A Summer in Paris

by Cynthia Baxter

He laughed, then shrugged his shoulders. “And that was how it began. After a meeting like that, how could Anna help but fall in love with a charmer like me?”

  His cheeks turned pink as he asked, “Did she ever tell you that she and I were very much in love?”

  Nina nodded. “Yes. She told me everything. Or, to be more exact, the letters told me everything.”

  “The letters?” Marcel looked confused.

  She reached into her purse and pulled out the stack of letters she had found in her grandmother’s trunk, more than twenty of them, lovingly tied together with a piece of faded, fraying pink satin ribbon.

  “Do you remember these?” she asked gently, holding the stack of paper out toward him.

  Marcel remained silent but his eyes filled with tears.

  “Oh, my,” he finally said. “My letters. She saved them.”

  “Yes. Your letters to her, and letters from friends she had written to about you and the feelings the two of you had for each other. She kept them in a special place where no one would ever find them. And she held on to them her whole life.” Nina took a deep breath. “I felt greatly honored that when she died, she left me an entire trunk filled with her most personal and beloved things. There were wonderful old clothes inside, hats with feathers and beautiful dresses and some jewelry I know Grandmother had loved ... and at the very bottom, tucked away where they would not be easily noticed, I found these.”

  Marcel sat down and took the stack of letters that Nina was still holding out to him. Lovingly he untied the ribbon, keeping his eyes away from Nina. He took out the first letter, opened it up, and read it. Nina could see the emotion that registered in his face.

  “Ah. You have read these?”

  “Yes. Every one.”

  “And so you know the whole story.”

  “I know what happened in Paris fifty years ago,” Nina said gently. “As for the ‘whole story ...’ Well, that is why I wanted so much to come speak to you. I wanted to tell you what happened. I wanted to tell you my grandmother’s side of the story, something you haven’t known up until now.”

  The man sat back in his chair. “I am ready to listen.”

  Nina took a deep breath. “Monsieur, the reason I know so much about this is that in addition to the letters, my grandmother also left me her diaries. One of them was the journal she kept the year she spent in Paris—and the months that followed, when she came back home to the United States.”

  “Go on.”

  “I know how it looked. The two of you were so much in love, and then, one day, she just left without any explanation. She never even said good-bye. You wrote to her for months, but you never got any reply. Finally, you just gave up.”

  “Yes,” Marcel said softly. “That is what happened.”

  “My grandmother knew that you thought she left because she didn’t love you enough to stay. Or perhaps that you decided she hadn’t loved you at all, that she was merely toying with you while she was in Paris.”

  Marcel nodded slightly. “That did occur to me,” he said sadly. “But I never believed it. Not really.”

  “Monsieur, let me explain. My grandmother had very strict parents. And in those days, young women always did what was expected of them. Yes, she was allowed to come to Paris for a year to study art and polish her French and learn a little bit about life. That, in those days, was acceptable. What was not acceptable was for a nineteen-year-old woman to break away and do what she wanted instead of what her parents had decided was best for her.”

  “And what did Anna’s parents think was best for her?”

  “To come back home and marry a successful and respectable man who would make her a good husband. Someone who would provide her with security and take care of her her whole life.”

  “I understand,” Marcel said. He spoke so softly that Nina could hardly hear him. “And is that how Anna’s life turned out?”

  “Well, according to her diaries—and according to the things I remember her saying even when I was a small child—the man she married did provide her with security. That man—my grandfather—was a good, solid, loving husband. He was always kind to her and she, in turn, made him a good wife.”

  “Ah. So it was for the best.” Marcel sounded very sad.

  Nina bit her lip, trying to regain her composure before speaking.

  “Monsieur,” she said in a strained voice, “I think it is important that you know that every spring, my grandmother spent hours caring for her garden, a garden filled entirely with yellow roses. And that every summer, she spent her evenings sitting among them, just thinking. Her eyes would take on this dreamy, faraway expression, even when she was very old. All of us knew not to disturb Grandmother when she was sitting among her roses. It was simply understood.”

  The look that crossed his face made Nina fear that he was going to start to cry. Instead, Monsieur du Lac stood up.

  “You must excuse me,” he said, stumbling toward the bedroom. “I must ... I must... excuse me.”

  Nina was afraid that she, too, would start crying as she watched the old man stumble across the room, hunched over from both age and emotion. She understood that he wanted to be alone. And so she stayed in her chair, only too happy to give him a few moments to himself.

  After he had closed himself up in the bedroom, however, she realized that by now the tea he had made for them was cold. The cups needed to be put away and the cheese and the bread needed to be wrapped up. So she stood up and piled all the dishes onto the tray Monsieur du Lac had used to carry them out from the kitchen, then took them into the next room.

  The kitchen was charming. Despite the strong emotions that were rushing over her, she couldn’t help noticing the delightful kitchen table made of rough-hewn wood, the old-fashioned cast-iron stove, the oversized porcelain sink. The tiles on the wall were hand-painted, perhaps even made in one of the provinces surrounding this quaint town.

  A bouquet of freshly cut yellow roses was lying by the sink. Nina realized that when she had knocked on Monsieur du Lac’s door, he must have been about to put them in the vase she saw standing on the kitchen table.

  After depositing the dishes in the sink and putting away the other things, Nina set about the task of putting the flowers in water. She tore off some of the larger leaves, then looked around for a place in which to dispose of them. Finding none, she headed toward the back door, the bouquet still in hand, having decided to toss the leaves outside.

  Once she was in the tiny back garden, she gasped. The garden was beautiful, even more so than she had realized. It was planted with bright, colorful flowers that grew everywhere, rather than in neat, regular rows. Through the happy confusion there was a tiny path made of stones. Surrounding the yard was a rickety old wooden fence.

  One bush in particular caught Nina’s eye. It was covered with bright red flowers, a variety she had never seen before. In the bright morning sunlight, they were simply irresistible. Still clutching the bouquet of yellow roses, Nina leaned forward to sniff them.

  But she jumped when she heard someone say, “Ah, Mademoiselle, vous aimez les fleurs?” Ah, Miss. Do you like the flowers?

  Quickly Nina stood upright, suddenly embarrassed. She hadn’t known she was being watched.

  She glanced around, confused about where the voice had come from. And then, on the other side of the fence, over in the next yard, she saw a very good-looking young man, smiling at her. He had straight, dark hair and a gaunt, handsome face, with a sharp nose and pronounced cheekbones. He was tall and lanky without being at all awkward.

  What was most noticeable about him, however, was his eyes. They were bright blue and full of life. Nina immediately thought of Marcel.

  And when the young man said, in French, “Are you a friend of my grandfather’s?” Nina knew right away who he had to be.

  “Yes, I am his friend,” she replied in French.

  “Good. I would hate to think that pretty young women had begun sneaking into his garden to steal his flowers when I
was out.”

  “These flowers certainly are beautiful. Your grandfather is quite a gardener.”

  The young man came through the gate and into the backyard. He looked at Nina more closely.

  “You are not French, are you?”

  Nina laughed. “I suppose I should take that as a compliment. Most Americans have such terrible accents that Frenchmen know where they are from right away.”

  “American? You are American?”

  Nina couldn’t help smiling over his astonishment. “Is that good or bad?”

  “It is just a surprise. I did not know my grandfather knew any Americans.”

  Now it was Nina’s turn to be surprised. She could only conclude that Marcel du Lac had kept his love affair with her grandmother a secret for all these years.

  “I do not know your grandfather very well. In fact, we just met today.”

  “Ah. That explains it. Are you a tourist here?”

  “Yes and no. I’m spending the summer living with a lovely couple in Paris. I’m taking language and history courses at the Sorbonne.”

  “That explains why your French is so excellent. But I am afraid it still does not tell me why you and my grandfather have suddenly become friends.”

  Nina was about to launch into a long explanation when Monsieur du Lac appeared at the back door.

  “Ah, Pierre. You have returned. You brought the milk?”

  “The milk, the stamps, the bread, the newspaper ... everything you requested, Grandpapa.” Winking at Nina, he added, “Ah, this old man works me so hard.”

  “Yes, but there are some rewards,” Marcel was quick to say. “For example, you are getting the chance to meet my new friend. Nina, this is Pierre du Lac, my overworked grandson.”

  Nina laughed, then extended her hand toward Pierre. “My name is Nina Shaw, if I may introduce myself properly.”

  “Shaking hands!” Pierre pretended to be annoyed. He folded his arms across his chest and shook his head. “Here in France it is much more common to kiss than to shake hands.”

  “I don’t know if it is more common,” Monsieur du Lac interjected, “but it is certainly nicer. Especially if the person the young man is meeting happens to be a pretty young woman.”

  Nina noticed that Pierre’s cheeks turned just a tiny bit pink. But Marcel du Lac had already moved on to another topic.

  “When I was inside, I had a wonderful idea,” he said cheerfully. Nina could see he was back in top form once again. “Since Nina is our guest, and she has never been here in Sainte Marie before, let us take her out to the countryside on a picnic. Since you and I never did get around to having tea,” he went on, turning to her, “I would think lunch sounded like a fine idea.”

  “It does sound like a fine idea,” Nina was quick to agree. “But there is one condition. You must let me help pack up the food. After all, I am the one who dropped in on you, uninvited and unexpected.”

  She was only teasing, but Monsieur du Lac came over to her and took hold of both her hands. His blue eyes were earnest as he said, “Nina, I hope you understand how much it means to me that you have come to us. I think ... I think you must know.”

  Nina just nodded. Her throat was suddenly too thick with emotion for her to speak.

  * * * *

  Less than half an hour later, Marcel, Pierre, and Nina were piled into a dilapidated old car. It was a convertible, and on a perfect July day like this one, it only made sense that the top would be down.

  Pierre drove, and Nina sat beside him. Marcel sat in back, clutching a straw sun hat and hugging the huge picnic basket that rested on the seat beside him. Folded across the top of the basket was a flowered tablecloth, giant pink roses against a pale green background. It was the perfect touch for an outing in the French countryside.

  “Now we will show you the real France,” Pierre told Nina. “Paris is wonderful, of course. But this is the most beautiful part. The trees, the fields, the sky ... the inspiration for the great painters of our country.” Glancing over at her, he asked, “Do you like painting?”

  “Oh, yes! Especially the works of the Impressionists. Claude Monet, Paul Cézanne, Mary Cassatt ...”

  “Mary Cassatt!” Pierre protested. “But she was an American.”

  “True, but she painted here in France, and she was friends with all the other great Impressionist painters.” Nina sighed. “I could look at those paintings forever.”

  “Ah. Then you have visited the Musée d’Orsay in Paris?”

  “Only briefly with some American friends. I do want to go back, and I will, the very first opportunity I get. It is just that I have been so busy that I haven’t yet made the time.”

  They had driven for less than fifteen minutes when Pierre pulled the car over to the side of the road. To the right stretched a large field, covered with colorful wildflowers. Beyond was a wooded area, green and fresh and cool. The sun was high in the sky, without being too hot. The only sounds were those of birds chirping and leaves occasionally moving in the breeze.

  “Oh, Pierre. This is breathtaking,” Nina cried. “How beautiful.”

  “Yes. In fact, I was just thinking the same thing myself.”

  She glanced over at him and saw that he was looking at her, not the landscape. She could feel her cheeks turning pink, and she was glad when she heard Monsieur du Lac cry, “Are you young people going to help this old man with this heavy picnic basket, or are you going to spend the whole day chattering away like magpies?”

  “Once again, my grandfather is making me work,” Pierre said with a smile. He went back to the car to help the old man out and to carry the heavy basket.

  Lunch was delightful. Bread and cheese, a bottle of wine and a bottle of mineral water, some peaches and grapes, and, for dessert, an apple tart. Nina stretched out on the edge of the flowered cloth after having eaten her fill, enjoying lying in the sun. She never expected to doze off, but when she jerked awake at the harsh sound of a crow’s distinctive caw, caw, she realized that her morning’s journey—and the adventure that had followed—had tired her out.

  She sat up quickly. Monsieur du Lac was nowhere in sight, but Pierre was sitting at her side, looking at her and smiling.

  “What time is it?” she asked, feeling a little guilty for having abandoned her kind hosts, even if only because of a little catnap.

  “Don’t worry; you were only asleep for a few minutes.”

  “I didn’t mean to be rude.”

  “Not at all. I enjoyed watching you. My grandfather went for a walk. He had had enough sun, and he was looking for a patch of shade so he could take his own nap.”

  “So we left you all alone,” Nina teased.

  “I didn’t mind a bit. It gave me a good chance to look at you.” By way of explanation, he continued, “You see, I am studying to be a painter myself. It is summer vacation for me now, and so I am spending it in Sainte Marie, helping out my grandfather a bit. During the year, I am a student in Paris. And so I am always keeping an eye out for possible subjects to paint.”

  Nina could feel her face reddening—both with pleasure and with self-consciousness—at what she knew was about to come.

  “I would love the opportunity to paint you,” he went on casually. “Or, if you do not have the time, then at least to make a few sketches of you.”

  “What would you call your painting of me?” Nina asked teasingly. “ ‘An American in Paris?’ ”

  “That, I cannot tell until I have finished the painting. Then you are saying yes, that you will let me paint you?”

  Nina hesitated. “When would we find the time ... and where would we meet?”

  “I will come to Paris, of course. I keep a small studio there. It is where I do my painting. So what do you think? Will you do it? Please?”

  Nina lowered her eyes. She knew that the answer to what seemed like a very simple question could, in the end, turn out to be very complicated. She had come to Paris to study, to learn, and to have fun. To agree to Pierre’s proposal m
eant taking a risk. After all, getting involved with a charming young Frenchman had never been part of her plan.

  But it was so difficult to keep that in mind as she looked at Pierre, sitting so close to her on the flowered tablecloth, his blue eyes fixed on her with an intensity that made her feel something she had never felt before.

  “Pierre,” she said in a soft voice, “you are welcome to paint me any tune you please.”

  And as he nodded in agreement, neither of them felt the slightest bit of surprise over the arrangement they had just made. It was as if they had sensed, ever since the first moment they laid eyes on each other, that this was not going to be the last time they saw each other.

  Chapter 5

  “This was such a wonderful idea,” Madame Cartier exclaimed in French. “Jennifer, I am only sorry that Henri and I didn’t think of it sooner.”

  Jennifer forced a weak smile. Her reaction, she knew, was not at all what the Cartiers had been hoping for. But somehow, the idea of their seventeen-year-old granddaughter arriving on the scene in order to provide her with instant friendship just didn’t excite her.

  She’ll probably be really stuck up, she was thinking as she sat on a bench at Paris’s Gare de Lyon, waiting for Michèle’s tram to arrive. Or else she’ll totally ignore me. After all, this was the girl’s grandparents’ idea, not hers. Good old Michèle probably doesn’t want to be here in Paris, looking after me, any more than I want her here.

  But deep down, Jennifer couldn’t help being a little bit optimistic. Her own friends, after all, had been such a disappointment. Nina and Kristy were just too busy to spend much time with her. And what hurt the most was that it wasn’t just Kristy’s new boyfriend Alain or Nina’s mysterious quest, the one that had her running practically all over the country, that was getting in the way. No, the two of them had decided that they were only interested in Paris and Parisians. Things like loyalty and friendship, it seemed, had been left at home.

  “Ah, there she is,” Madame Cartier suddenly said, interrupting Jennifer’s thoughts. “Michèle! Michèle!”

  The old woman stood up and waved her arms in the air. Her face was lit up with excitement. Jennifer, meanwhile, scanned the crowd that was rushing through the train station.