by Ciji Ware
THAT SPRING IN PARIS. Copyright 2017 by Ciji Ware.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this book, whether on screen or in print. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Lion’s Paw Publishing / Life Events Library / Life Events Media LLC. Please respect this intellectual property of the author, cover artist, and photographer.
The characters and events, real locations and real persons portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarities are not intended.
Cover design 2017 by The Killion Group, Inc.
Cover and colophon design by Kim Killion.
Paris photo credit: Carol Gillott;
Artist photo credit: Michael Svoboto.
Formatting A Thirsty Mind Book Design
ISBN: 978–0–9889408–6–4 ebook editions;
Additional Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available upon request.
1. Women’s fiction 2. Paris 3. San Francisco 4. Landscape painting 5. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder 6. Military and commercial drones 7. US Air Force pilots 8. Graphic Art 9. 21st century Contemporary Fiction. 10. Romantic Fiction 11. Terrorist attacks
e-Book Edition © May, 2017; Print Edition © May, 2017
Published by Lion’s Paw Publishing, a division of Life Events Media LLC, 1001 Bridgeway, Ste. J-224, Sausalito, CA 94965.
Life Events Library and the Lion’s Paw Publishing colophon are registered trademarks of Life Events Media LLC. All rights reserved.
For information contact: www.cijiware.com
PRAISE for Ciji Ware’s Historical and
Contemporary Fiction
“Ware once again proves she can weave fact and fiction to create an entertaining and harmonious whole.” Publishers Weekly
“Vibrant and exiting...” Literary Times
“A story so fascinating, it should come with a warning—do not start unless you want to be up all night.” Romantic Times
“A mesmerizing blend of sizzling romance, love, and honor... Ciji Ware has written an unforgettable tale.” The Burton Report
“A romantic tale of intrigue... a compelling story line and fascinating characters.” The Natchez Democrat
“Ingenious, entertaining and utterly romantic... A terrific read.” JANE HELLER, New York Times & USA Today bestselling author
“I read straight through...” MARY JO PUTNEY, New York Times bestselling author
“Oozes magic and romance... I loved it!” BARBARA FREETHY, #1 New York Times bestselling author
“Fiction at its finest... beautifully written.” Libby’s Library News
“Thoroughly engaging... Booklist
Also by CIJI WARE
Historical Novels
Island of the Swans
Wicked Company
A Race to Splendor
“Time-Slip” Historical Novels
A Cottage by the Sea
Midnight on Julia Street
A Light on the Veranda
Contemporary Novels
That Summer in Cornwall
That Autumn in Edinburg
That Winter in Venice
That Spring in Paris
Contemporary Novellas
Ring of Truth: “The Ring of Kerry Hannigan”
Nonfiction
Rightsizing Your Life
Joint Custody After Divorce
DEDICATED TO
My husband, Lt. Anthony P. Cook, U.S. Navy
My brother, Chief Petty Officer Richard Harlan Ware, U.S. Navy
My uncle, Seaman Leon Ware, U.S. Navy
My father-in-law, Major Howard Bell Cook, U.S. Army
Men who served their country honorably on land and sea.
Table of Contents
Titles
Poem
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Epilogue
Note/Acknowledgments
Sample: That Summer in Cornwall
Sample: That Autumn in Edinburgh
Sample: That Winter in Venice
About the Author
Chance meetings are almost always soon forgotten,
like shoppers riding upwards on an escalator
passing other strangers traveling in the opposite direction.
And then there are those split-second encounters
when paths cross—and lives are changed forever.
CHAPTER 1
November 13, 2015
Engrossed in a book since dinner, Patrick Finley Deschanel was oblivious to the late hour as well as the gentle slap of water against the steel hull of L’Étoile de Paris. That is, until he heard the loud, staccato sound of rushing footsteps arriving on the barge’s deck. In an instant, the American expat’s head snapped up and a rush of adrenaline coursed throughout his body. Jumping to his feet, he immediately went into a combat crouch. Head lowered, he peered out the window of the pilothouse that formed one half of his living quarters on the 110–foot stationary vessel that once had hauled oil products along the canals of France.
A few seconds later when he had absorbed the scene outside his cabin, Finn inhaled a couple of deep breaths as he’d been taught in his ‘special’ yoga class prescribed by his shrink.
A harsh voice in his head commanded, “Stand down, you idiot!”
By that time, he’d recognized the familiar figure of his elderly landlady’s grown son, Pierre Grenelle, accompanied by his wife. Both were hurrying in the direction of Madame Grenelle’s more commodious compartments, forward on the barge.
The former U.S. Air Force Major let out a low curse. Once again, Finn Deschanel had instinctively gone on Red Alert in Paris—not Afghanistan. And once again, he had to remember where he was. Who he was. A civilian, now... taking cover from the world outside his windows that faced the Seine and the Eiffel Tower, whose twinkling lights mocked him from across the river.
At least he had finally become accustomed to the barge’s gentle rocking as, daily, the world’s sightseers in their open-air long boats glided past and under the bridges. These vessels, along with commercial craft sailing up and down the Seine, constantly sent waves toward the embankment where the barge was permanently moored. Most days, now, Finn was even able to ignore the pedestrians on the quay that were forever peering toward the portholes on the land side of this barge that had been his Paris address for the last seven months.
A condo on the water.
Then the rueful thought occurred to him that a “hideout” was probably a more accurate term for his current accommodations, located not far from the Trocadero Gardens, a lush green expanse of park on the Right Bank. He cast
another glance out a plate glass window in the main cabin—formerly the pilothouse—that faced a full-on view of the glowing tower not two hundred yards across the water. The mighty filigree of iron girders, bathed at the four corners by the beams of huge spotlights, pointed skyward into inky darkness.
The moment he’d seen the iconic beacon across L’Étoile’s bow that shined every evening until 1 a.m., he knew his search for the perfect place of refuge was over. Within minutes of his arrival, he’d handed Madame Grenelle a small bundle of euros to secure the lease. Since then, his nightly routine had been to head for his bunk in a stateroom in the stern when the tower’s lights went out. Once in bed, he’d pray to God the next eight hours would be uninterrupted by night sweats or the recurring dreams of horror etched in his brain.
He glanced down at the second-hand copy he’d been reading of Hemingway: The Paris Years that he’d purchased at one of the bookstalls along the river. He’d been engrossed in its pages since consuming a supper of steaming coq au vin. He’d taken pride in the chicken dish doused in red wine that he’d managed to produce from a single pot on one of two burners positioned next to a minuscule stainless steel sink that had been built into a table doubling as a desk. In fact, in recent months he’d discovered that taking cooking classes à la Française and reading good books were better than prescription drugs or booze for avoiding re-runs of certain, highly disturbing scenes often playing in his mind’s eye.
His glance took in the barge’s beautiful teak floors that were partially carpeted with a well-worn Persian rug. A large, wooden wheel, motionless and locked into place, had once steered the barge, but now served as a hat-and-coat rack.
Trust Claudine to find me a unique and reasonably priced haven in which to lick my wounds...
His elderly unmarried aunt, Claudine Deschanel, was well aware that her nephew had broken a tradition by resigning his commission at the ripe old age of thirty-seven. No matter that there had been a male Deschanel serving in the United States military from the time their celebrated ancestor, Emile Deschanel, had arrived in America as a member of the Marquis de Lafayette’s entourage in the American War of Independence. Aunt Claudine had accepted without rancor that two centuries of Deschanel career servicemen had come to an abrupt end.
However, on the day Finn had landed in the City of Light in such terrible shape, the seventy-seven-year-old retired editor of Paris Vogue declared matter-of-factly, “You’ve quit the military? So be it. You’ve done your duty to History, to God, to Country, and to my almighty baby brother. If Andrew doesn't like your decision, too bad! Be as fearless with that tyrant father of yours as you were in all those deployments in the Middle East, Finn, to say nothing of that damned airbase outside Las Vegas. I say it’s time for a new chapter, mon cher. Vive La France!”
Promising not to reveal his whereabouts to anyone, she’d rung her longtime friend, Eloise Grenelle, and secured him a place to live in the stern of the old lady’s black-hulled barge. Then Claudine made an appointment for him with a shrink she knew.
I’ll get through this... I just need more time. I’ll deal with Dad... eventually.
And as for certain other members of his family circle... maybe in a few months he’d bite the bullet and get back in touch, but for now, he needed to be just where he was.
If only I could get one decent night’s sleep!
Through the bulkhead wall of bookcases at the far end of the wood-paneled pilothouse he was suddenly aware of an exchange of agitated female voices alternating with an equally excited masculine speaker. Despite the rising volume in the compartments next door, Finn couldn’t quite make out what was being said—either due to his fledgling grasp of French or the rapidity with which everyone was speaking. However, he clearly heard the loud sounds of a woman weeping, and then a low male voice crooning in a tone that Finn assumed was meant to be soothing.
The sorrowful wails instantly flung him back to the sight of smoking rubble in a well-remembered village compound. He could still see—
Stop! You are on the barge. This is Paris. This is today. Like they told you... think of something else!
But it was hard to do that. From Eloise Grenelle’s section of the boat, the echoes of distress being suffered by the kindly woman raised the hairs on his arm. Soon, he could hear that her cries had turned to moaning, but that, too, reminded him of the women and men who had haunted his dreams these last years.
A few moments later, Finn heard the sudden sound of footsteps on his deck outside his end of the barge that swiftly switched to a fierce pounding on his front door. His well-tuned senses brought an absolute awareness of the here-and-now.
“Monsieur, monsieur!” a voice shouted in anxious waves. “Ouvrez la porte, s’il vous plaît! Ouvrez! Ouvrez!”
Finn knew enough bare-bones French by now to cross the pilothouse in three strides and fling open the wooden door. At the sight of the stricken expression of Madame Grenelle’s son, every word of the language that Finn had struggled to acquire since coming to Paris suddenly evaporated.
“What’s the matter, Pierre? What’s happened? Is Madame ill?”
Pierre stood, frozen in place.
“Mon fils... my, my son...” he struggled in English.
Tears had begun to cascade down his cheeks, and in a torrent of French he wailed, “Jean-Pierre! Il a été abattu... les terrorists... les—”
“Madame Grenelle’s grandson has been shot?” Finn translated, wanting to be sure that the word ‘abattu’ meant ‘shot’ and not ‘killed.’
Pierre spoke about as much English as Finn spoke and understood French. Madame Grenelle’s son shook his head, his eyes assuming a haunted look.
“Oui! Une attaque terroriste! Comme Charlie Hebdo, comprenez vous? Beaucoup d’attaques!”
Finn struggled to understand. “You’re saying it was a terrorist attack... like in January at the cartoon magazine in Paris, yes? Many attacks on civilians tonight?”
“Oui!”
Finn could feel the blood begin to pound in his head. He comprehended most of Pierre’s further explanations: that someone from a hospital had called with news that Pierre’s twenty-nine-year-old son, Jean-Pierre, had been dining with a friend in the 10th Arrondissement. Pierre named half a dozen other locations around Paris, including a concert hall, where coordinated bands of black-suited Muslim extremists had reportedly killed with abandon.
“I must go to find my son!” Pierre finished, tears still streaming.
Finn felt his heart begin to thrum in his chest as he sensed his entire body going into well-schooled commando mode from his days when he jumped into real aircraft at a moment’s notice.
First thing: get the facts. Second—
The Frenchman, framed by the entrance to the pilothouse, raised his hands to cover his face, his shoulders heaving.
Finn pushed all other thoughts aside and asked in the best French he could muster, “Pierre, how can I help? What do you need me to do? Stay with your mother?”
“No, no, my wife will stay here with her while I go to find Jean-Pierre. I don’t want them to see Jean-Pierre, until I know...”
“I understand,” Finn said with a brusque nod.
Then in half-French, half-English, Pierre told Finn that Saint Louis hospital was directly across from the café Le Petit Cambodge where his son had apparently been shot, but for some unknown reason, Jean-Pierre had been taken, instead, to the American Hospital on the outskirts of Paris proper.
Pierre looked pleadingly at Finn. “Since you are Américain, I thought... if you—”
“Oui! Of course,” Finn replied. “The American Hospital on Boulevard Victor Hugo. I’ll go with you. I know exactly where it is.”
“Oh, merci, monsieur. You are most kind to come with me,” Pierre murmured, his relief evident.
Finn dismissed the man’s thanks, grabbing his Air Force flight jacket off a spoke of the ship’s wooden wheel. Through the barge window, the Eiffel Tower suddenly plunged into darkness. He glanced ag
ain at the ship’s clock. It was just 1 a.m. He wondered when the lights of Paris would come back on after this night of terror, along with what variety of horror would confront them at the American Hospital?
The biggest question of all for Finn was... would he embarrass himself if he witnessed a bloodbath again?
“Let’s roll,” he barked in English, as if commanding a member of his former aircrew, adding, “my car—ma voiture—is parked quite close by.”
* * *
Finn waited until 3 a.m. Saturday morning outside the Intensive Care Unit until twenty-nine-year-old Jean-Pierre was wheeled back to the ICU after surgery for wounds to his back and head. Finn then went home to shower and called his Aunt Claudine at her apartment at dawn to give her the terrible news about her friend’s grandson. All day Saturday, the two Deschanels sat vigil with Jean-Pierre’s family in the waiting room.
Finn would never divulge to the Grenelles, however, that he was quite familiar with the hospital at #63 Boulevard Victor Hugo. It was an institution established in a chic Paris suburb, Neuilly-sur-Seine, in 1906 by a group of philanthropic Americans to serve the burgeoning expatriate community. Its visitors and patients had included literary luminaries like Hemingway, Fitzgerald, and Gertrude Stein. Thank God Claudine knew a nice lady shrink there, skilled in treating returning vets with “curious forms” of Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome.
Early Saturday evening, Finn looked up as the trauma doctor who had operated on Jean-Pierre approached, beckoning him to step to one side for a private conference in English. With an eye to the flight jacket of the former serviceman, the surgeon whispered to Finn that he had never seen injuries like those suffered by the patient except on a battlefield of war. Fortunately, Claudine and Eloise Grenelle didn’t hear the doctor’s remarks as the two old friends sat conversing in French.
“Why was Jean-Pierre taken to this hospital, so far away from the restaurant where the attacks occurred?” Finn asked, trying to keep the criticism from his voice. He knew better than most that immediate treatment could make an enormous difference with wounds as acute as Jean-Pierre’s and he sought an answer to the question that had been plaguing the young man’s family since Friday night.