Fleur De Lies(18)

            Madeleine cradled her arm around the woman’s shoulders and planted a kiss on her head. “Mesdames and messieurs, this is a special treat. Allow me to introduce my grandmother, Solange Ducat.”

            Solange hugged her shawl more closely to her body and tipped her head. “Bonjour tout le monde.”

            “Bonjour,” we offered in response, all except Osmond, whose breath suddenly caught in his throat like a fish bone. His eyes grew round, his face turned white. He swayed slightly forward, as if he were about to keel over.

            Oh, my God! He was having a heart attack!

            Propelling myself out of my chair, I clamped a steadying hand on his arm. “Easy does it. Stay calm. I just took a CPR refresher course, so I know exactly what to do. Someone help me get him on the floor!”

            Irv swung his cane upward, poised it against Osmund’s shoulder, and gave him a shove.

            “What are you doing?” I shrieked.

            “Hellllp-ing him to the floor!”

            Osmond batted the cane away and gaped at the woman. “Solange?” he choked out. “Solange Spenard?”

            “Oui.” She regarded him with her impossibly blue eyes, her face registering surprise, followed by bewilderment. “I was once Madame Spenard.”

            Using my arm for support, Osmond boosted himself to his feet and stared across the room at her, his legs so wobbly, I thought they might collapse beneath him. “It’s me.” His voice shook with Richter scale intensity. “The chicken man G.I. with the broken leg.”

            A dozen emotions flitted across the woman’s face before she pressed her hand to her mouth. “Mere de Dieu,” she said in a breathless whisper. “Ozmund?”

            Irv thumped his cane against the leg of the coffee table. “Hey, if this fella’s not about to croak, could we get shome more Calvados over here?”





                     four

            “I was so frightened when I found an American soldier hiding in our barn, but I could see he was terribly hurt, so I ran back for my papa, and we sneaked him into zee house.”

            Solange Spenard Ducat sat on the living room sofa beside Osmond, her thigh touching his pant leg, her shoulder brushing his arm, her fingers intertwined with his in a kind of lovers knot configuration. “The silly boy had parachuted into a tree and broke his leg when he cut himself from his harness.”

            “That’s because it was pitch black,” teased Osmond. “I couldn’t tell how tall the tree was.”

            Although Tilly and I had dragged our chairs close to the sofa so we wouldn’t miss a word of the unfolding story, most of the other guests had tired of the reminiscing and were meandering around the room, snapping photos, shooting videos, and trying not to look bored. Madeleine was making a concerted effort to play hostess to her guests while being attentive to Osmond and her grandmother, but it was pretty much a lost cause since Bernice had commandeered her as her own personal photographer.

            “We had to take evasive action once we hit the Normandy coast because of German flak,” Osmond continued, “so we ended up making our jump miles away from the drop zone.” He bowed his head and lowered his voice. “My whole squad got wiped out in that jump. All except me.”

            Solange patted his forearm with a familiar hand, seeming to ease his grief with the simple intimacy of her touch.

            I looked from one to the other, then sat up ramrod straight in my chair. Uff-da! Was I bearing witness to more than the casual reunion   of two old friends here? Because their body language was suggesting that back in 1944, they might have been a lot closer than mere friends. A whole lot closer.