Author’s Note

May 8, 1945

Genevieve stepped out onstage for her final curtain call. She was in London, performing at the Savoy Theatre to sold-out crowds. This was the last night of her run before she took a well-deserved break. She had family things to take care of. And she was tired.

The war in Europe had ended days before. The city’s mood was joyous, ebullient. The celebrations were ongoing. That giddiness was reflected in the enthusiasm of her audience. They’d been on their feet before the last note was sung. They were on their feet still. So many bouquets had been carried up to her that there weren’t enough stagehands to cart them away and they were piling up in the wings.

The king and queen were in the audience. They were on their feet, too.

Even more important, her mother was there, in the front row. Lillian remained brokenhearted over Emmy’s death—as did Genevieve. Emmy’s husband David had survived and returned home a few weeks before. Grief stricken at Emmy’s fate, he had sought them out and they mourned with him. But Emmy would always be with them, just as Vivi would, and Paul and Berthe. One thing Genevieve had learned was that the people you loved were never lost. They became a permanent part of your soul.

Lillian was healing physically, and emotionally she was doing better lately, although she still had a long way to go on both fronts. Part of the reason for the improvement in her spirits was because she had fallen in love with Anna. After the Battle for Paris ran the Nazis out of France, Genevieve had arranged to have Anna rescued and brought to them. It hadn’t been easy, but between Lillian’s partisan connections and her own celebrity, she’d managed it. She’d been with them for six months now, in the comfortable house in Belgravia that Genevieve had leased until things settled down. Anna had been allowed to join them with the understanding that her stay with them might not be permanent—she would be restored to surviving family members if any could be found—but for now the three of them were a family. Genevieve caught herself being overprotective of the little girl sometimes, which was something she was working on, although she knew the tendency would probably follow her forever.

“Bravo!”

“Genevieve!”

“The Black Swan!”

They were shouting, whistling, clapping. It had been a good show, this final one. At least, final for a while. She would be back performing as soon as she had a rest, as soon as she got herself centered again.

Taking one more bow, she smiled into the blinding spotlights, waving and blowing kisses to the audience she could barely see.

She was happy the war was over. Of course she was. Ecstatic, really. But the many losses, the vast pain, could not be erased.

She was braced for more. She hadn’t heard a word from Max in almost four months. When she wasn’t onstage, she existed in what was starting to feel more and more like a permanent state of dread.

Which was why she was taking a break. The war, the losses she had endured, had taken an immeasurable toll. If Max didn’t come back...

Another huge bouquet was on its way to her. A mass of roses, vivid red. She could see it being carried up the steps on the left side of the stage.

Picking up the full skirt of her white ball gown, cunningly sequined all over so that it glittered like a diamond in the lights when she moved, she walked toward stage left to take the flowers, smiling and waving to the audience all the while.

The lights were still in her eyes as she and the man carrying them drew close and she reached out for them.

She identified the uniform first: RAF. Then, as she accepted the flowers, which were heavy and redolent with perfume and just about the most beautiful bouquet she’d seen for a while, she saw the tall, lean, black-haired man who was handing them over. For a moment, the moment she took to process what she was seeing, her every sense suspended.

Then he smiled at her.

Max.

Roses and all, she flung herself into his arms as joy flooded her heart.

They closed tight around her. Laughing, crying, she wrapped her arms around his neck, and he lifted her up off her feet and whirled her around. In the auditorium, a spotlight hit a shock of white hair belonging to a man standing near the edge of the stage: Otto. He was there, safe as well. Beaming at her.

Her cup runneth over.

“Where have you been?” she said to Max.

“Did you think I wasn’t coming? I told you I would. I just now got leave to come home.”

“I’ve been so worried... I missed you so much.”

His answer to that was to set her back on her feet and kiss her like she was the one thing he wanted most in this world. She kissed him back the same way.

The audience erupted into cheers. Not that either of them noticed or heard.

When at last he lifted his head, she leaned back against the strong arms that still circled her, looked up into the lean, dark face that had engraved itself on her heart and experienced the most profound sense of homecoming.

“It’s over,” she said. “Thank God, it’s over.”

“The war’s over,” he said, “but you and me, angel, we’re just beginning.”

Author’s Note

I researched this book to the point where I was muttering about the events leading up to D-Day in my sleep. Nevertheless, it’s very possible that some factual errors have slipped in. If so, they are mine alone.

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