The kitchen—the apartment, generally—was basic but homey. They lived here alone, mother and son. The husband had been killed in the war. Robert had always known this, of course, but he’d never really thought about his secretary’s home life. It must be the dead husband’s pajamas and gown that he was wearing.

“Do sit down and have some breakfast.” Marie-Claire was avoiding his gaze. Oh, God, had she undressed him last night?

“Thank you.” But there was nowhere to sit. There were only two chairs at the small table.

Marie-Claire barked at the boy to give up his seat. She must have done something similar when he had arrived during the night—simply instructed the child to surrender his room. Robert did his best to overcome his awkwardness and his hangover and smile warmly as the boy (now, what was his name?) slipped past. He received only a sullen look in return.

“I’ll make you some coffee.” She was up at the stove and bashing about with pots. “Would you like some bread? It’s yesterday’s, I’m afraid, but if you’re prepared to wait ten minutes or so until Charles leaves, I’ll go out for some fresh.” The words came rushing out. She was as nervous as he was.

“Please don’t trouble yourself. I’m not at all hungry.” He wiped the sweat from his forehead. “The coffee would be nice, though. I’ll take it black.” Though she knew how he liked his coffee, of course.

“Certainly.” She kept her back firmly turned. There was a bunch of pink roses hanging upside down to dry from a hook just beside the kitchen window. They were one of the bunches he’d bought the morning after Genevieve had announced she was pregnant.

Someone was whistling in the street, and Marie-Claire started humming to herself as she made the coffee. The kitchen smelled of good cooking. The boy called out, “Maman, where’s my schoolbag?” and was told, “In the hallway, with the shoes.” It was an everyday, singsong exchange. A ritual. There was a coziness to this scene: The woman making coffee, the man still in his pajamas, the boy getting ready for school…for a moment, Robert indulged in a fantasy that this was his life, these were his pajamas.

“It’s very kind of you to have let me stay.”

“Well, I could hardly turn you away, now, could I?”

Was her implication that she would have liked to, if she’d felt able?

“It was kind of you.” He stared at the table. “I realize I must have put you in a rather awkward position. I’m very grateful, and very sorry.”

“Oh, Robert.” The emotion broke through in those two little words and then was quickly suppressed. She put the coffee down in front of him and went out into the hall to chivvy her son along.