The Sculptress by V.S. Alexander (ereader for comics txt) 📗

never change their spots. I’m happy to see Virginia is her usual cranky self.” He struck a match and puffed on his cigar, taking in one deep breath as the tobacco fired red. “I’ve switched from cigarettes to cigars. Better for your health, I believe.”

“Virginie is only cranky when you’re here, John.”

“Bah, she’s a pain in the—”

“She’s a treasure.” Emma chuckled. “I don’t know what I would do without her. In fact, what I would do without my whole staff. Hassan has become quite expert at modeling, and Madame Clement takes care of us like a grandmother.”

The nurse entered and placed a metal ashtray on the desk in front of John.

“Thank you, Virginia,” John said. “What a pleasure it’s been to see you again.”

“You should visit more often,” she responded. “The Germans still sink ships in the Channel.”

“Well, fortunately for you I’ve arrived in one piece, saved from torpedoes; otherwise, you would be deprived of my company.” He blew smoke in lazy rings toward her.

Virginie coughed and waved her hands. “I must be going. I don’t like cigar smoke.”

“Too bad,” John said. “Perhaps I’ll see you again on my next visit.”

“I’ll be in my room,” Virginie said.

“Au revoir,” John said.

“Pitre,” Virginie muttered as she left the room.

“What did she say?” John asked. “I didn’t catch it.”

“She wished you a good day,” Emma said, knowing that the nurse had branded him a “clown.”

John rested his cigar on the ashtray. “Highly unlikely.”

Emma slid a few books away from the middle of her desk and leaned toward him. “So why are you here, John? I’m almost certain this isn’t a social visit.”

He lowered his head a bit and stared intently at the edge of the desk. “I’m afraid I can’t say.”

“Can’t say? That’s very unlike you.”

He shifted the cigar between his fingers. “I don’t mean to be evasive—let’s just say I was well protected during the Channel crossing. The entire German Navy wouldn’t have had a blighter’s chance against the convoy I was traveling in. Doctors sometimes get involved in wartime projects that are out of line with their normal duties.”

“You don’t have to explain.”

He nodded, flicked his cigar ash, and without hesitation asked, “How’s Tom?”

“He’s fine,” she said under the uncomfortable scrutiny of his penetrating gaze.

“He’s fine? That’s all? Now who’s being evasive?”

“I’ve been to Toul twice since Christmas for short visits—both times I planned the trip. The first time, in January, I helped Tom get comfortable in his cottage—straightened it up and cleaned for him. The second visit, in May, he was back to work fully and we barely had time to speak. It was just after the battle at Cantigny.”

“So you know about the American forces?”

“Word filtered down . . . even in Toul.”

He had not taken his eyes off her while positioning the cigar in the ashtray. “I must say, if you were one of my patients, I’d be treating you for malaise.”

Emma stared back indignantly. “Malaise? I have more work than my staff and I can handle. New patients arrive every day—all of them wanting some semblance of their lives back. If you treat me for anything it should be exhaustion.”

He pointed to the casts on the wall. “I see your work is going well. You have a reputation, Emma. I’ve even heard word of it in Porton Down. The French love you. They say you work miracles and talk about the wonders of your masks.”

“I’m glad to hear it. I’m flattered.”

He paused. “But they love Tom as well. They say he is a great surgeon.”

Emma picked up a pen and rubbed it between her fingers absentmindedly. “We do very different work. We’re very different people.”

John sighed. “As a friend to both you and Tom—and I know it’s not my affair—and may I say, you are very different people. . . but you’re married. Neither of you act like it.”

“Rather obvious, isn’t it.”

“Painfully so. I talked with Tom two weeks ago by telephone and I told him I was coming to Paris. I asked him to tell you about my trip and give you my regards. He said I would probably see you before he talked with you. I can’t believe this silence is just about your busy schedules.”

She leaned back in her chair. “To be honest, it’s not about our work. It’s about us.”

“I’m going to see Tom the day after tomorrow. I’ll be spending quite a bit of time in Toul. Is there anything you’d like me to do—anything you want me to say?”

“Thank you for the offer, but no.” Emma laughed.

“What’s so humorous?” John asked.

“I was going to ask you to tell Tom that I love him, but that’s rather ridiculous, isn’t it?”

John picked up the cigar and puffed on it. “It’s only ridiculous if it’s not true.”

Emma considered his words as smoke drifted through the room. Finally, she said, “I do love him. We’re both having a difficult time at the moment.”

“I’ll tell him you love him.” He ground his cigar tip into the ashtray and dusted the excess ash off with his finger. “It’s getting late—at least for me. I’m in Paris through tomorrow if you require my services. The Hotel Charles.” He opened his jacket’s breast pocket and dropped the cigar inside. “Please deliver my good-byes to Virginia and your staff. I’m very pleased the Studio for Facial Masks is doing so well.” Emma escorted him to the door. “Remember, there is more to life than work.”

“You’re one to talk.”

“Precisely.” Before he closed the door, he added, “I don’t have a wife, Emma. I have nothing but England, this war, and my work. You have so much more than I do.”

He bobbed like a cork down the staircase and crossed the courtyard to the tunnel. Then his footsteps disappeared into the sounds of rue Monge echoing through the walkway—chattering pedestrians, the clop of hooves, the “uh-ugah” of a distant automobile horn. On impulse, she ran to the casting room window and looked out on the street. The plump body and bald pate