Free Stranded with a Spy by Merline Lovelace Page B

last night exploded, taking part of his face with it. Thinking about his anguish, about how he must have had to fight for his life, made Mallory’s own ordeal seem trivial by comparison. Slowly, inexorably, the tight knot of fury she’d carried around inside her for so many weeks loosened. As the knot unraveled, chagrin replaced the bitter, corrosive anger.
    How stupid she’d been to lose all perspective the way she had! How egotistical to think her problems were so earth-shattering. People all over the world were battling cancer or dying of starvation or losing all they owned to war or the ravages of nature.
    Yet here she sat, bathed in bright Norman sunlight, munching on warm croissants and apple butter, in the company of the most intriguing male she’d met in longer than she could remember. She’d be fifty times a fool not to savor every moment of this escape from harsh reality.
    Those thoughts were still tumbling through her mind when Cutter downed the rest of his croissant and swiped his napkin across his mouth.
    “That settles it. If the locals can work this kind of magic with apples and butter, imagine what they can do with apples and brandy. You’re going with me this morning.”
    Mallory capitulated with a rippling laugh. She’d tackle the American Embassy and the rental-car agency this afternoon. For now, she’d savor the bright sunshine and Cutter Smith’s company.
    “Okay, I’m going with you this morning. Let’s get directions from Gilbért on how to find a notary.”
     
    Mallory hadn’t counted on the French propensity for ignoring posted schedules.
    Despite Gilbért’s call to confirm the office hours of the town clerk, Mallory and Cutter sat on a bench and waited for more than twenty minutes for le notaire to pedal up. He offered a nonchalant apology, stuffed his beret into his jacket pocket, and led them to an office musty with the smell of old documents and wood imbued with damp from the salt-laden sea breeze.
    To Mallory’s relief, a computer and fax sat side-by-side with ranks of cloth-bound ledgers that looked as though they were left over from the 1800s. The clerk booted up and set out the tools of his trade.
    “You wish me to witness your signature, yes?”
    “Yes. Then I need to fax the authentication to the American Express office in Paris.”
    “Bien.” He waved her to the chair beside his desk. “We begin.”
    While he and Mallory took care of business, Cutter wandered over to examine an array of yellowed photos displayed on one wall. Mallory joined him a few moments later. One glimpse at the photographs explained his grim absorption.
    The stark, unretouched images portrayed the epic battles that had raged along the beaches to the north during the Second World War. Coils of wire gleamed in the gray light, encircling turrets. Anti-aircraft artillery peeked from cement blockhouses. Machine-gun emplacements sat perched high on rocky ledges. And far below, at the base of the cliffs, row after row of lethal steel spears protruded from the surf.
    “My grandfather takes these photos,” the clerk said, coming to stand beside them. “He was an old man, you understand, and crippled, but he bicycles north to Côte de Nacre—what you call Omaha Beach—to make photos of German defenses and provide them to la résistance. ”
    His chest puffing with pride, the clerk directed their attention to a framed document.
    “General Eisenhower sends my grandfather a letter after the war and thanks him for his pictures. He says they helped to liberate our country. I have the copy here, but the original is in the museum at Arromanches.”
    Cutter dragged his gaze from the document and swept it over the photos again. As a former Ranger, he knew the history. The initial wave of the First Infantry Division, the Big Red One, had hit Omaha Beach at 0630. The second wave came ashore at 0700. The Rangers and the 116th Infantry regiment landed two hours later and were forced to wade through the bodies of