Page 21 of After Paris

Chapter Twenty-One

Ruby

Saturday, July 5, 2025

11:30 a.m.

“How are you doing?” Jeff asked as he started the car.

“Okay. It was intense.” I didn’t want today’s image of Jason to be the last one burned in my brain.

When a stoplight turned green, he took the right lane and merged into the Beltway. “That’s an understatement. It hits at the core.”

I drew in a breath and allowed it to bleed off. “He was on top of the world this time last year. And now he’s got days, maybe weeks left.”

“Here I was pissed at him for not touching base with you last winter.”

“He must have known he was sick again. I wish he’d told me. Maybe I could have helped.” My own platitudes sounded flat.

Jeff merged into traffic and headed south on I-495. “What would you have done if it were you?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I can’t be mad. No one knows how they’ll react until they’re in the hot seat.” Midsize high-rises blended with strip malls, storage buildings, and office parks. “Gives me a little appreciation for Sylvia, Emile, and Cécile.”

“How so?”

“Death surrounded them. I’m halfway through Sylvia’s journal, but I’m guessing it’ll get harder for them. The Germans were ‘playing nice’ their first eighteen months in Paris, but that’s starting to shift. Sylvia mentioned a young boy who worked on the set. He was shot and killed by the Germans. She writes about the police crushing two of Emile’s fingers as a warning.” I hated the idea that Cécile might have been murdered in a prison or concentration camp.

Jeff rolled his shoulders. “Why did they do that?”

“She was handing out anti-German propaganda. The French Resistance wasn’t intense at first—women wearing large hats, singing ‘La Marseillaise’ publicly when told not to, or pretending to misunderstand German instructions. All this alone wasn’t a big deal, but it annoyed the Germans. However, this mild form of resistance morphed into bombings and shootings. By mid-1942, the Germans were crushing Paris with retaliations, arrests, and roundups.”

“Do you know what happened to Cécile or Emile yet?”

“No. Sylvia hasn’t told me.”

“You haven’t peeked ahead, have you?”

I chuckled. “No. I promised Madame Bernard that I wouldn’t. And honestly, if it’s a bad ending, I’m not sure I could keep reading.”

Two trucks rumbled past us, and the traffic slowed for a minute. Then, the pace picked up again. He said, “I’m doing a little cyber-digging. If any of these women were in a government registry, I might be able to find them.”

“How do you do that?”

“I write a program.”

I snapped my fingers. “Just like that? You make it sound easy.”

He waggled his brows as he tossed me a grin. “It is for me.”

I kept forgetting how purely brilliant he was. “Yeah, sure. That would be great. Sometimes, people aren’t super honest in their diaries. Especially then. A discovered journal could get you shot. But the Germans were excellent recordkeepers, so I’d love to see whatever you can find.”

“If I get a bite on the cyber-feelers, I’ll let you know.”

“Thank you.”

“What are you doing this afternoon?”

“Reading journal entries.”

“Why don’t you take a few hours off? Play hooky. I can do the same. Seize the day, right?”

Squeeze every second dry. “I’ll agree on one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“If today showed me anything, I can’t commit to anyone right now.”

“I’m talking about lunch.”

“I’ve known you for twelve years. You don’t do anything without a specific goal in mind.”

He glanced at me, amused. “And I want you?”

Color warmed my face. “I think you do.”

“You wanted me the other night.”

I closed my eyes, scrunching my face. “The wine made me do it.”

“It was the wine, not you?” He sounded so pleased with himself. “What if I don’t like you in that way?”

A smile curled my lips. “Your kiss in the hotel lobby said otherwise.”

His shoulders straightened. “It was good, wasn’t it?”

“It was amazing. Really. But I can’t make any long-term promises. I can help you find someone who’ll be there with you for the long haul.”

“What if I don’t want anyone else?”

“You will, once I find the right person.”

His gaze sharpened. “You could be the right person.”

“Sorry, no. I’m not. But when you meet The One, you’ll know it.”

Tension strained his expression. “This is the craziest conversation I’ve had in a long time.”

“Did you get any pings on your dating profile?”

“I haven’t checked.”

“Why not?”

“Because I was focused on you.”

“Let’s direct our attention to a healthy woman who can give you children.”

He wound around the Beltway toward the Old Town Alexandria exit. He slipped into an irritated silence as he took the off-ramp and merged into traffic. I sensed a barrier between us when he pulled in front of my hotel. I didn’t like it, but it was for the best. He could design a software system that made billions of calculations. But casual conversation with a stranger wasn’t in his wheelhouse.

“I’d still like to have lunch with you,” he said.

“I need to work on the journal and article. But we can have dinner. We can pick the love of your life over pizza.”

He shifted his gaze to mine, studying my face like he was trying to crack an algorithm. “If I let you help me, and that’s a big if, you must meet each woman.”

“That’s a little weird.”

“Not weird. You can show up or sit at an adjoining table if I have a date. You can’t judge anyone based on a computer profile.”

“You’re not serious.”

“I’m very serious,” he said. “If you want to help me, you must actively participate. No half assing the ‘significant other’ selection.”

“You live in DC.”

“And I just closed on a condo in Norfolk. We can work both areas if that helps, or we can stick to Norfolk, so you’re close to home.”

The condo was news to me. “Where did you buy a condo?”

“In Waterside. It overlooks the Elizabeth River.”

“You must have paid a fortune.”

Money was never a priority for him. “I know how to negotiate.”

“Sounds like that’s what we’re doing now.”

“I made an offer. You rejected it and then countered. Now we’re working out the details.”

“If I didn’t love you, I’d say you were the weirdest guy ever.”

A smug smile warmed his features. “You can’t say you love me, remember? You’re my official dating consultant. And I don’t date people I work with.”

“Right.”

“As payment, I’ll write a search algorithm for you and your project. Even Steven?”

He didn’t mean that. He liked me way too much to accept my offer this easily. But I did love him and wanted him to have someone who could care for him for decades. With me, he could well be saddled with illness and sadness, like Jason’s husband.

“Deal.” All relationships are transactional on some level. And in this arrangement, today, we both received great value.

“Send me whatever names, dates, places of birth, et cetera, and I’ll get on it.”

“I’ll do the same.”

“I’m booked for the next few days with work, but you could get a date for us next week.”

“Us, like as in the three of us?”

“You’re my millennial matchmaker. I need you to vet these women for me.”

“Technically, I’m Gen Z.”

“Details.”

My hand rested on the door handle, but I wasn’t ready to leave. I wanted us on good terms. “You aren’t mad, are you?”

“No. You’ve been very logical. And you know how much I appreciate logic.”

“Can I hug you?”

“Is that professional?”

“Matchmakers can hug their clients. It’s in the code of ethics,” I deadpanned.

“As long as we aren’t breaking a rule.” He wrapped his arms around me. The scents of expensive aftershave and whatever scent made him him mingled. He was such a good man and deserved so much more.

I squeezed a little tighter and then pulled back. “I won’t let you down.”

“I know you won’t.” As I opened the door, he said, “What about pizza now? I’m starving.”

“I have to work.”

“So do I, but I think better when I’m not dizzy with hunger.” When I hesitated, he grinned. “Come on, Ruby. Pizza, and you’re back working at the grindstone in an hour.”

“Can we look at your dating profile messages?”

“Sure. We can look.”

“I don’t hear much excitement.”

“Takes me time to warm up to a new idea.”

I closed the car door, and we drove ten minutes to a pizza shop off Duke Street. He found parking, and we only had to wait about ten minutes before we were seated at a table covered with laminated images of Italy.

“How do you know about this place?” I asked as I scanned a QR code and pulled up the menu.

“My office is in Alexandria. My apartment is down the street.”

“Why didn’t I know this?”

He scanned the QR code. “When I moved in a year ago, you had your hands busy.”

Chemo. A good reminder of why I needed to find him someone solid to love. Pushing aside the thought, I glanced at the menu. “You like the mushroom and onion, right?”

“Yes. And I always ask them to go light on the cheese.”

“Perfect.”

“Sprite?”

“You know me so well.” I’d lived on the stuff for almost two years but still couldn’t get enough.

He placed our drink orders (mine had extra ice), and minutes later, we were sipping our drinks.

I stabbed my straw into the crushed ice. His phone was nowhere in sight. “Should we get down to business?”

“After the pizza. I can’t talk on an empty stomach.”

“You make it sound painful. It’s going to be fun.”

“If you say so.” He slurped his soda to be annoying. “Cécile and Emile were born in Provence? Cécile also had a boyfriend, Daniel, who worked in the port of Marseille.”

“That’s right.”

No sense in complimenting his excellent memory. We both knew he could recall the serial number of a car part from 2010.

“And Sylvia?” he asked.

“She was from Poland. She was a little older than Cécile. Born circa 1918, if she was in her midtwenties. I can get the exact date of her birth from Madame Bernard. She moved to France before World War II, in the mid-1930s. After Germany invaded Poland in 1939, she was stuck in France. Even if she’d wanted to go home, she couldn’t.”

“What did she do between 1939 and when she showed up in the Dupont sisters’ lives?”

“She worked as a seamstress in a lingerie factory, but the shop closed when the owner died. She also helped Polish refugees who moved to Paris.”

“Last name Rousseau, correct?”

“That’s right.”

“Doesn’t sound very Polish.”

“She was living under a false identity. Madame Bernard said her mother’s birth name was Zofia Rozanski.”

“Did Mrs. Bernard have more to say about her mother’s past?” he asked.

“Sylvia talked a little about growing up in Warsaw. But she didn’t discuss the war years. Madame Bernard only found the diary after her mother died.”

“So, Mom didn’t want to talk about her past. It wasn’t uncommon in that generation, especially after the war,” he said.

“I’ll keep pressing Madame Bernard for more names and dates. She’s kind of spoon-feeding me details.”

“She’s trying to figure out if she can trust you,” he said. “She’s protecting her mother’s legacy.”

“She’s worried about what her mother was hiding.”

“What do you think she was hiding?”

“I don’t know.” I added, “It’s a fascinating project. It has it all. Mystery, fashion, film, and spies.” I sipped my soda.

“A Polish emigrant moves to France,” he said. “For five years, she helps refugees get false papers. Then she finds herself working with two sisters, one of whom was a famous movie star with access to high-level Germans. I’m not a fan of coincidence.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’ll check the records for the British and Polish intelligence officers assigned to France during the war. By now, everything is declassified.”

“Do you think Sylvia was an Allied or Polish spy?” I asked.

“Polish nationals made it to France and Britain after the 1939 German invasion. They fought fiercely for their country with the help of whomever would support them.”

I slurped my drink, feeling like a kid who’d found a hidden treasure. “That puts a different spin on things.”

He shrugged. “Would explain why Sylvia didn’t talk about her past.”

“She was Jewish.”

“Ah, another reason for secrecy.”

Our pizzas arrived, and the scents of basil, tomato, and cheese made my stomach grumble. I’d barely eaten in the last two years, and my appetite was finally turning back on.

After I ate two slices, I wiped my fingers clean and searched for Jeff’s phone. “Your phone?”

He reached in his pocket, handed it to me, and rattled off his passcode.

“You have five messages on the app,” I said. “Nice.”

“Please share.” He took a large bite of pizza, seemingly more interested in the food than this conversation.

“Ellen, twenty-nine. Tall, dark-brown hair, publicist, lives in Virginia Beach. Loves long walks on the beach, dancing, and rock climbing.”

Jeff took another bite, waving for me to give him the next.

“Sarah, thirty-one. Blond, five foot six, lawyer, swimmer, loves cycling, reading.”

Jeff sniffed. “Let me see her picture.”

I turned the phone around. “See, pretty?”

“Nice.”

“But?”

“Who else?” He took another bite of pizza.

I read out the stats for the next two women. Jeff didn’t yawn, but he looked about that bored. “This won’t work if you don’t try.”

“I’m trying. I am. Let me think about the choices. It’s a big decision.”

“It’s not. It’s a date. A lunch or a dinner.”

“I thought you were looking for my wife and the mother of my children.”

I scowled. “I want you to have someone. I want you to be happy.”

“I am happy. I’m eating great pizza and listening to you talking about secret spies and possible spouses.”

I glanced at the next one who’d messaged him but rejected her. I handed him his phone back. “I’m not going to be defeated.”

He leaned forward a fraction and grinned. “That’s what I like about you. You don’t give up.”

“I don’t.”

An alarm chimed on his watch. “As much fun as this is, I have a meeting this afternoon. We can continue this discussion over dinner.”

“Will you agree to take one of these women out on a date? One woman. One date?”

“Sure, fine. Pick one close to Norfolk, and we’ll meet her in two weeks.”

“You keep saying ‘we.’ I can’t be there.”

“That’s the deal. You must check her out. Maybe you can grab Eric, and you both can bump into us. He’ll run cover. Won’t look weird at all.”

“But it is weird.”

“Friends check out their friends’ dates all the time. Not any woman can be the mother of my children.”

“Fine, it’s Ellen in Virginia Beach. You can set up a date at Waterside.”

“Can’t you do that?”

“No. That’s on you.”

“Okay. Consider it done. Keep your calendar open the week after next. We have a date.”

A waitress set the bill on the table. I tried to grab it, but Jeff refused. She boxed up the last slice of pizza for us, and he dropped me off at my hotel room.

As I opened the car door, he handed me the to-go box. “I’ll get more intel on Sylvia. I’ll report at dinner.”

We weren’t forever, but being around him was fun, relaxed, and easy. “Okay. Dinner.”

“Pick you up at seven?”

“Perfect.”

In my hotel room, I removed my shoes, carefully undressed, and hung up my clothes. No matter how tired I was, I always hung up my clothes. After donning my oversize T-shirt, I made decaf coffee and reached for Sylvia’s diary.

“Who are you, Sylvia?”