Squirrel shook his head and snorted. “This is why I stay single. Easier that way.” Then his mouth turned down and he added, “Gets lonely, though.”
The mood had turned morose.
After a moment, Jake elbowed Squirrel in the ribs. “You better stay single, Weller. Three alimony payments is plenty. You add a fourth and you’ll be sleeping on this couch that smells like cheap booze and sweat.”
They laughed harder than the joke warranted, glad for the distraction from mortality, love, and loss.
They finished their beers and cleaned up the workbench, stacking the maps and photos in neat piles, and gathering empty bottles and greasy napkins.
Jake set an alarm for 0430. Four and a half hours of sleep if they were lucky. And they bedded down in the hangar in sleeping bags from Squirrel’s storage locker. They were military surplus, thin and scratchy, but warm enough. They spread them on the concrete floor near the space heater that hummed in the corner.
The smell of aviation fuel and old metal permeated the dark space. Through the closed metal door, Omar could hear the distant sound of traffic on the highway.
Omar lay awake longer than the others, staring at the curved metal ceiling and listening to the occasional creak of the hangar settling and the constant white noise hum of Squirrel snoring.
He thought about Marielle back at the cottage and hoped she was asleep, hoped she wasn’t worrying.
Tomorrow everything could go sideways.
But for now there was nothing to do but wait for dawn. He punched his rolled up pants into a pillow, turned onto his side, and closed his eyes.
Sixteen
Marielle woke to pale morning light filtering through the curtains and the sound of Olivia’s breathing across the room. She slipped out of bed quietly and padded down the hall to Céline’s small bathroom.
She flipped on the light to reveal a vanity that was exactly as she remembered it: white porcelain, brass fixtures that needed polishing, and a small mirror with ornate scrollwork hanging above it. The vanity mirror displayed a disaster. Dark circles under her eyes. Hair tangled. And worst of all dull, dry skin.
She’d skipped her entire nighttime skin care routine, something she never did. A pang of guilt hit her. How could she? Especially here, in the very cottage where her grandmother had handed her a package of potions, lotions, and creams from her trusted Parisian pharmacy on her thirteen birthday.
She twisted her tangled hair into a knot with a sigh. The least she could do was complete a proper morning routine.
She opened the drawer built into the vanity and retrieved the set of travel toiletries she’d left on her last visit. She’d purchased them, of course, at her grand-mère’s beloved Pharmacie Saint-Honoré. As she pulled out the case, her fingers brushed against something at the back of the drawer.
Frowning, she pulled out a small box wrapped in pale blue tissue paper. Affixed to the top, was an ivory enveloped with her name written on it in Céline’s elegant script.
Her breath caught. How had she missed this when she’d settled the estate?
She sat on the edge of the bathtub and cradled the box in her lap. She removed the envelope and turned it over. It was sealed with wax, her grandmother’s monogram pressed into it.
“Elle! Do you plan to hog the bathroom all morning?” Olivia’s voice came through the door, with the familiar annoyance of anyone who’s ever shared a bathroom.
She looked down at the box, deciding. Not now. Not in the middle of this chaos. Not when she couldn’t afford to fall apart.
She placed the box to the side and called back, “Five minutes!”
She raced through her skincare routine—cold cream, cleanser, serum, moisturizer, sunscreen, ran a brush through her hair, and brushed her teeth.
She opened the door to find Olivia leaning against the wall with her arms crossed. “About time.”
“All yours, grumpy.” She gestured toward the open door and edged past Olivia, angling the tissue paper-wrapped box away from her to avoid questions.
Twenty minutes later, they were gathered in the kitchen. Hanna had woken on her own. She looked fresh and rested. Marielle made pour-over coffee while Olivia toasted the remnants of Omar’s bread. A tiny pot of homemade kumquat marmalade courtesy of Lucas impossibly French go bag sat on the counter.
Marielle was spreading marmalade on her second piece of toast when the knock sounded.
She froze. They all froze.
She set down the knife slowly and caught Olivia’s eye. Olivia’s hand moved toward the gun at her waist.