{"product_id":"huguette-isbn-9781641298490","title":"Huguette","description":"\u003cb\u003eIn the lawlessness of post–World War II France, a resilient young woman fights to survive and make a living, no matter the cost—from the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling author of Three Hours in Paris and the Aimée Leduc series\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAfter Libération, spring 1945: Seventeen-year-old Huguette Faure is a survivor. The war has taken everything from her—both her parents and her sense of safety. Now, pregnant and on the lam, she cannot return to her childhood home in Paris. Forced to reinvent herself, she must outrun her father’s enemies, who want her dead. After narrowly avoiding jail time—thanks to the help of a kindhearted police officer named Claude Leduc—Huguette lands a job assisting a legendary film director. As her role develops from helping him with chores to cooking his books, she sees an opportunity to break free from the ghosts of her past once and for all.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn this big-hearted story of resilience, New York Times bestselling author Cara Black offers a wholly original depiction of postwar France as well as introduc\u003cb\u003e\u003cu\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eHuguette\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/u\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eNominated for the Lefty Award for Best Historical Mystery Novel\u003cbr\u003eAn Amazon Top 10 Best Books of the Month Pick\u003cbr\u003eA \u003ci\u003eHistorical Novels Review\u003c\/i\u003e Editors’ Choice\u003cbr\u003eA BookTrib Editors’ Pick\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\"With its spirited cast of characters, sharply drawn settings and well-maintained suspense, \u003ci\u003eHuguette\u003c\/i\u003e should earn many votes as one of the best historical thrillers of the year.\"\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e—Tom Nolan, \u003ci\u003eThe Wall Street Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Cara Black’s \u003ci\u003eHuguette\u003c\/i\u003e is a propulsive dive into the demi-monde of postwar France, full of moral ambiguity and striking characters.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Sasha Vasilyuk, author of \u003ci\u003eYour Presence Is Mandatory\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A fast-paced, gritty thriller . . . A wonderful novel about a natural survivor whose actions often fall outside the law, but who is so likeable that you cannot help but root for her . . . Highly recommended.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eHistorical Novels Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Black is a consummate storyteller, and this fast-paced, enthralling novel features many of the elements her readers have come to expect: expertly drawn characters, a twisty plot, and richly detailed settings (here, a side of Paris seldom seen by tourists).”\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Library Journal,\u003c\/i\u003e Starred Review \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Huguette’s journey is extraordinary, and her courage and resourcefulness make for an engaging read. Black’s fans may clamor for more of this extraordinary character.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cu\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/u\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e “Vivid . . . [Black] renders the textures and social mores of postwar Paris with aplomb. Historical mystery fans will root for Huguette all the way to the novel’s bittersweet end.”\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Publishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cu\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/u\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“No one creates humanistic historical crime \u0026amp; mystery tales quite like Cara Black.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Bookreporter\u003cu\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePraise for Cara Black\u003c\/u\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Heart-racing . . . Chances that you’ll be able to put Black’s thriller down once you’ve picked it up? Slim to none.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Washington Post\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Beyond Black’s encyclopedic knowledge of Paris, her deft interweaving of WWII history and spycraft with a relatable female protagonist puts \u003ci\u003eThree Hours in Paris\u003c\/i\u003e on par with other top thrillers about botched missions followed by harrowing escapes.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eLos Angeles Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Black . . . excels at setting vivid scenes, creating lively characters and maintaining pulse-elevating suspense.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Wall Street Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eCara Black \u003c\/b\u003eis the author of twenty-one books in the New York Times bestselling Aimée Leduc series as well as the WWII thrillers \u003ci\u003eThree Hours in Paris\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eNight Flight to Paris\u003c\/i\u003e.  She has won the Médaille de la Ville de Paris and the Médaille d'Or du  Rayonnement Culturel and received multiple nominations for the Anthony  and Macavity Awards; her books have been translated into German,  Norwegian, Japanese, French, Spanish, Italian, and Hebrew.\u003cb\u003eEarly December 1947\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eÉtoile Office, Lyon\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003eAt her office window, Huguette hardly saw the mist hugging the sluggish Rhône or dawn slashing copper on the horizon. After a moment of staring at awakening Lyon, a city that felt more like \u003ci\u003ehome\u003c\/i\u003e now than she’d ever thought possible, she turned back to her desk and leaned down to unlock the safe. Rubbing her knuckles, she looked at the stacks of cash within.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMoney carried a weight she would have welcomed when she’d been hungry. Now she had more than she thought possible. Too much.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe closed the safe. Touched the medal of Saint Christopher on her neck. And got to work.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSoon she heard a discreet knock and Simone Delambry, her assistant, entered, pushing a rolling cart with a coffee carafe and cups on top, money bags on the tray below.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eBonjour,\u003c\/i\u003e Mademoiselle Lise. Here’s the weekend’s takings.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHuguette—known to those she worked with as Lise de Jouvenal— smiled. “\u003ci\u003eMerci\u003c\/i\u003e, Simone.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEvery Monday, she and Simone sorted the receipts from the ticket offices and cinema concessions and confirmed amounts in the account books. Their morning was fueled by good coffee from the café downstairs, one of four Huguette owned.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs profits climbed, the surplus soared, and figures swirled in her head—what to buy next? A building or two—or three—was on her agenda.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSimone, a war widow who spoke little, was the sharpest person Huguette had met in a long time. She had been an indispensable part of Huguette’s business since her first week in Lyon, when Simone had helped negotiate a union contract with the cinema’s employees. Huguette, frankly, had needed all the help she could get.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe looked over her shoulder every day. Wary the past would catch up with her. And every day she had to prove she could do this.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWould she ever not be afraid? She wondered if she’d have to hide like a burrowing animal all her life. Late at night, she sometimes felt like giving up, unsure of what to do to shake the demons of her past off once and for all. But in the meantime, what she \u003ci\u003ecould\u003c\/i\u003e do was work with good people like Simone by her side.\u003cbr\u003e*\u003cbr\u003eDownstairs in the \u003ci\u003ebouchon\u003c\/i\u003e, what the Lyonnais called a bistro, chalked on the slate menu board was \u003ci\u003eturnips, chestnut terrine, rutabaga.\u003c\/i\u003e Always rutabagas. Skipping lunch, Huguette ordered a coffee. She didn’t want to know how the chef procured ingredients to prepare pike quenelles with lobster sauce for \u003ci\u003especial\u003c\/i\u003e patrons. Postwar outages continued, but thanks to their refurbished generator, the wall sconces didn’t flicker and dim. The Germans’ bullet holes, filled and sanded, hardly showed on the stone facade.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe lifted up a silver-plated knife from the place setting to check her roots in its thin reflection. Time for another dye job. She tilted the blade to adjust her glasses, which were fake, and this time in the knife’s reflection she caught a face staring through the window. A face from her past.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eClaude Leduc.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEmotions flipped and her insides churned as he opened the door to the \u003ci\u003ebouchon\u003c\/i\u003e and entered, approaching her table. Words choked in her throat.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe’d dreaded being found out. Hoped this day never came.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut who was she fooling?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe’d been so careful, but it wasn’t enough. He’d betrayed her and she’d run. Without a trace, she’d thought. How had he found her? Where could she go to get away? Why did she want to feel the warmth of his arms again?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe reached out to her with something in his hand, and she stiffened, gripping the butter knife—but he was holding out a pocket-sized red booklet. A bilingual map of Paris. “I thought you might need an updated one.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhy would she need that? She didn’t know what to say.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHad he been tipped off? Led a squad to Lyon? Would he finally turn her in?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFrantic, she looked around for any eyes on them but saw only passersby, busy and intent. She could make a run for it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“No one knows I’m here,” he said, as if he’d read her thoughts. “This is between us. I’ve got two questions, that’s all. Then I’m gone.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRidiculous to run, she thought, and she resigned herself to whatever fate he’d brought with him from Paris.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Not here.”\u003cbr\u003e*\u003cbr\u003eShe shouldered her emergency kit: cash; a faux ID issued in 1947 for a Madeleine Colbert, occupation: seamstress, with her left and right thumbprints and touched-up photo; a brown wool jacket with tortoiseshell buttons bought from a rag seller; a cloche-style hat to cover her hair; a stub of carmine lipstick; a thimble; a spool of thread; and an open-ended train ticket to Marseille, all of which fit into hidden custom compartments in her market bag.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTwenty minutes later, she joined Claude on a hillside bench overlooking \u003ci\u003evieux\u003c\/i\u003e Lyon’s Renaissance buildings, the terracotta rooftops, the medieval streets sloping under the Fourvière hill, to the lapping current of the Saône below and across the wide Place Bellecour to the Rhône. The rivers threading Lyon made her homesick for the Seine, the first thing she’d seen every morning out her window for seventeen years.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFrom under his newspaper, a Lyon daily, Claude produced a small tin tray bearing two demitasses with steaming thick espresso.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHow had he managed that?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“My fault you missed your coffee,” he said. “Luckily the café owner, a romantic, obliged and let me bring you this. I said we needed \u003ci\u003eprivacy\u003c\/i\u003e.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe smiled and jerked his chin to the café quayside with a broad terrace.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“First question: sugar or not?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCaught off guard, she smiled. “\u003ci\u003eNon, merci.\u003c\/i\u003e” While grateful for the thought, she saw this gesture for what it was—a technique to disarm people. She sipped. Delicious. It should have been; she owned the roastery.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Maybe not up to Parisian standards, but the Lyonnais are masters of cuisine.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOr so they thought.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis voice sounded light but she heard an undertone, and it made her restless. “What do you want, Claude Leduc?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“To enjoy coffee with you.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe scoffed. Did he still think she was a naïve little girl? After everything they’d been through? “Don’t tell me this is a social call.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I’m not a \u003ci\u003eflic \u003c\/i\u003eanymore. I’m a \u003ci\u003edetective privé\u003c\/i\u003e now. Clients pay me to investigate. My field’s missing persons.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Who paid you to find me?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHesitating, he looked away.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe set down the small demitasse. “Of course, you’re not honest with me. You’ll lie again.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I never lied to you.” But he hesitated again, a pained look on his face. A face she’d once thought open, sincere, caring.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I’m leaving,” she said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Just give me a minute. Please.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eOne\u003c\/i\u003e minute.” She glanced at her watch. Pigeons fluttered down the path and pecked at crumbs scattered by an old man.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe steepled his hands, matching fingertip to fingertip. She noticed his bruised thumbnail. His shoulders broad under a well-worn corduroy jacket and his hair curled over his collar. Those deep-seeing eyes. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Will you do me a favor?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe wanted to hit him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“There’s going to be a trial in Paris in two months. Honoré Gisors, the \u003ci\u003enotaire\u003c\/i\u003e, is the defendant.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHer fingers gripped the demitasse.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Your testimony’s needed—”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe interrupted. “But it’s been, what, two years?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTwo long years, she could see in his eyes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Homicide cases remain open until they’re solved. Justice can finally be done.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJustice?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Too late for that.” She sipped her coffee and tasted nothing but fear.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The past never goes away.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe’d like to forget. If only the phantoms would let her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“But you betrayed me.”\u003cbr\u003e“Think what you want,” said Claude. “Alain sold me out, too. His actions made it clear I had to leave the force.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe’d wondered about Alain. But did it really change anything? “You took my money.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eClaude pulled an envelope from his inner jacket pocket. “Here’s my portion returned.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHer jaw dropped. She set down the demitasse.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“When I found out what happened, you’d disappeared.” He grinned. “I did use it to start my detective agency. Now business is booming, and I can repay you. You know, after the war, finding people is in hot demand. My new \u003ci\u003emétier\u003c\/i\u003e.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You must be good.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I found you.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis warm hands were holding hers. She felt the magnetic pull.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“But I would have found you anyway.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThen he was pulling her close. Kissing her. And she responded, folding into him, until his grip tightened and she remembered herself.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eNon.\u003c\/i\u003e” She pulled back. “How dare you ask me? I’m not that person anymore.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eClaude took her chin to look deep into her eyes. “Testify, then you can disappear again. For good this time.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhy couldn’t this just go away? \u003ci\u003eLeave me alone\u003c\/i\u003e, she wanted to scream. In her limited experience, men did nothing but take.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut Claude had helped her when he hadn’t needed to. And now, he’d asked her for something—the others never asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe pulled away from his hand, staring out at the river instead.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eClaude stood. She didn’t want him to go. A wistfulness emanated from him. He said, “It’s your chance to right a wrong, Huguette. To bring your father’s murderer to justice.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt what cost?","brand":"Soho Crime","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":48532155105509,"sku":"NP9781641298490","price":19.95,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781641298490.jpg?v=1773182867","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/huguette-isbn-9781641298490","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}