Free Home by Nightfall by Alexis Harrington Page B

stationery she had obtained from the same source. She had worked with her hands most of her life, on the land, in the garden, at the stove. Although her father had called it a waste of time, her mother had insisted that Véronique learn to read and write. So for five years, she had attended the convent school at St. Jean-Baptiste in the village, until her father deemed that she’d learned as much as she needed to know. A husband, he had said, would not want a wife to know more than he did.
    The day’s baking was done and a chicken simmered in a pot on the stove with some wine and vegetables. Supper would be ready when she needed it.
    Now she had time to put the stern sisters’ teaching to use. With a sheet of paper before her, vast and blank, she dipped herpen in the bottle and began to scratch her way across the page with the opening words. She got as far as the date and Dearest when she heard Édouard arrive outside with the brown-and-black dog he had found and adopted. The dog liked to bark and play with the chickens, but he did no harm to them. She thought the two were a good match—the dog was a stray, and as far she could tell, so was Édouard. The door was open and he stuck his head in.
    Père Michel had taken in Édouard, a young, homeless French soldier, and let him and his dog sleep in the church basement. Knowing that Véronique needed the help after Christophe had gone, he sent the man to her farm three or four days a week. In exchange, she fed him, and when she could spare the food, she fed the dog too. They were all injured somehow by four years of combat, and each person’s experience was unique. The aftermath and recovery were new battles of their own. The horrors of Édouard’s war had seemingly left him mute, but the priest said that he had heard the man speak when he believed he was alone. She sighed.
    “We should harvest the squash today, I think. More time on the vine is not going to help,” she said. “Can you begin that while I finish here?”
    Tall with medium-brown curly hair and light eyes, he was a nice-looking man. He had probably been quite striking before war and suffering had given him the same careworn, haunted look that so many men wore now.
    He nodded and gave the dog a couple of hearty pats on the flank, and off the two of them went.
    Dearest Christophe…
    How much should she tell him? That as soon as she had seen him leaving in the backseat of the Croix Rouge automobile, she regretted sending him off? That a private joy was all that kept hergoing? No, that would not be fair. It was too late—she had made the decision for him. Thus, with so much that could not be said, and the little that could, she began her letter.
    The task took her the better part of the afternoon, with several false starts crumpled and thrown into the stove. In the interim, Édouard showed her the results of the harvest—squash and potatoes in two bushel baskets.
    The sun’s rays were golden and lambent when at last she finished the painfully inscribed and carefully worded letter, then sealed the addressed envelope. It was her favorite time of day, but even this kindly light could not disguise or even improve the appearance of the land that surrounded her. It would take years for the earth to recover from the grotesque assault it had suffered.
    She went to the doorway and called Édouard in for an early supper. He was feeding the chickens weeds and other greens he had pulled from the vegetable plot. Tomorrow she would let them forage on the remainder of the squash plants.
    “Édouard, supper is on the table. I have a bone for the dog, too.” He looked up and lifted a hand in acknowledgment.
    She heard him washing outside, and when he came in she handed him a lamb joint left over from supper the night before. He tossed it to the dog, whose name she didn’t know. The mongrel flopped down on the dirt in front of the door and set to work on his prize.
    After she had said grace and the food was passed between