinized each person they passed, but everyone focused on the Eiffel Tower, not on her. She forced herself to relax.

She was free. Not as free as she’d be when she had a US passport again, but freer than she’d ever been in Germany. France and the United States had huge problems, but in each nation, the government served to safeguard liberties, not strip them.

Simone tapped Evelyn’s arm. “You must tell me about being a foreign correspondent. It sounds exciting.”

Since Peter wasn’t part of the conversation, Evelyn switched to French. “It is, but lately it’s been too exciting, even for me.”

“A woman of adventure.” Simone’s mouth tipped in a smile. “As am I. I raced autos. That is how I met my Paul. He was testing his company’s latest model.”

Evelyn grinned. “I’ve never met a woman race car driver.”

“I wore my hair short and dressed as a man. No one knew.”

“Has anyone written your story?” Evelyn scrounged in her purse for her notepad.

“Non, ma chère.” She touched Evelyn’s forearm. “It is a secret. I am proud of my trophies, and they would take them away if they knew.”

Evelyn closed her purse. “It must have been difficult to give it up when you married.”

“I only stopped when Josephine came along. It is dangerous, and Josie needs her mother.” She gave Evelyn a conspiratorial smile. “But Paul takes me to the track and lets me drive as fast as I want. No more races though.”

Evelyn eyed the two men. “Your husband likes having a daring wife.”

“Oui. Your Monsieur Lang likes daring women too.”

“You think . . . ?” Evelyn blinked at her. “Non. Peter and I are only friends.”

Simone stopped, grasped Evelyn’s arm, and leaned close. “Which is it? Do you not return his affections? Or does he not return yours? Because you two are as one.”

Evelyn glanced at Peter’s broad back in his tailored gray suit, his profile angled to Aubrey, his mouth wide in laughter, his fedora shading his eyes. Everything in her longed to hear every word from that gorgeous mouth.

She faced Simone. “We’ve spent every minute together for almost two weeks. We’ve placed our lives in each other’s hands. That is what you see.”

Simone lifted one dark eyebrow. “I see love.”

“Ah, you French.”

“Ah, you Americans. Tell him you love him. What do you have to lose?”

Evelyn’s mind whirled. She hadn’t said she loved him. It was new and fresh—too new and fresh to voice to anyone, much less Peter.

“Come now.” Evelyn resumed walking and flung one hand to the gray sky. “It is too dreary a day to talk of l’amour.”

Simone laughed, and she didn’t press.

They rounded the bend of the Seine, and Evelyn frowned at the tourist boats and the perfectly spaced chestnut trees.

What did she have to lose?

Her independence? She no longer cared about that, not when she’d seen the benefits of interdependence.

Could she lose Peter if he didn’t return her feelings? She’d lose him anyway when he sailed for New York.

No, her fear ran deeper. What if he could return her feelings? What then? Marriage wouldn’t work with her career and her personality. What if she destroyed everything they had together?

Simone walked beside her, as straight figured as Evelyn and with a square jaw any man would be proud to own. A race car driver.

And a beloved wife.

“Simone?” Evelyn whispered. “Tell me how you and Monsieur Aubrey make your marriage work.”

Simone gave Evelyn a knowing glance. “Gladly.”

SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 20, 1938

Hearing a sermon in English sounded good to Peter’s ears. He’d stopped attending church in Munich when it became clear the pastors only preached the few portions of the Bible sanctioned by the Nazi Party.

The soaring sanctuary of the American Church in Paris felt like home, although he’d never set foot inside before. Dark wood, an enormous organ, and bright stained-glass windows stood out against the whitewashed walls.

Evelyn sat beside him, with Paul and Simone and eighteen-month-old Josie on his other side.

Gratitude welled up, thickening his tongue and tightening his throat. The Lord had gotten them safely to France, and tomorrow Evelyn’s nightmare would start to come to an end.

Leaving her would be excruciating, but she was correct. The sooner he turned in that list, the better. The FBI needed to capture those German agents and make sure no one else organized the Americans partial to the Nazis.

Like Charles Norwood Sr.

Peter’s chest burned. The Nazis had killed dozens of people on Kristallnacht, and they could have killed Evelyn and the Golds. And George Norwood didn’t care. George had wanted Evelyn dead. Probably still did.

Would she be safe in France after he left? The warmth from her arm stretched to him across the half-inch gap between their shoulders.

France was in disarray with crippling strikes, high unemployment, strife among countless political factions, and at least twenty prime ministers in the past decade. Before the Munich Conference, thousands had fled Paris, convinced German bombs were about to fall.

Chaos and fear left the nation vulnerable to the promises of both communism and fascism.

Evelyn murmured at something the pastor said, and she wrote in her notepad.

Peter peeked over her shoulder. A jumble of notes crossed in all directions. He couldn’t make sense of it, but she could. She worked best that way, just as he worked best when things were orderly.

Evelyn understood, and warmth flowed through him. The night they’d arrived in Paris, while he’d told Aubrey their story, she’d unpacked his rucksack in his room. He’d come upstairs to find his clothes neatly folded and his toiletry items in a straight line on the bureau.

That empty room had suddenly felt less lonely.

Reverend Thompson finished the sermon with a prayer, and Peter gave himself a little shake. He’d missed most of the preaching—a shame since he’d enjoyed what he’d heard.

Then the pastor announced the closing hymn, “We Gather Together,” appropriate with Thanksgiving in the coming week.

Peter stood and shared a hymnal with Evelyn.

We gather together to ask the Lord’s blessing,

He chastens and hastens His will to make known.

The wicked oppressing now cease from distressing,

Sing praises to His name, He forgets not His own.

Beside us to guide us, our God with us joining,

Ordaining, maintaining His kingdom divine;

So from the beginning the fight we were winning,

Thou Lord, wast at our side: the glory be Thine!

The lyrics couldn’t have been more appropriate. The Lord had indeed been beside them to guide them, and Peter’s voice roughened as he sang.

The pastor spoke the benediction, and the congregation dismissed.

Evelyn looped her purse over her shoulder and looked up at Peter. “Do you remember when we were hiking at the Partnach Gorge and you said you sing horribly?”

“Yes.” The memory of that day brought up a smile.

She stepped into the aisle. “That was a gross understatement.”

He laughed and followed her, with the Aubreys behind him. “I don’t remember granting you any more insults.”

“You need them after how I’ve been singing your praises lately.” A grumble ran through her voice.

“I promise I won’t misinterpret that praise.” He patted her shoulder and gave it a squeeze.

Evelyn glanced back with a smile, not even shrugging off his hand. For half a second, he thought he saw something in her eyes. Something beyond affection.

One last pat, and he motioned her to the door.

Boy, did he need new glasses.