When she wasn’t with him, he went over and over their conversations in his head and practiced the French phrases she taught him. He was charmed by her quirky English, which she had learned from the novels of Arthur Conan Doyle. It made her sound slightly old-fashioned and extra smart.

Every once in a while, he managed to shift his thoughts from Lisette to the mission. Had the Brits finally agreed to the plan? Had his unit provided good intel? Were they still looking for him? Had they given him up for dead? Lost? Deserted? Captured? He could not think of a way to contact his unit without putting Lisette in harm’s way. He knew she would do anything he asked, especially since she had all but confessed that she was helping the resistance by taking strategic photographs, but he didn’t want to ask. He’d heard rumors about what the Vichy government officials did with resistance workers.

Bivouacked in this hiding place with a bum leg, he could only imagine what was going on outside. He wished he could be mapping the terrain, setting up radar sets and Krypton lights to signal the drop zone. Now that he’d met Lisette, he wanted that more than ever—to be part of the force that would liberate her village along with the rest of southern France.

He took out his frustration by fashioning a pair of makeshift crutches, gouging the wood with savage strength. Despite the searing pain, he knew he was getting stronger. His ribs were healing. It was now possible to take a breath without wanting to scream. The leg was another matter. But still, he was determined to get back on his feet, and soon.

And then what?

The question haunted him. He stared at the opening of the hut, which framed a view of the sky. He’d memorized what the sky looked like at every hour of the day. He could tell it was around nine at night, judging by the deep orange hues cast by the dying sun.

He heard the sound of someone approaching. Footfalls on uneven ground. As always, he held his breath, because even though Lisette swore no one would come near, he had to be vigilant. Then he heard her signal—the soft whistle of a bird.

And just like that, his heart was filled with happiness. She was magic that way.

“Bonsoir, mon beau monsieur,” she said.

He heard a special note in her voice. A trill, almost. “You’re in a good mood tonight.”

“I am,” she said, setting down a basket that emitted the most delicious aroma. “I’ve brought you a strawberry tart. And something special.” She took a bottle from her basket. “Champagne.”

“Wow, I’ve never tasted champagne. Are you celebrating something?”

“We all are. All of France. All the world.” She tipped back her head and laughed, looking as fresh as a rose, and so beautiful his heart skipped a beat.

“There’s news?” He sat forward, eager to hear.

She nodded. “There was a report on a contraband radio. The Allies have landed in Normandy and are in the process of taking back all of France.”