The Paris Network by Siobhan Curham

Author:Siobhan Curham [Curham, Siobhan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781803140391
Published: 2022-02-14T16:00:00+00:00

23

JEANNE – 1993

After their slightly awkward embrace – for Jeanne at least – Charlotte invited them into the house and led them through to a beautiful, country-style kitchen, complete with stone floor, a large open fireplace and a pine dresser lined with plates, cups and bowls in bold shades of yellow, blue and green.

‘Please,’ Charlotte said, gesturing at them to take a seat at a round pine table. As soon as Jeanne sat down, Charlotte shook her head and said something to Yitzhak in French.

‘She says that you look so much like your mother,’ he explained.

‘Tell me about it,’ Wendell muttered.

Charlotte continued talking.

‘She and your mother were the best of friends,’ Yitzhak translated. ‘They became close during the war.’ He listened for a moment and smiled. ‘Apparently, they were in a book club together. They read books that had been banned by the Germans, so they had to do it secretly. It was their act of resistance.’

Jeanne turned to Wendell. ‘Pops, do you think the books we found under the floorboards were the books they read?’

He nodded. ‘Makes sense.’

‘Can you ask her if one of the books was by Hemingway?’ Jeanne said to Yitzhak. ‘For Whom the Bell Tolls.’

As he translated, Charlotte’s face lit up and she nodded. Then she said something else.

‘Oh wow,’ Yitzhak exclaimed.

‘What?’

‘Apparently she was supposed to have been your godmother.’

‘For real?’

Charlotte nodded, her eyes gleaming with tears.

The notion that this woman should have known Jeanne as a baby filled her with a new sense of urgency. Tell me everything, she wanted to cry. Help me fill all the blank spaces.

‘You were a very joyful baby – an angel,’ Yitzhak said with a grin. ‘You gave them so much hope at a time when they desperately needed it.’

If I was such a joyful baby, such an angel, then surely Laurence wouldn’t have willingly abandoned me. The urgency that had been building in Jeanne reached boiling point and she suddenly and completely inappropriately started to cry.

‘Honey, what’s wrong?’ Wendell asked, concerned.

‘I’m sorry,’ Jeanne gasped.

Charlotte came hurrying over and held her tightly, but rather than feeling comforted, Jeanne felt as if she was coming undone. In all of her years pretending to be her mother, Lorilee had never, ever held her this tenderly. It was all too sad, too much. Charlotte said something softly in French as she stroked Jeanne’s hair.

‘There’s something she wants to give you, something that belonged to your mother,’ Yitzhak explained.

Jeanne nodded and wiped away her tears. He’d said ‘belonged’ to your mother, past tense. So Laurence was dead. She glanced across the table at Wendell. He looked ashen-faced, clearly having come to the same conclusion.

Charlotte left the room, returning a couple of minutes later with what appeared to be a tiny bundle of yarn.

Charlotte began speaking animatedly as she handed it to Jeanne.

‘It’s a Nénette doll,’ Yitzhak translated. ‘They were very popular in France during the First World War. People saw them as lucky charms. This one belonged to your mother’s mother.’

‘Well, I’ll be darned,’ Wendell softly exclaimed.

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