“No, no, monsieur. This is not what I mean. I mean, you have the luck that you should come to the Maison du Fragonard. You see, these Nazis they close many of the shops. But here on the Rue di Rivoli, they keep us open. For their wives. And their paramours?”

At this, her eyes twinkled.

“Are you here only for your mére? Or”—she lowered her voice—“do you have a paramour?”

He smiled. What an elegant name for what he wished Margaret to be. Was it a word that she knew? He’d have to make a note of it and send it in the next letter.

If there was a next letter.

“My great-grandmother was from France,” Tom explained. “And my mother always spoke of the perfume that she wore. I believe it was made of violets.”

“Ah, oui!” she confirmed. “More luck for monsieur! It is one of our most popular fragrances. The German wives loved it, and so we have some in stock, even as we are low on the others.”

She walked behind the counter and beckoned to him. “Come, come.”

He followed her, and she held her arm out.

“Do like this,” she said.

He did the same and before he could stop her, she’d pushed his sleeve up and spritzed his skin generously with a bottle of perfume. He smelled the violet mist as it wafted upward and tickled his nose.

But yes, this was the one. Floral with a hint of sweetness, just as his mother had described.

Would Margaret like it as well?

But he really couldn’t buy the same perfume for his mother and his girl, could he?

Then again, that was hoping for something that could never come to pass.

“Only this one, monsieur?” She pouted. The woman set out delicate paper on the counter and began to wrap the box with the care one might have expected from a ship engineer. When she’d finished the sides with knifelike corners and wrapped it in twine, she slipped a sprig of lavender onto the top.

Tom had no idea how it would all survive the war packaged as it was, but he had to give it a try.

“Oui,” he answered. She pulled out a receipt pad and wrote up the cost. It was more than he’d expected, but when would he ever get the chance to give his mother such an extraordinary gift? You couldn’t buy Fragonard anywhere near the Chickahominy River.

“Wait.” Tom pulled his wallet from his pocket and flipped through the bills he’d been holding on to since he’d left Virginia. He’d learned that the French were eager to be paid in American dollars.

“Yes, is there something more?” The shopgirl’s face brightened and he wondered if she worked on commission.

“Something for my paramour.” He bit down on his tongue as he said it. What a foolish thing to be doing.