Aubrielle's Call

by Bowen, C. Marie

  Is there no police nearby?

  She had come a third of the way around the long arching walkway. The path had become too narrow to turn Éclair and the cart around. The bright day and the colorful leaves overhead no longer lifted her spirits.

  What if Henri refuses to leave me alone?

  Just past the apex of the arch, she spotted the croissant vendor. He rested on the curb beside his pushcart rubbing his leg.

  “Are you all right, monsieur?” Aubrielle left Éclair and hurried to the injured man.

  “Oui. Oui. It is just the petit chien.” The man looked up at Aubrielle and shook his head. “My employer insisted I bring his new puppy to the park with me today. Now he’s run away.” The seller massaged his right leg and grimaced. “I injured myself chasing him through the bushes.” He waved his other hand behind him.

  Along the edge of the park grew thick rows of hedges lined by trees—intended to shield the park from the city, and give the illusion of an oasis amid the busy Parisian downtown. Narrow steps led up to the street, a small landing at each plateau.

  “Oh no! Is he friendly?” Aubrielle hurried up to the first landing and bent to look beneath the hedge. The hedgerows were planted far enough apart to allow gardeners to walk between them. “Will he come to me?”

  The vendor limped up the steps behind her. “He ran that way.” He pointed between the row of bushes.

  “What is his name?” Aubrielle eased between the break in the handrail and took several steps along the hedgerow. She crouched down to peer beneath the bushes.

  “Gullible.”

  Aubrielle turned her head toward the vendor just as he shoved her to the ground.

  The weight of his knee pressed her body into the soft loam. One hand gripped her face, covering her mouth while he pulled her head back at a painful angle. “I’ve watched you, jolie fleur, every day for months. Selling your blossoms. Smiling at soldiers.”

  The tall bushes shielded her from both the park and the street. Mrs. Moroney’s warning flashed through her mind as the man’s nails scraped up her thigh beneath her coat.

  “Shall we open the petals of your fleur secrète and touch your sweet dew, ma chère?”

  She tried to bite his palm as she struggled to throw his weight from her back.

  “Bitch.” He slammed her face into the ground. “I shall enjoy this.”

  Dirt and twigs filled her mouth, and she screamed. Cold air chilled her skin as he held her head down with one hand and yanked up her skirt and coat with the other.

  CHAPTER 9

  From his bedroom window, John watched his new Agaria leave for the park. He slipped his arms into his overcoat as he hurried out the door, down the stairs, and into the street. Near the tower, he purchased a newspaper from a boy while keeping an eye on her cart.

  She stopped where he had first seen her, along the edge of the central walkway, not far from the park entrance.

  He chose a bench on the other side of the expansive concrete entrance from where she set up her cart and shook open the paper. He pretended to read the newsprint while he kept his attention on his love.

  Although John could read and speak French like a native Parisian, he wasn’t sure about current French law. He’d been conscripted into military service before and had no intention of getting caught up in the war he knew was coming. To pose as a Brit, or continue as an American entrepreneur, like he had told the butcher, would gain him the advantage of citizenship abroad. He held no personal loyalty to any nation. He’d seen too many come and go. His only concern was the well-being of the lovely flower girl.

  I must learn her name.

  Foolish didn’t begin to describe the situation. Throughout their many first meetings, he had never encountered this problem. She wouldn’t look at him or speak to him. The only thing he could do was remain close enough to intercede on her behalf. Confident the Polish invasion was what had triggered the magic, he had time. Time to make her acquaintance. Time to convince her to love him again. Time to stalk her around the large Paris park.

  When she unblocked her cart and led her pony south along the plaza, John rose and followed. He watched the dark-haired young woman as she handed out bouquets to passersby.

  She’s giving away her flowers.

  He saw the way she smiled and chatted with strangers.

  Something has changed for her. Her heart has lifted.

  She crossed the street that cut through the square and continued toward the war college on the far side of the Champ-de-Mars.

  John used his long stride to get ahead of her. He took a seat beside a cadet on a park bench, shook his newspaper into place, and peered over the top as she came near the corner where he sat.

  She paused in front of the college and gave away two small bouquets to young servicemen. After they had left, she turned the cart in the direction of the tower and led her pony up the long arching walkway that curved toward the edge of the park.

  He folded his paper, prepared to follow when the blond-haired man she had spoken with yesterday rushed up the path and disappeared around the pony cart. John clenched his jaw and rose to his feet.

  The cart stopped along the passage, but the curve in the walkway hid most of it behind by bright autumn foliage.

  When the vehicle moved, John stepped around the bench to follow. Any moment, he would lose sight of the flower cart altogether.

  A woman with one arm around a grocery bag pulled a child across his course.

  The little boy stared upward at the red helium-filled balloon floating above his head.

  “Allons, viens avec moi, Tomas.” The woman turned to tug the child’s hand, and several apples slipped from the top of her bag.

  A bone-deep shiver crawled along John’s spine.

  No!

  The woman’s lips moved without sound.

  John attempted to take a breath but the winter air caught in his throat. His heart pounded rapidly in his chest. Time wound to a standstill and the familiar high-pitched whine underscored the piercing pain that shot through John’s head.

  Three apples hung suspended in their fall to the ground. Her tug had loosed the balloon from the little boy’s hand, and the string hung just beyond his pudgy fingertips.

  A second call?

  A small corner of the flower cart remained visible on the path, as the crushing pain in his head coalesced between his eyes.

  He began to run as soon as the magic released time. The mother’s exclamation and the young boy’s cry fell behind him as he raced up the path. He reached the front of the cart and stopped. No one stood on the walkway except the pony. The urgent sting on his forehead pointed to the steps up to the street. When he ducked around the small horse, he caught sight of movement in the bushes.

  Long bounds brought him to the landing on the steps. Two people struggled in the dirt between the hedgerows. Anger boiled from his chest in a primitive cry of rage. He hopped the handrail, grabbed the man on the ground by the hair and lifted him up and away from the woman.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw her move on the ground. The pain on his forehead dispelled as his fist landed a solid blow to the man’s nose. With his second blow, the cartilage in the stranger’s nose dissolved. The third blow sent him into the bushes to collapse in an unmoving heap on the ground.

  John clutched the man to finish him. Her whimper made him hesitate.

  Leaves and dirt clung to her face and mixed with the blood that ran freely from her nose. She had backed against the bushes, both hands covering her mouth as if to smother her anguish. Her wide eyes captured him. Dark irises swam in tears, until the liquid spilled, scoring a trail through the grime on her cheek.

  John’s heart surged with sympathy and sadness.

  My Agaria.

  He thrust the man into the dirt behind him, ignoring the curious people who gathered on the landing drawn by his savage cry.

  He dropped to his haunches before the dark-haired flower girl, his hands on his knees.

  S
he pushed her heels into the dirt, pressing herself further into the bushes.

  “I won’t hurt you.” He kept his voice low and calm, although rage and terror clawed at his throat. “You know that.” He raised an eyebrow and smiled. “Somewhere inside, you know I’ll never hurt you.”

  Her gaze found his, then flicked to the man who lay behind him in a heap.

  “Don’t look at him, ma chère. He will never harm you again.” John held his hand out to her. “Look at me, instead.”

  The shrill rattle of a whistle sounded nearby.

  “The police are almost here.” John swallowed back the endearment on his tongue and in his heart. His words would only confuse and frighten her more. “You are safe. Let me help you stand.”

  Ma bien-aimée.

  Her terrified panting had slowed. She lowered her hands from her mouth and tipped her head to one side. Her lips trembled as she spoke. “He said he lost the puppy.”

  “It was a ruse. A trick.” He wiggled the fingers of his open hand. “Come. I’ll take you home.” He could sense more people had gathered on the steps behind his back, yet he refused to look away from her eyes. “My name is John.”

  “John,” she breathed. “John.” She reached for his hand, never taking her gaze from his. “I don’t… How do I? Do I know you, John?” Her scraped and torn hand touched his.

  For the second time in the last few minutes, John’s breath caught in his throat. He swallowed and nodded as he took a firmer grip on her hand and helped her stand. “In a way.”

  “Reculez, s'il vous plaît.” The commanding voice shouted beyond the crowd.

  Her eyes widened as she peeked around John’s arm.

  He pulled a handkerchief from his inside coat pocket and handed it to her. “Are you injured, ma chère? Should I ask the police to call a doctor?”

  She wiped her forehead and nose. “No. I’m not injured.” She shook her head as her dark eyes filled with tears. “Thank you, John. I… He…” Her breath caught in a sob.

  “You’re safe now.” John put his arm around her heaving shoulders as she leaned into him. “No one will harm you, I promise.” He pushed his back into the bushes so she could see around him. “The police will want to speak with you. If they ask me your name…”

  “Aubri—” She coughed and ducked her head. She wiped her face again. Her attention strayed to the crowd of curious faces. “Aubrielle Cohen.”

  On the ground between them and the landing lay Aubrielle’s attacker. The merchant pushed himself to his hands and knees raising his hate-filled glare to Aubrielle.

  When the vendor moved, Aubrielle gripped the lapels of John’s unbuttoned coat.

  The officer broke through the crowd and stared at the merchant on the ground. Then his attention shifted to Aubrielle’s terrified grip on John’s jacket. With a toss of his chin, he spoke to John, “What happened here?”

  “The man,” John spoke in English, his words hoarse with pent-up emotion, “attacked this woman. When she cried out, I came to her aid.”

  Aubrielle turned her face away from the staring crowd.

  “Is she injured?” The officer walked around the assailant then knelt, jabbing a knee into the man’s back.

  “No. Only frightened.” John ran his hand down her back, brushing twigs and leaves from her coat.

  “Aubrielle?” The blond-haired man pushed to the front of the spectators.

  Aubrielle stiffened in John’s arms. Her face remained away from the onlookers, pressed against his shirt.

  “Remain here,” the officer instructed to John. “Officer Sarchet will require your names and a statement.” He handcuffed the man on the ground, gripped the vendor’s arm, and pulled him roughly to his feet. “This one comes with me.”

  As soon as the officer pushed the attacker through the throng of people, Aubrielle’s blond friend pushed through the break in the rail, only to be shoved back by Officer Sarchet.

  “Stay back, s'il vous plaît.” Officer Sarchet blocked his path.

  “But I know her.”

  The officer withdrew a pad and pencil from his pocket, ignoring the man at his back, and addressed John, “Your names.”

  “I’m John Larson.”

  “Un Américain?” Officer Sarchet made a note at John’s nod and looked to Aubrielle. “Et vous, mademoiselle?

  Aubrielle had turned her head when the officer spoke. Her head and her hand rested against John’s chest. “Aubrielle Cohen.”

  Officer Sarchet took down their addresses and a brief statement of what happened in his notepad. “Is there someone we can contact to verify your information, Monsieur Larson?

  “My attorney in the States is Monroe James.” John gave the officer the telephone number.

  “Do you require a doctor?” Officer Sarchet asked Aubrielle as he closed his notepad.

  Aubrielle shook her head. “Non. Merci.”

  “I’ll see she gets home.” John held Aubrielle’s elbow as she passed through the opening in the rail onto the landing.

  Most of the crowd had disbursed, but Aubrielle’s gentleman friend remained. He reached to take Aubrielle’s arm as she stepped onto the walkway.

  Aubrielle pulled back, leaning against John. “Henri, I’ve no wish to argue with you right now.”

  “I must know if you are uninjured.” Henri’s survey lifted from Aubrielle’s face to John’s. “Who is your new friend?”

  “I’m an old friend.” John gave Henri a hard smile. “I’ll make sure Aubrielle gets home safely.” John edged between Henri and Aubrielle and supported her as they descended to the arched walkway and her cart.

  “I’ll stop by your house to check on you,” Henri called.

  CHAPTER 10

  Aubrielle couldn’t stop trembling.

  What’s wrong with me?

  She replied to the officer’s questions with John Larson’s handkerchief tight beneath her nose.

  I’m freezing.

  Tears slipped from her eyes, and she dabbed them in frustration. In an instant, her trust in her judgment had been taken from her.

  Was this my fault?

  The warmth of John’s hand beneath her elbow reached through her coat. His touch provided comfort, strength, and support. If she could have huddled inside his jacket—her bruised face tight to his chest until the shudders stopped—she would have.

  She recognized Henri as he reached for her arm. Without thought, she leaned back against the solid comfort of the American. “Henri, I’ve no wish to argue with you right now.”

  John angled her toward the step, away from the crowd, and Henri slipped from her mind.

  “I’m an old friend.” The rumble of his deep voice was a pleasure and reassurance against her back. “I’ll make sure Aubrielle gets home safely.”

  Was he an old friend?

  The familiar embrace of his arm around her shoulder unsettled and confused her.

  Is this déjà vu?

  His touch and voice were at odds with her reasoning. She’d never met John Larson before.

  I would remember him.

  As he helped her onto the pony cart’s front seat, Aubrielle couldn’t recall the last time she’d sat on the bench behind her pony.

  Had Mama still been alive?

  John looked at her old pony, checked the straps and breast collar, and then glanced back at her and raised one brow.

  “There are no reins, only a lead.” She sniffed, shivered, and pulled her coat tight around her throat. “I always walk beside Éclair.” Bits of leaves and soil clung to her jacket, and she brushed at the material, only to realize the contact stung her palms. The heels of her hands were scraped raw from her ordeal. For a moment, she couldn’t look away from her injuries. His voice brought her head up.

  “Éclair?” John chuckled as he patted the small horse’s neck and scratched the hair along his crest. “He doesn’t mind being named after a pastry?” John grinned at Aubrielle.

  A short laugh mixed with a sob escaped, and she pressed he
r knuckles against her lips. She shook her head. “Non. Mama named him.”

  “Well, then. Come along, Éclair. Let’s take our Lady home.”

  She rested her sight on the width of his shoulders as he led Éclair through the park. Without prompting, he turned along the Seine and crossed the Alma Bridge.

  Uneasiness curled in her stomach, and she sat straighter, staring a hole in his back. She had seen the American before, watching her through the fog at the park, and again, standing at the window, outlined by light.

  “You followed me,” her voice choked out. She cleared her throat. “Stop!” She rapped her knuckles against the wooden seat. “Is that how you know where I live? You followed me home?” Panic turned to nausea, and she swallowed a bitter lump in her throat.

  John eased Éclair to a halt along the side of the road. He stroked the pony’s neck, then squinted up at Aubrielle, sunlight bright on his face. “I bought a bouquet of lilies from you yesterday.” He shrugged and watched a couple cross the street, arm in arm. “I know no one in Paris. I had hoped to speak to you, and ask if you knew of an apartment for rent near the park.” John ran his hand across his mouth and faced her. “But you hurried off before I could make your acquaintance.”

  Aubrielle leaned forward and whispered at him, aware of the people around them. “So you followed me home? Do you think that is acceptable?” Aubrielle blinked. For a split second, an American cowboy stood before her, one hand on his hip, while the other rubbed along his chin. The image so clear, she gasped, and her heart clenched. Her eyes fluttered in time with her heart, and the tall, well-dressed man who saved her in the park stroked Éclair once again.

  “It shames me to admit it.” John bowed his head. “But I did follow you home.” He looked into her eyes and held out his hand in supplication. “I never meant to frighten you.” His face and eyes were sincere. “And I would never harm you.” He dropped his arm to his side. “I rented an apartment not far from where you live, and I returned to the park today to introduce myself.” He shook his head. His eyes pleaded with her to understand. “I didn’t even know your name.”