Fleur De Lies(20)
“Why not?”
Tilly rolled her eyes. “You’ve given us the exposition and the conflict, but you’ve left out the resolution. Without a resolution, we’re dealing with random plot points that go nowhere. So you need an ending, accompanied by a satisfying denouement, if you can manage it.”
“Confound it.” Sucking in a lungful of air, he burst out with, “So the Germans barged into the house with their threats and guns, and I made sure they never left. Is that resolution enough for you?”
I looked at Tilly. Tilly looked at me. We both looked at Solange.
“Zee three men shot their way into Ozmund’s room, but he was waiting for them, barricaded behind pillows, flat on his back, with his broken leg bound in splints. He returned fire, and when zee shooting stopped, it was Ozmund who proved to be zee better marksman. My brave little chee-ken man.”
“Mesdames, messieurs, your tour director is waiting for you by the front gate.” Madeleine strolled around the room, herding guests toward the doorway.
“Chicken man?” I stared at Osmond, baffled. “I—uh, I don’t get it.”
“He wore a chee-ken on his shoulder,” said Solange. “A little screaming chee-ken.”
“Chicken?” Tilly straightened her spine. “On a military badge? I seriously doubt it was a fowl. More likely it was an eagle. A screaming eagle … which just happens to be the emblem of the 101st Airborne Infantry.” She regarded Osmond with a look bordering on awe. “You belonged to the 101st?”
He gave his head a nod. “Yup. I was one of the fellas who wore a screaming chee-ken on his shoulder sleeve.” He smiled impishly and squeezed Solange’s hand as he sidled a glance at her.
“When he’s very naughty and pokes fun of my accent, I ignore him,” she announced, nose in the air, head tilted at a coy angle, gaze averted, as if she were a young ingénue fending off a suitor whose advances she desperately wanted. And in that instant I could see them as they might have been decades ago, snatching moments of intimate pleasure from a secret look, a shared touch, in a world that had gone completely mad.
“The 101st Airborne was only the most celebrated, the most illustrious, the most battle-hardened division in the entire army,” chattered Tilly. “They led the charge on D-Day. They held the line at the Battle of the Bulge. They—”
“Grandmama?” Madeleine came up behind Solange and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Monsieur Osmond must leave us now. His coach is waiting outside.”
“Leave? But he just arrived.”
“Thank you for your hospitality.” Virginia Martin bobbed her head at Madeleine as she guided her husband past the sofa. “I’m sure you did the best you could under the circumstances.”
Victor halted his steps and jerked his hand away from his wife’s arm, irritation causing his facial muscles to grow rigid. “My dear young woman”—he shuffled his feet slightly to face Madeleine—“I’ve heard rumors that my wife was once an engaging and gracious creature, but I’ve never had the good fortune of bearing witness to it myself. You are beautiful and kind, and I thank you for opening your home to us.” He tipped his head politely and shifted his gaze to Solange. “And Mrs. Ducat, permit me to say that you are as lovely today as you were—”
He paused suddenly, as if his brain realized what was about to come out of his mouth and closed his windpipe to avoid disaster. He stiffened with panic for a brief second before he assumed a calmer demeanor, his brain and mouth apparently on the same page again. “You’re as lovely today as I imagine you were when Mr. Chelsvig first met you.” He inhaled a deep, wheezy breath. “Your eyes are quite haunting, my dear. A man could never forget a woman with your eyes.”