There are more explosions, breaking us apart. “I’m sorry,” Paul says quickly.

“Don’t be. I’m not.” I take a step back, smoothing my skirt. “Look.” I point across the water. Bright flashes of light, red and blue, fill the night sky.

“Fireworks,” Paul remarks. I nod, staring in wonder at the waves of color that fill the sky like confetti. I have heard of fireworks but never seen them before. “You would think after all of the bombings, everyone would have had enough of things exploding,” he says a minute later. “Let’s get out of here.” For a second I hope we will return to the bridge and gaze at the skyline once more. But he leads me through the streets back, I can tell, toward the Servicemen’s Hotel. The war is over, I think, as we walk in silence. I was thirteen years old when the war began and I spent the past six years running for my life.

“What are you thinking?” Paul asks.

“Lots of things. Mostly about what I lost during the war.”

He smiles. “Careful, you’re starting to sound like me.”

Recalling how I had chastised him for self-pity the night on the lake, I laugh. “I suppose I am. I really was preachy, wasn’t I?”

“Not at all. You were right about being grateful to be alive, earning the chance we’ve been given. And now, with the war ending, getting to go home. It really is a second chance, isn’t it?”

Home. Paul will be leaving, returning to America for good. He stops walking and turns to me suddenly, his expression troubled. “The only bad thing is leaving you.” My heart pounds against my chest. “I mean, I realize we haven’t known each other very long, but…I’m going to miss you, Marta.”

So don’t go, I want to scream. “I’ll miss you, too.”

We stand staring at each other for several seconds, neither speaking. “Well, it’s getting late,” he says at last. “We should get back and pick up your papers.” We continue walking and, a few minutes later, approach the Servicemen’s Hotel.

Through the closed hotel door, I hear shouting and singing, soldiers celebrating the end of the war. “Why don’t you wait here?” Paul suggests. “Once I get your papers from Mickey, I can escort you back to your hotel.”

My hotel, I think, panicking. In my excitement at seeing Paul, I had nearly forgotten that I was supposed to get to the Red Cross shelter. “That won’t be necessary…” I begin, but Paul is already through the hotel door.

A minute later, he reappears. “All set,” he says. There is a new number scrawled across the front of the train ticket. “Front desk called the station and reserved you a seat on the seven-fifteen train to Calais. It’s a bit early, I’m afraid, but the only way you’ll make the ferry.”

“Thank you again.” I tuck them into my bag as he leads me down the path to the curb, hailing a taxi.

“Paul, my hotel is clear across town,” I say as the taxi pulls up. “There’s no need for you to ride all the way there.”

He opens the rear door. “But the city is crazy right now with all of the celebrating. I’m glad to escort you.”

“I know. But I’d rather you don’t. Please.” It begins to rain then, thick drops splattering on the pavement.

“I don’t understand…”

“If I don’t say goodbye to you now…” I hesitate, looking down the street, then back at Paul again. I take a deep breath. “If I don’t say goodbye to you now, it is going to break my heart.” I reach up and kiss him, quick and hard. Then, before he can respond, I leap into the back of the taxi and close the door. “Drive, please,” I manage to say in French.

“Where to?”

“Away,” I reply. Paul is still standing outside the cab. Desperately, I come up with the only place in Paris I remember. “To the Louvre.” I have no idea what a taxi costs, how far away the Louvre may be. I will stop the taxi and get out, I decide, as soon as I am away from here.

“But the Louvre is closed….”

“Just drive, please!” The cab lurches forward. Don’t look back, I think. As we start to move, tears well up, overrunning my eyes. Suddenly there is a banging on the roof of the cab, as though someone has dropped a large rock on it. I jump. “Mon dieu!” the driver exclaims, slamming on the breaks. There is another banging noise. It’s not coming from the roof, I realize, but the back window. I spin around. Perched on the trunk of the taxi on all fours, is Paul.

He jumps down, then comes around to the side of the taxi. I roll down the window. The rain falls heavily now, plastering Paul’s hair to his forehead, but he does not seem to notice. “What on earth are you doing?” I demand. “Jumping onto a moving car like that, you could have been killed!”

“I needed to stop you,” he replies simply, opening the taxi door.

“Why? What’s wrong? Did you forget to give me some of the papers?”

He does not answer, but falls to the ground. “Oh!” I reach down. “Are you hurt?”

Paul does not answer but looks up, still kneeling. He hasn’t fallen, but has dropped down on one knee deliberately, as though tying his shoelace. He reaches up and takes my hand. “Marry me, Marta.”

CHAPTER 9

I stare down at him, stunned. “Marta, when I had to leave you in Salzburg, I felt so helpless. I mean, I knew I liked you a lot, but we had practically just met. I thought I would never see you again and there wasn’t anything I could do about it.” His words come out in a tumble, almost too quick for me to follow. “And now, well…” He falters. “I know it’s crazy. We haven’t spent more than a day together. You barely know me. But there’s some reason we seem to keep finding each other. I’m crazy about you. I feel like we’ve known each other forever. And I’m not going to let you go this time. Not when I can do something about it. Marry me, Marta,” he repeats.

Is this really happening? I close my eyes, then open them again. Paul is still on one knee, gazing up at me expectantly. My mind races. Why is he doing this? For a second I wonder if he is still grieving over the loss of his fiancée, trying to fill a void. But looking down at his face, the intensity burning bright in his eyes, I know that his feelings for me are real. This is crazy. Paul is right, though. There is something special between us, something that makes it seem as though we have known each other forever. Suddenly I remember my first night at the palace, staring out at the mountains and wondering what life had in store for me. Now, at least in part, I know the answer. “Yes,” I whisper. My eyes start to burn.

“Yes!” Paul shouts. He leaps to his feet, then reaches into the cab and picks me up. We hold each other close, neither speaking. An earthy smell rises from the wet pavement.

“Pardon,” a voice says a few seconds later. Paul and I break apart. Behind us stands the taxi driver, arms crossed. “Louvre, Mademoiselle?”

“The Louvre?” Paul looks from me to the driver, then back again, brow furrowed. Suddenly I want to melt into the pavement and disappear. “Were you that desperate to get away from me?”

I can lie to him no longer. “You kept insisting on taking me back to my hotel and I was too embarrassed to admit I didn’t have one.”

Paul’s expression changes to one of understanding. He walks to the driver and hands him some bills. Then he turns to me. “Let’s get inside out of the rain.” Then he takes his jacket off and holds it over our heads as he leads me into the hotel. The lobby is crowded with soldiers overflowing the celebration at the bar, drinking and singing. As Paul leads me across the lobby through the crowd, a soldier carrying a camera and a dark green bottle blocks our path. I recognize him from Salzburg as the soldier who told Paul that they would be staying for the night. “War’s over!” the soldier exclaims, hugging Paul so hard he is forced to let go of my hand.