19 November, 1939 - Dover, England
The port of Dover was dreary and gray this morning, as it had been the day Danielle and Max arrived in England more than two months ago. High above on a cliff loomed a castle, ominous in the gathering fog.
As they waited in the passenger queue for the ferry to France, Danielle framed Max’s lean face in her hands to memorize his features—his strong jaw, his aquiline nose, the eyes that could be so determined one moment, so loving the next.
“I nearly forgot.” Max pressed a small, felt-wrapped bundle into her hand. “Take these with you.”
Danielle opened the cloth. In it was his favorite pipe and the platinum Art Deco lighter that she’d had made for him in France as a wedding gift. The velvety aroma of his favorite vanilla tobacco drifted to her nose, and
