An outburst of excited laughter in the reception area heralded the arrival of the art enthusiasts. They trooped into the lounge like school kids on their way to recess, a bounce in their step and confidence in their eyes, as if they were expecting the forthcoming lesson to release the hidden potential that would turn them into the next Grandma Moses. I counted eleven of my Iowans among the group, the only person unaccounted for being Bernice, who had probably found some health or safety violation in the galley and was preparing to sue the cruise company.
“Where’d all these people come from?” asked Irv as they hurried past us. “Are they with us?”
“Yup.”
Nana gave me a little finger wave as she passed by. George winked. Alice held Osmond’s arm, steering him around obstacles as he studied his iPhone.
“How come they don’t look familiar?”
“They’d probably look familiar if you attended meals and took the optional tours.”
“I took one opshional tour. One waz enough.” He took a sip of his Cuba libre. “I’d rather shtay here and chat with Patreesh. Now Patreesh, he looks very familiar. I’d know him anywhere.” He flung his head toward the bar. “Oh, look. He’s hard at work. Don’t you jusht love the shound of ice cubes clinking in a glassh?”
“Good afternoon once again, ladies and gentlemen,” the art instructor announced behind us. “Please seat yourselves close to the supplies I’ve provided, and if you recall my instructions from yesterday’s lesson, I would encourage you to begin. I’ll come around to watch how you’re progressing.”
“I bet you didn’t know Patreesh’s family got their shtart in alcohol,” Irv blathered on. “Calvadosh. That delicioush brandy our lovely hostess sherved ush at her housh.”
“The one made from apples?”
“The one that’s only made in Normandy.”
“Aha! So that’s why he’s able to cycle on the Tour de France roads. Does he live along the route? Or nearby?”
“His family lives shomewhere by those D-Day beaches we vishited.”
“Really? I wonder if they live in the same vicinity as Madeleine Saint-Sauveur.”
“He menshioned shomeplace called Pointe … shomething or other.”
“Pointe du Hoc?”
He made a pointer of his finger and stabbed it into the air. “That’s it. Pointe … whatever you shaid. Good guessh.”
“It wasn’t a guess. Madeleine told us the story about Pointe du Hoc. Didn’t you hear her? It’s where the Resistance fighters from the local village were killed.”
“Oh, yeah. The Resishtance fighters. His grandfather was a Resishtance fighter.”
A frisson of alarm sent a chill rippling down my spine. “I didn’t realize that.” I glanced toward the bar as Patrice delivered a Cuba libre to Woody. “Did Patrice tell you anything else about his grand-father?”
Irv nodded. “Yup. He gave me the whole hishtory. He died on D-Day. At that Pointe dew whatever place.”
The picture came together in that instant with the impact of a multiple car crash. Of course. Of course! Oh, my God.
I launched myself out of my chair and raced across the room. “Don’t drink that!” I yelled, slapping the glass out of Woody’s hand just as the rim touched his lips.
“What the hell?” he boomed.