Who: Lucy Thatcher. When: Evening, December 1940. Where: Le Passant Rating: PG Status: Open and incomplete -- anybody feel welcome to just jump right in! Summary: Lucy is going over some of her notes with a drink. She would appreciate some company.
Lucy knew that she was supposed to be following the rules of the Vichy government while she was on assignment in Paris. She knew that she was supposed to keep her nose clean, get her stories and send them back to the Times headquarters in London, stay out of trouble, and live a quiet life in the small room she rented out while she was there. Basically, Lucy was supposed to live like a nun. After wiring her latest article to her editor and assuring him that she was going straight back to her room, the blonde had instead made a beeline for Le Passant, looking forward to the glass of scotch she planned on ordering. Now, sitting at a small table in a shadowy corner, Lucy sat in thought, tapping her glass with one finger and smoking a cigarette. Her notebook was on the table in front of her, but she had yet to open it. Her mind was on other things.
Le Passant had really grown on Lucy. She liked the atmosphere of the place. It seemed to be the only establishment in Paris where the only reminders of war were the German officers in uniform, a few of them sporting the red-banded Swastika that had become such a common sight. The proprietor and bartender was a lovely-looking woman who made Lucy feel welcome and was always willing to talk to her (a lot of Parisians were not so quick to speak with a British reporter, fearing what could happen to their friends or family if they were caught).
She took another sip of her drink, enjoying the good burn as it slid down her throat. Lucy’s thoughts drifted to James. It had been a few weeks since she had heard any word from him and, even though she wrote him constantly, she didn’t usually bank on him responding. Mostly Lucy heard news from her parents, both of which were back in England and wished that she would come home. Though things weren’t much better there, either. The Germans had begun an attack on the British mainland over the summer and were periodically bombing and attacking. Last she knew, James was somewhere in Mediterranean Basin. Lucy knocked back the rest of her scotch and took a long drag on her cigarette before flipping open the worn cover of her small reporter's notebook. It was filled with notes she had hurriedly scribbled while standing or walking. Deciphering them was going to be interesting.