“Really? When? How?” He couldn’t get his questions out fast enough. Everyone knew a huge invasion was in the works to keep the Germans out of England, but the actual time and place were top secret. Now the news was out that there had been a massive invasion on the beaches of Normandy at the beginning of the month. The fighting had been brutal, but they had the Germans on the run, and were liberating villages one by one, making their way to Paris.

“I found a few bottles of champagne hidden away at the farmhouse. Let us drink to the liberation of France.”

The cork was held on by a wire cage to keep it from popping out. When she removed the cage, it still didn’t pop. “Let me show you something. It’s a trick my father used to do, back when he . . . in happier times.”

She drew out an odd-looking short saber. Hank didn’t bat an eye. How quickly he had come to trust her, more deeply than he had ever trusted anyone.

She held the bottle in one hand with the cork facing away. “Each bottle has a very subtle seam,” she said. “Can you see it?”

“Not really. It’s getting pretty dark.”

“Give me your hand,” she said.

“Gladly.” He loved the feel of her dainty hand covering his. She guided his finger over the smooth glass surface until he felt a slight ridge.

“The seam must be facing up. Then you take the saber and . . . just watch.” In a quick, decisive movement, she slid the blade up the neck of the bottle. With a loud crack, the cork flew free, and a froth spewed onto the floor. “Et voilà,” she said.

Hank was both startled and delighted. “Well, how about that. Never seen anything like it.”

“I have only one cup.”

“I’ll gladly share with you, Lisette.”

She poured, and lifted the glass. “To France—and to the Allies who will make us free again.” Then she took a drink and handed him the cup.

He was amazed by the taste of the champagne. “Holy moly,” he said. “That is probably the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted.”

“Like drinking the stars,” said Lisette. “That is how Dom Pérignon described it.”

An impulse took hold of him and he leaned forward, took her face in his cupped hands, and kissed her.

She looked as stunned as he felt when he pulled away.

“I lied,” he whispered, still holding her face between his hands.

“About what?”

“When I said the champagne was the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted. Because it’s not. You are. You are the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted.” He kissed her again, more briefly, entranced by the sweetness of her. “Like kissing the stars.”

He was so crazy about this girl. What if he persuaded her to come back to the States with him after the war? What if he brought her home to Vermont as his war bride? What if they settled down and made a life together?