Chapter 11
A thought on Tabac de Bretancourt. Imagine a smoky quality, reminiscent of Max’s vanilla tobacco curling around the open deck—consider vetiver—smoky, green, slight anise aroma…flank with sandalwood and teak, finish with amber of a subtle hand. –DB
30 April, 1940 - Paris, France
Hélène adjusted her brown felt beret, on which she had strategically fastened a faux cameo pin to hide the moth holes. She stood by the table in the tiny kitchen of their flat sorting through mail, waiting for her mother-in-law.
She’d arranged for Liliana to stay with a neighbor, because she had something terribly important to discuss with Marie. Since her mother died, Hélène had no one to confide in—no one whom she trusted enough to divulge her suspicions about Jean-Claude.
At the sound of the knock
