Read Online Clash by Night by Doreen Owens Malek - Free Book Online Page B

smartly when they met and addressed him as “ capitaine .” Harris decided immediately that Curel had richly deserved his war medals and shook hands with him respectfully. Next came two boys from the factory, a little older than Alain, brothers named Thibeau, who shuffled their feet and glanced at Harris uncertainly when introduced. One of them had the plans of the glassworks in his pocket; his father had helped to build it thirty years earlier and had saved the blueprints. He produced the packet of yellowing onionskin paper hesitantly, as if unsure of his reception. Harris almost embraced him, but settled for thumping him on the shoulder, beaming his approval. The boy, whose first name was Patric, flushed but smiled back radiantly. His younger brother Michel grinned too and produced his treasure: a duplicate of the key to the factory office. Harris stared at it in amazement. These people weren’t wasting any time. He wanted to convey his congratulations, but as none of them spoke English he did his best in French, gesturing with upraised clasped hands to indicate his approval. They got the message, looking at each other and nodding. All was well, the American appreciated what they had done. This was going to work out just fine.
    The barn door opened a final time, and Alain slipped inside, followed shortly by Laura. Harris turned to look and his eyes met hers across the distance which separated them.
    Laura stopped in surprise when she saw him walking toward her.  
    This was ‘Arries’? She’d been told he was a captain, and from his rank she had expected someone in his mid to late forties, graying maybe, with a grave, distinguished air. This man was young, thirty perhaps, and moved with the quick, secure grace of an athlete not too long removed from his playing days.
    Harris halted a few feet away and they regarded each other for a long moment in silence. The marine was tall, as Alain had said, with cropped hair the color of the ripe chestnuts sold on the Common at home during the Christmas holidays. His eyes were slate blue, almost gray, with brows and lashes a couple of shades darker than his hair. They watched her out of a lean face shadowed by the new growth of a heavy brown beard.
    Alain took Laura’s hand and led her forward, saying, “This is Laura, who will translate.”
    Laura extended her hand and Harris took it. Her fingers were slender and warm.
    “How do you do, Captain,” Laura said. “Welcome to France.”
    Harris nodded slightly. It was wonderful to hear comprehensible, unaccented English. Then the incongruity of her greeting struck him and he smiled. Laura immediately noticed his straight, too perfect teeth. She must remember to tell him to keep his mouth shut. Most Europeans his age already had bad teeth.
    “Ma’am,” he said, and released her hand. The kid’s sister-in-law was a slender woman of medium height with beautiful auburn hair and a pale, almost translucent skin. She was wearing a deep green dress with a rounded white collar ending in a large flat tie at the front. Matching white piping decorated the edges of the short sleeves.  
    Harris continued to stare at her. He didn’t know it then, but he would remember that dress, and the way she looked in it, for the rest of his life.
    Curel coughed and Harris glanced at him, taking the sound as a signal to get going with the night’s work. He began to say something in halting French and Laura stepped in smoothly.
    “It’s all right, Captain. You can begin in English. I will translate for both sides.”
    “Thanks,” Harris said quickly. “It would be exhausting to have to rephrase everything all the time, and I’m afraid some of this stuff is going to be pretty technical.” He unfolded the blueprints Patric Thibeau had given him and spread them out on the earthen floor of the barn. The men crouched down to look, and Laura sat at Harris’ side, tucking her skirt under her legs.
    For more than two hours they pored over the