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window, picked up the overturned copy of Zane Grey, and pressed her hand to the page.
    Amelia stood at the door. “I’ll brew some tea.”
    Rosie nodded then sat back, drew up her legs under her dress, and stared out into the graying night. Lilly, where are you?
    * * * * *
    Somewhere in the back of her mind, Lilly knew she should go home. That Rosie might be worried.
    But the Cathedral of Notre Dame sparkled under the moonlight and the music floated down the dark, mysterious Seine, and for the first time in six years, she felt as if life might be more than what she left behind. She could taste it, the freshness of the breeze, smelling of freedom, of the sky. Maybe there was a place for her outside Montana, if she just looked for it.
    â€œThere are so many stars.”
    â€œIf you think those are pretty, I should take you for a ride in the country. When the moon is full, waxing over a rolling French hillside, frosting the trees, turning the lakes to ribbons of molten silver. Glorious.”
    Rennie leaned over the edge of the bridge, the reflection of the moon in his eyes as he spoke, as if seeing something beyond the skyline of Paris.
    â€œYou sound like one of those writers I met today. But you’re talking about flying, aren’t you?” Lilly said.
    â€œFrom the sky, everything looks so small. You can put your thumb over an entire river, a barn, or a house and make it disappear. Everything drops away except for the wind in your ears and the feeling that you are weightless, nothing to bind you to this earth.”
    She could sink into his voice—the way he described Paris, or his upbringing on the farm in Canada, not so far from her ranch in Montana. “Did you learn to fly in the war?”
    â€œI went to England and signed up there with the RAF. They gave us a crash course and sent us over to France. I flew a Sopwith Camel with the 209th Squadron.”
    She wanted to ask, but instead, she stared into the black water of the river, watching a silhouette of a couple on the sidewalk walking arm in arm.
    The charisma of the night seemed to wheedle from him a piece of himself, and he surprised her with his tone, intimate, and even a little sad.
    â€œIt was different, flying in the war. You went up knowing it could be your last time. The German Flying Circus had a chap named Richthoven who could knock anything out of the skies. They called him the Red Battle Flyer. He was finally taken out by my flight commander, Roy. Even then, he didn’t crash, just set his plane down in a sugar beet field and died. Shot in the head.”
    The drama of the Great War had ended so soon after her arrival in New York, for Lilly the entire affair lacked the tragedy it should. Sure, she’d seen soldiers return home, some of them missing arms or legs, but mostly she’d seen the war through Aunt Jinx’s grief over her runaway son, Jack. Lilly had only known Jack a day at most before the revelation of her aunt’s affair drove him to war.
    What if her cousin Jack was right here, in Paris, lunching at a café, or painting out of one of those suitcases along the river? Maybe she’d passed him in her tour of Paris, as Rennie charmed the day away.
    She still couldn’t believe she’d spent the day with a stranger.
    Only now, perhaps not a stranger at all.
    â€œIt’s a miracle you survived,” she said as Rennie’s words faded into the fold of night.
    Rennie looked away from her. “I’m not sure I believe in miracles anymore. I saw too many friends burn in their planes to believe in miracles.”
    He straightened up from the railing, turned to her, and his eyes glistened. She looked away, the sharpness of his emotions cutting through her.
    â€œDo you believe in miracles, Lilly Hoyt?”
    She drew in a breath. “I didn’t grow up with miracles. I grew up with hard work.”
    â€œSays the woman of nineteen formidable years.”
    She glanced at him,