Aline slipped away and stood. She gathered a handful of small, flat stones from the edge of the stream and handed one to her.
Ruth stood.
“Like this.” Aline, using a sidearm motion, threw a stone low over the water. The stone skipped two times across the surface and submerged into the stream.
“Good one,” Ruth said. She stepped forward and tossed her stone, which sank upon hitting the water.
“It takes practice,” Aline said, giving her another stone. “Try again.”
They took turns skipping rocks. Ruth improved by bouncing a stone twice over the water, but Aline surpassed her by jumping a rock four times before sinking into the stream.
“Bravo!” Ruth said, clapping her hands.
Aline grinned.
Soon, Lucette and Pierre joined in. They skipped stone after stone across the water, and for the first time in weeks they were joyful.
* * *
Jimmie—his boots muddy and uniform soaked with rain—returned to the bridge shortly before nightfall. He led them to a horse stall in a barn of an abandoned farm, which was being used by dozens of refugees as shelter. Fortunately for their group, a woman with two adolescent boys, approximately thirteen and fourteen years of age, saved them a spot in a stall while Jimmie left to bring his group to the farm. As a token of gratitude, Ruth insisted that the woman and her boys join them to eat their group’s last jar of pickled beets.
The refugees, most of whom were wet and exhausted, spoke little as they settled down on either the barn floor, stalls, or a hayloft for the night. A dull light, coming from a lantern that hung on a post near the door, flickered over the crowded space. Coughs and hushed voices drifted through the air, which contained an odor of manure despite the absence of farm animals.
Pierre, Aline, and Lucette settled onto a mound of straw to sleep, while Ruth and Jimmie remained awake while seated in a corner of the stall.
“Your jacket is soaked,” Ruth said, her voice soft.
Jimmie ran a hand over the front of his leather flight jacket. “It should dry by morning.”
“There’s a quicker way.” Ruth helped him to remove his sling and jacket while being careful not to jostle his splinted arm. She then stuffed the sleeves of the jacket, heavy and wet, with handfuls of straw.
Jimmie rubbed the stubble on his chin. “Are you sure about this?”
“Yes, straw is absorbent. It’s used to keep the hooves of horses dry.” She zipped up the stuffed jacket, which resembled the torso of a mannequin, and placed it under a pile of straw.
“Did you have horses on your family’s apple orchard?”
“I wish,” she said. “We used a tractor and a truck to haul our produce. But many people in the rural areas of Lewiston had livestock. As a child, I played gobs of hide-and-seek in a neighbor’s horse barn. The hayloft was the best place to hide.”
“Maine sounds like a brilliant place to grow up.”
She nodded. “In addition to farmland, there is lots of water—the Androscoggin River runs through Lewiston and empties into the ocean at the Gulf of Maine. It’s a beautiful area to go sailing, although I’ve only watched the boats from shore.”
“Someday, I would like to go there,” he said.
“I think you’d enjoy it, especially with your father being a ship builder. There are scads of small islands dotting the coast. It’s a well-known, scenic place to explore by boat.”
He fiddled with a strap on his splint. “I’ve never been much of a sailor. I think I’d feel more at home in your family’s apple orchard.”
Ruth smiled. Although her muscles ached and her brain craved sleep, she longed to speak with him. She scooched next to him, her side inches from his. “Maine feels like a million miles away.”
“Do you plan to go back home?” he asked.
She drew a deep breath. “Eventually, but I feel like I have two homes.”
“How so?”
“Lewiston will always be special to me, and I dearly miss my parents and our dog, Moxie. But I feel like I’ve grown roots in Paris.”
“Because of your singing career?”
“Yes, but it’s more than that. I adore my aunt and uncle, and I made good friends, especially with Lucette. There’s something about Paris—its sights, sounds, and smells—that makes me feel alive, and that dreams are possible.” She crossed her ankles. “Does that sound silly?”
“Far from it,” he said. “Someday, when Europe is at peace, I’ll come to Paris to see you perform.”
“I’d like that.”
“So,” Jimmie said, picking up a piece of straw, “what does your boyfriend think about you putting your singing career on hold to join an ambulance corps?”
She smoothed wrinkles on her skirt. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”
“Fiancé?”
Ruth smiled. “There is no one like that. I’ve dated a little, but nothing serious.” She looked at him. “Do you have anyone special back home?”
“No,” he said. “I was seeing a woman named Vera during my last year at King’s College London, but it didn’t work out.”
“What happened?”
