Page 1 of Beehive

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Will

Present Day | May 1946

Paris was slow to wake, her arms stretching in the soft rays of dawn, casting a glow across the cobblestones. The French capital was the only place I knew where buildings shimmered like liquid sunlight.

It was unseasonably cool, even for a late European spring. Most still donned thick woolen coats, stylish hats, and fluffy gloves to shield from the chill. Colorful scarves encircled slender necks, as Parisians refused to let postwar struggles strip them of their sense of fashion.

It felt like I was walking through a dream. It always did here.

London was home when the war ended. Thomas and I celebrated with the Brits, laughing and dancing in the streets, raising glasses and, in some cases, whole bottles. For a brief moment, despite Hitler’s destruction that enveloped everything—and everyone—the topsy-turvy world in which we’d lived seemed to right itself.

I had hoped we could stay in London, see British children return from exile with their infectious laughter and watch asthe grand old city patched its wounds and knitted itself back together.

Unfortunately, Uncle Sam had other plans for us.

Near the end of the summer of ’45, our OSS London chief called us into the Embassy and told us to pack our bags.

We were headed to Paris.

Our job was to quietly assist that city’s recovery while gathering intelligence on the presence of former Nazis who might be hiding in plain sight. As the station chief concluded his instructions, he added, “And keep your eyes open for Soviet activity. Uncle Joe has been restless lately.”

Thomas and I wrestled with exactly what that meant but were unable to fully wrap our heads around the meaning buried beneath the words.

Such was the life of a spy.

Our move from London to Paris flowed as smoothly as any postwar move could, and the French welcomed us with open arms. Given America’s role in helping free Europe from Hitler’s grasp, few days passed without hugs from elderly women or pecks on the cheek from younger ones. It felt a bit like being a celebrity without the stage or screen. I wondered if US soldiers stationed throughout Europe felt the same.

For a year, Paris stirred and rose, as if shaking itself awake from the nightmare of war.

Thomas and I ambled along Rue de la Montagne Sainte-Geneviève, the street damp from a light, early rain. Everything smelled fresh and alive. But it wasn’t just the city that felt different;wefelt different, too.

Today, for the first time in forever, we had nowhere to be.

Side by side, we took our time, brushing shoulders as we walked, letting our hands drift close, fingertips touching but never quite lingering. For one brief moment, it felt like the world belonged only to us.

We passed vendors setting up for the day. It was only in the past few months that they had returned to Paris’s streets. Rationing had taken its toll. Fields were only beginning to produce for locals rather than foreign occupiers.

Fresh bread and pastries, their golden crusts peeking out from beneath cloths, filled storefront windows. Thomas tugged me toward a boulangerie with a grin. I laughed, knowing full well he had no plans of letting us pass without stopping. I left him standing on the street, a lopsided grin on his lips, as I darted inside to retrieve our treats.

Thomas stood in the cool air, chatting amiably with nearby patrons. He was the one with the charm, his bright-eyed enthusiasm drawing attention, and I didn’t mind fading into the background to watch him soak it all in.

His accent marked him as American, but that only added to his appeal. It might’ve been the resistance who struck the match and lit the flame, but it was the Allies who ultimately finished the Nazis off and freed Europe from their shackles—and the French people loved us for it.

“Pain au chocolat?” I asked, holding two warm, flaky pastries between us as I returned from inside.

Thomas took a pastry, his fingers brushing against mine. “You know me so well.”

He groaned in an almost vulgar manner as he took his first bite. A nearby couple turned, then broke into quiet laughter, the older woman covering her mouth despite her dancing eyes.

His gaze twinkled in a way that made my heart skip.

I’d seen him hardened by war and duty, but on that morning, he was just Thomas—the man I loved, with no shadows or secrets between us.

We continued our stroll, passing a few shops with their windows still taped up, reminders of everything that had befallen Napoleon’s great city. Here and there, a street signgleamed with fresh paint. Walls bore faint marks where bullets had pocked the stone. Paris wore its scars like whispers, visible only if you knew where to look. It was an odd mix of sorrow and beauty, as though the city told its own story of survival.

I slipped my hand into Thomas’s and gave it a squeeze, finding comfort in his steady presence. Gays were not openly celebrated in France, but postwar weariness stole even the fundamentalists’ desire to bicker, allowing men and women who loved in secret to occasionally step into the sunlight. We hoped that progress would continue as the world put the horrors of hatred and war into the past.

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