That Spring in Paris

by Ciji Ware

  “The power line may very well snap,” she said, “if the water rises above the predicted twenty-two-feet level. More importantly, do you think the mooring lines that hold L’Étoile to the riverbank are strong enough to withstand the pressure that’s going to be put on them? What if they give way?”

  “That would be bad,” Finn deadpanned.

  Pierre looked confused by their exchange in English and gave a Gallic shrug. Finn, however, followed her gaze and added quietly, “If the water doesn’t stop rising before it reaches twenty-three feet, we should all definitely abandon ship. Have you heard any new rain predictions?”

  Juliet looked at her cell phone and clicked the app icon for a local TV station.

  “At this point they’re saying it could rise very close to the twenty-three-foot level.” She tilted her head in the direction of the other end of the barge. “I think we should evacuate Madame Grenelle while we still can.”

  * * *

  Juliet kept busy making the rounds to check on the steel cables that connected the vessel to the quay. Finn said to Pierre slowly in French, “I think together... you and me... if we take your mother’s arms, we can get her to the ladder leaning against the stone wall and then up and onto the street. It will be safer for her to stay with you a few days.”

  By this time, if anyone on the barge attempted to use the little “emergency escape boat,” it would simply be swept away and crash into the nearest flooded bridge. As for exiting the barge via the submerged gangway and up the ladder lashed to the river wall, that was fast becoming less of an option.

  Juliet summoned the best French she could conjure, adding to Finn’s plea to take the elderly woman off the boat. “Let’s get your mother to safety right now, Pierre. Finn and I will stay with the barge to keep an eye on things as long as it’s safe to be here.”

  “No,” Finn said firmly. “You go with Pierre and Madame.”

  “Absolutely not,” she protested. “I’m the sailor around here, remember? I’m sticking with the ship!”

  Juliet held her breath as Madame Grenelle was escorted by her son and Finn across the narrow gangway, its slanted foot-and-a-half-wide metal plank already underwater. The rubber-booted trio inched along until they finally reached the foot of the tall ladder. Much to Juliet’s amazement and relief, the old lady gamely managed to climb the rungs until she reached the top of the river wall, mere feet above the current level of rushing water. Pierre’s wife, summoned by cell phone, stood in her rain gear on the street and assisted her mother-in-law over the cement barrier and then down the shorter ladder six more feet to safety on Georges Pompidou. Pierre then ran the same gauntlet and waved them good luck.

  That night, neither Finn nor Juliet slept much, electing to wrap themselves in blankets and stretch out, feet-to-feet, on the sofa in the pilothouse. All night, huge tree trunks and heaven knew what other debris banged into L’Étoile’s battered hull. Every hour, the pair donned their rain gear and boots and repeated Juliet’s system of checking the mooring lines along the 110-foot-barge amidst the groaning of straining cables and the clanking and thuds of anything that wasn’t tied down.

  By the early hours of Saturday, June 4th, the French weather service announced the waters had peaked at just under 23 feet above normal levels, and, miraculously, the rubber-encased power lines on L’Étoile had held.

  At this news, Finn had embraced Juliet in a bear hug. “I’d have you as my tail gunner any day!”

  “I think you mean First Mate, flyboy.”

  Both of them laughed, while Juliet stared at her cell phone’s CNN news bulletins. Along with those of the BBC, they had been their best sources of information in English. She pointed to the little screen and marveled, “In the last day and a half, the staff at the Louvre moved some one-hundred-and fifty-thousand items from the lower floors to higher ground!”

  As for life onboard, Juliet was grateful they had been able to scramble eggs for their supper and breakfast, alike, and kept their mobile phones charged.

  “Oh, dear!” She scrolled down a list of stories related to the historic Paris flooding. “They’ve announced, ‘Monet Gardens will be closed June fourth through sixth, possibly opening to the public again June seventh.’”

  “Just in time for your workshop the tenth,” Finn reassured her, “although you’d better take your boots. I bet those famous lily ponds will be a lot bigger and deeper now.”

  Juliet scanned the rushing river just outside the pilothouse windows. “Look at the spaces under the bridge.” She pointed to her right. “It does look as if the level’s gone down a smidge.” She shook her head. “What a night.”

  Finn strode to her side and pulled her into his arms. They clung together with shared relief that the barge had not been swept down the Seine or crashed into a bridge—and them with it.

  “Let’s take a nap,” he whispered against her cheek. “I don’t know about you, but I’m totally bushed.”

  “Me too,” she mumbled.

  “But first, let me make a call.”

  Juliet nodded, too exhausted to wait for Finn to tell Pierre that the boat had apparently survived the worst flooding in more than fifty years. She padded down below, stripped out of her jeans, and slipped naked under the covers.

  “Great!” she heard Finn exclaim from the salon. “I’ll be there June tenth.”

  He dropped to the stateroom in one leap. Truffles was curled up on the bottom of the bed. By this time Juliet was half asleep and simply held out her arms, inviting him to join her. Divested of his clothing, Finn crawled in and pulled her backside into the crook of his waist, chest, and thighs, spoon fashion. “Mmm... you’re nice and warm,” he crooned.

  “Ah-huh,” she mumbled, feeling herself descending into sleep despite the beguiling proximity of Finn’s midsection pressing against her derriere.

  “Want to hear some nice news?” he whispered into her ear.

  She struggled to stay awake, sighing another, “Ah-huh.”

  “I’m a total genius. I just finagled a paid gig to fly my drone on an inspection tour of a bunch of bridges that were overtopped along the Seine at Vernon and—ta-da—nearby Giverny! We can meet up at your B and B at the end of your workshop.”

  “That’s fabulous,” she managed to mumble. “I promise to reward your brilliance another time... real soon.”

  And in minutes, they were both sound asleep, and so was Truffles, curled in a tight black ball on top of their duvet.

  CHAPTER 28

  The weather finally cleared and the trains were running again from Gare St. Lazarre for the hour’s trip to Vernon where Rich Nucholls picked up Juliet and the other six painters who’d signed on for a week in waterlogged Giverny. Fortunately, each day, the alluvial earth dried a bit more in the quaint village where Claude Monet had lived and painted for decades.

  Juliet’s first stroll among the flowerbeds surrounding the painter’s house bowled her over with their stunning beauty in a well-tended garden whose hardiest blossoms survived the rain. With each passing hour, the flowers seemed to revive in the warmth of the sun despite the inordinate amount of water that ran back into the river. Giverny, at least, hadn’t sustained the destructive flooding that had inundated parts of Paris and much of the Loire Valley.

  As for Juliet, she felt her technique in perspective and ability to mix the right colors improved by leaps and bounds under Caroline Homes Nucholls’s expert instruction. She loved the camaraderie of her fellow artists slipping into the garden a few hours before hordes of tourists arrived in the morning, and then again in the soft, fragrant twilight hours when the gardens and ponds were theirs alone to command.

  By the end of her week-long course, Juliet was ready to put her name down for next year’s session and was flushed with excitement when she heard the sound of Finn’s MG driving on the gravel approach to the stone and timbered Les Moulin des Chennevieres. It was an ancient Norman building, a former mill and now a first-rate bed and breakfast establishment where she and her f
ellow artists had lived for a solid week of painting, as if part of Monet’s nineteenth-century world.

  She waved and watched Finn unfold his tall frame from the pint-sized car just as Caroline Nucholls was walking in from the road that led to town. The artist was dressed in her daily uniform of an ankle-length, pale blue cotton skirt, a flowing, white poet’s shirt, and straw sunhat.

  “Oh, wonderful!” Caroline said with a wave to her pupil. “You’re still here.”

  “I’m staying one more day,” Juliet informed her. She pointed toward Finn as she and her Master Teacher approached his car. “I’d like you to meet a good friend of mine.”

  After introductions were made, Caroline said to Finn, “I’m sure it’s no news to you, but Juliet has genuine talent and proved it with the stunning work she did here this week.”

  “Actually, she’s only shown me sketches,” Finn replied, “but never any of her full-fledged landscape paintings.” He shot Juliet a challenging grin.

  “Well, you’ve got lovely technique, my dear,” said Caroline, “especially with your rendering of water and the land surrounding it.”

  Aww,” Juliet joked, “I bet you say that to all your pupils.”

  The veteran artist narrowed her eyes and shook her head. “No, I do not say that to all who participate in my workshop. This is not a juried group, as I’m sure you noticed. We always have a wide variety of talent and abilities in this particular session. The first seven or eight who apply and pay are admitted, as I assume they are the most enthusiastic. That’s what I care about!” she declared emphatically. “I want to be surrounded by people who embrace the joy of creativity.” She gazed directly at Finn. “Juliet not only showed creativity, but she actually produced some wonderful, finished paintings. Be sure she lets you see them.”

  Duly chastised, Juliet ducked her head and said, “Thanks, Caroline, for such kind words. It’s been an incredible week and a huge learning experience. I can’t thank you enough for letting me be a part of all this. I had a totally stupendous time with you and Rich. You two were just wonderful for all you did for our group.”

  “It was a good session,” agreed Caroline. “One of the best, despite the rocky start, thanks to the weather.” She offered a cheery wave. “You two enjoy Juliet’s last day here, won’t you?” Her long skirt swished as she walked toward the inn’s entrance. Over her shoulder she called, “Hope to see you next year, my dear, so get your application in early!”

  Finn enfolded Juliet in his arms by way of a proper greeting and admitted he was famished. She suggested they walk the short distance into town to avoid the parking nightmare in a village crowded with art lovers visiting Monet’s garden on a sunny day.

  “I want to take you to my favorite local restaurant where we all hung out when we weren’t painting. You can get a full French meal or a delicious salade composée with salmon or chicken or ham.”

  As they walked hand in hand, Juliet described her amazing week of nonstop painting and classwork where she created a full canvas every single day. “Though I have no idea how in the world I’m going to get all of them back to Paris.”

  “We can wrap them in my car blanket and strap them to the trunk,” he assured her, “but you have to promise to let me see every single one.”

  “And if you like any of them, you can have your pick to lean up in the pilothouse somewhere,” she said, adding quickly, “and if none seem to suit, I won’t get hurt feelings. Art is very personal.”

  “Lean against the barge’s bulkhead, hell! I’m buying one of those babies to hang in the stateroom down below next to Avery’s portrait of you. I plan to stare wistfully at both when you’re not on board.”

  She turned and threw her arms around him. Except for her father, she’d rarely received encouragement for her dream to become a truly fine artist, and here was Caroline, full of praise, and Finn offering to buy a painting of hers, sight unseen.

  When she released him, he chucked her under the chin and said, “Well, with a reaction like that, I’ll buy two paintings.”

  Soon, they were walking among the bright coral-colored umbrellas of Bistro Baudy with its al fresco setting next to the main restaurant that was surrounded by a circle of full-leafed trees casting the outdoor tables in delicious shade. When they had both placed their orders for lunch, Juliet asked, “How did your drone survey go? Did the bridges suffer any serious damage in the floods?”

  “Actually, the wooden bridges around here fared miraculously well,” he reported, “although the video I took showed one or two places that will definitely need repairs.”

  “And was it fun, or nerve-wracking to fly that little spider in and out and under structures like that?”

  “A bit of both.” His expression grew serious and he looked off into the trees on his left as if he were suddenly in a world of his own. “I had to get up really early to avoid people and cars,” he murmured, as if observing a scene in a movie, “... and at one point, a boat with a kid and his dad suddenly appeared floating under an arch. A dawn fishing trip, I guess, but I nearly choked when I saw them coming so close to the drone that I was planning, at that same moment, to pilot under the bridge. It sent me right back to...” Finn swallowed and grew silent.

  “Hey,” Juliet put a hand on his, “close calls like that are bound to happen once in a while.” Finn continued to gaze off into the distance. “You didn’t hurt anyone. You didn’t crash the drone, did you?”

  “No, but my hands shook plenty on the controls. I managed to veer away and cleared the bridge. The video is pretty dramatic, though. It probably flew within ten feet of their boat.”

  “Finn!” she exclaimed, alarmed by the far-away look she hadn’t seen on his face since the first week they’d met. “This only proves that you automatically made the moves that only an experienced flyer knows to do... and you did it really quickly.” She touched his sleeve. “Maybe this happening was a good thing. It proved you still have all the instincts of the great pilot you were when you flew the real deal. You took quick action and avoided a collision.”

  Finn pulled his gaze away from the surrounding trees and leaned back in the pale blue metal chair that didn’t quite fit his large frame. Juliet could see him turning her words over in his head as he studied her. “What you just said could have come out of the mouth of the good Doctor Abel,” he told her with a look of incredulity. “You’re amazing, you know that?”

  He leaned forward and kissed her, his lips and tenderness a reminder of how much she’d missed him this week, despite the wonderful time she had in the workshop. What a strange combination of feelings: she had longed to see him even as she had rejoiced for having an entire week to herself to pursue her art. And now that he was here, sitting beside her, it all felt so... right. So as it should be.

  “Oh, Finn...”

  “Ms. Thayer, you are truly... somethin’ else.”

  She was unable to pull away from his intense scrutiny, his eyes the precise shade of cobalt she’d used to paint the sky arching above the lily ponds and green painted bridges in Monet’s garden. He kissed her again just as their waiter approached and placed their food between the neat rows of cutlery spread out on the metal table.

  Finn’s thousand-yard stare had vanished, replaced with one signaling that they would eat their lunch rather quickly and head straight back to their room at the B and B.

  * * *

  Back in Paris, their routine returned to what it had been before the floods. Finn was gone from the city during the week, while Juliet resumed summer classes at L’École and spent time with Avery, whose shoulder and arm had nearly recovered the mobility they had before the November terrorist attacks.

  “And Alain?” Juliet asked, sitting on an artist’s stool in the atelier that Avery now called home.

  Large and small canvases leaned, one against another, next to a wall. A chaise lounge with a single upholstered rolled arm sat in one corner, a beautiful red and gold tapestry fabric draped over it and across its seat cushio
n. In the loft above their heads was a thick mattress covered by a puffy, white, down-filled duvet. A blue-and-white porcelain lamp sat on an old wooden box next to a gold-framed mirror on the floor that leaned against the wall. To Juliet, it looked like a set for a movie about Degas or Renoir.

  “Is everything all right with your... arrangement, here?” she pressed Avery.

  “It’s eighty percent all right,” Avery replied with a shrug. “Alain’s here most nights during the week, but goes... to... the St. Cloud house on the weekends.”

  “To be with his wife and family?” Juliet asked bluntly.

  “His youngest will be off to college in a year or two. After that, well... who knows? It’s fine for now.”

  Juliet detected an edge of defensiveness in her friend’s tone, but she was unsure whether Avery intended it to protect her pride or Alain’s reputation as the decent sort of man Avery was convinced he was.

  “I’m living the opposite schedule,” Juliet said, trying to lighten the atmosphere. “Finn is flying spider drones all over France, Monday through Friday, while I’m taking classes, and then I meet him on the barge on Le Weekend.”

  She wasn’t particularly disapproving of the affair between Avery and Alain; she simply worried her closest friend would receive the short end of the arrangement, as had happened to Avery a few times in the past. Changing the subject, she said, “By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask you for ages... have you heard from your father, recently?”

  It had been months since Juliet had forced Avery to leave word with Stephen Evans about being shot.

  “I heard from him when he returned from the Far East that time. You’d gone back to San Francisco.”

  “And you didn’t tell me he’d gotten in touch? Avery!”

  “He just wanted to know if I needed money.”

  “That was it? Did you ask him to come over for a visit?”

  “No. And he didn’t offer.”

  “Well,” Juliet said, exasperated, “maybe he thought you didn’t want to see him?”