Ophelia’s lips are moving, but there is no sound. She is silently repeating the prayer that has been on her tongue all afternoon. She knew this was coming, but what disasters it will leave behind she does not know.
“I think we should wait this one out down in the basement,” Oliver says.
Annie nods. Her face is pale, and her eyelids flutter nervously. She stands, lifts the leftover platter of chicken and slides it into the refrigerator. Lighting the flame beneath the teakettle, she says, “I’ll make a pot of tea to bring with us.”
“No time,” Ophelia says. She switches the burner off. “We have to go now.” Her voice is tight and edgy.
Oliver grabs Annie’s hand and pulls her toward the cellar. Ophelia is right behind. As they leave the kitchen, he reaches into the top drawer and grabs a flashlight. On the back side of the hallway is the door that leads to the basement. He snaps on the light and starts down the steps. Ophelia is the last one to enter; as she passes through the door she closes it behind her.
Annie has been down here countless times but never considered it a storm shelter. Along the walls are shelves where she stores canisters of herbs and flowers pulled from the garden. In back of the canisters are glass jars of clover honey, cherry jam and dilly beans. On the bottom shelf there are gallon jugs of water and a cardboard box that contains a never-before-used lantern. Ophelia placed those there over a decade ago. She has always known this time would come.
There are no windows in the basement, yet they can still hear the howl of wind and hammering of rain. Days earlier the weather turned warm. This is the season for summer showers, yet the pounding against the house has the sound of something far worse.
“I think that’s hail,” Oliver says.
Ophelia knows he is right.
Several booms come in rapid succession. Before the last one has died away there is a thundering thud, and the house shudders. The sound of shattering glass comes from upstairs.
In her mind’s eye Ophelia can see the tall pine on the south side of the house has crashed through the overhang of the dining room window.
Moments later the basement light dims then goes black.
Hotel Baltimore
The metro would be faster, but since she has only seventeen euros and no guarantee of Claude Barrington’s generosity Max walks. Wearing high heels slows her pace, but there is plenty of time. She will be there by six-thirty, seven at the latest.
Taking a shortcut over to Saint Germain Boulevard she turns west, then onto Quai d’Orsay and across the George V Bridge. Once on the Right Bank, it is only a twenty-minute walk. Her stomach grumbles as she passes the cluster of restaurants in the Trocadero Circle. She wonders if perhaps Claude will suggest dinner and smiles at the thought of sitting across from him at one of the quaint outdoor cafés. From the circle she turns right onto Kiebler Avenue. The Hotel Baltimore is only five blocks down. She can already see the Arc d’ Triomphe.
Max has passed the hotel a number of times but never been inside. It’s a large building that sits on Kiebler Avenue then rounds the corner and takes up a good part of Rue Leo Delibes. From the street it is easy to see the elegance of the interior through the large plate glass windows. Even now it is as intimidating as it was three years ago.
She enters the building and crosses to the front desk.
“I’d like to speak with Monsieur Claude Barrington,” she says. “I’m not certain of his room number.”
“And your name, mademoiselle?”
“Max,” she says, then corrects herself. “Maxine Martinelli.” The simplicity of “Max” is somehow inappropriate in such an environment.
“One moment, s’il vous plait,” he says then lifts the telephone receiver and punches in a number.
There is a wait that to Max seems interminable. She wonders if on the plane she gave Claude her full name. Perhaps; perhaps not. Even if she did, how likely is it that he will remember a name like Martinelli? Maybe she should have stayed with Max.
The clerk hangs up the receiver and explains that there is no answer in Monsieur Barrington’s room.
“Was he expecting you?” he asks.
“Not really,” Max replies. “We were both in town, and I thought perhaps…”
“If you care to wait…” He motions to a lounge area scattered with plush leather sofas.
“For a while,” she says and walks toward a sofa grouping that looks out onto Kiebler Avenue. She sits in a spot where she can watch the front door. If she sees him coming, she will bounce up and pretend to run into him accidently. Once they start to chat it will be easier to tell him of her predicament.
She glances at her watch, then back to the door.
It is after eight o’clock when Max finally decides to leave. This was a foolish idea to start with, she tells herself. Claude Barrington is a stranger. A man she sat next to on the plane. Why would he care about her problems? It’s possible that he simply didn’t wish to be bothered. Maybe he has been upstairs in his room this whole while, waiting for her to leave, hoping she will go away and take her problems with her.
A feeling of foolishness sweeps over Max. She stands, blinks back the tears and starts toward the door.
A voice comes from behind her. “Max?”
She turns and comes face to face with Andrew Steen, Oliver Doyle’s one-time law partner.
“I thought that was you,” he says.
“Hi,” she says warily. As much as she needs a friend right now, it’s difficult to forget the last time she talked about a problem in front of Andrew. It was New Year’s Day. She’d spoken of how Brianna said not having an office automatically slotted her in the loser column, and he’d agreed. The thought of it is enough to make her blood boil all over again.
If she were to make a list of people to ask for help Andrew would not even be on the list, or if he were he’d be way below Claude Barrington. But what if she can’t connect with the stranger?
Andrew at least knows her. If for no reason other than his friendship with Oliver and Annie, he’d likely lend her enough money to tide her over. It’s not as if she’d be asking for a handout; it would be a loan. A loan she’d repay the minute she returns to the U.S.
She pushes back the memory of their last encounter and smiles.
“What are you doing in Paris?” she asks.
“Business,” Andrew replies. “I handle Lazar’s U.S. interests. And you?”
“It’s a long story.” She tries to stave off the melancholy she feels, but it’s impossible. It’s in her voice, in her eyes and stretched across her face.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
If Max didn’t know better she’d think he was concerned, but she knows him and is certain that telling the truth would make her seem even more of a loser than not having an office. She shrugs and repeats, “It’s a long story.”
“I was on my way to dinner,” he says. “Why don’t you join me? We can have a drink, and you can tell me this long story.”
Max hesitates.
Andrew sees it and remembers their last encounter. She’d decided he was criticizing her before he’d had a chance to explain. He lifts his hands, palms out, an apology for having stepped over the line.
“Of course, if you have somewhere else to go…”
“Actually, I don’t,” she says. “Dinner sounds good.”
He grins. It’s a boyish grin that somehow makes her more comfortable about talking to him. When he offers his arm she takes it.
“They have a nice restaurant here at the hotel,” he suggests.
“That’s fine,” she answers. Max has not eaten since the two small croissants early this morning and is famished.
They settle at the table, and Andrew orders a bottle of wine.
“White okay?” he asks, and she nods.
For a while there is only small talk. He says he arrived this morning and will be here until Thursday; she says she is staying until Sunday. He tells her he is here at the Baltimore; she says she has a room at t
he Vendome.
“It’s a small hotel over in the Latin Quarter,” she explains.
“I’ve never been to that area,” he says.
Before she stops to think through her words, Max replies, “I suppose it’s kind of low-brow for you.” Almost instantly she knows she has said the wrong thing.
A slight wince twitches the corner of Andrew’s mouth.
“You’re always so damn quick to jump to conclusions,” he says indignantly. “The reason I don’t stay down there is because the Lazar offices are two blocks from here. On these Paris trips I fly in, take a cab from the airport, attend business meetings for three or four days, then take a cab back to the airport and fly out.”
“I’m sorry,” Max says sheepishly. “You’re right, I am too quick to jump to conclusions.”
They finish the first glass of wine and order dinner. Andrew suggests the veal; he says he dines here often because of its convenience.
“And the food is really great,” he adds. Max goes with his recommendation because right now anything would taste good, and she is making an all-out effort to be agreeable.
The conversation starts out stilted, but by the time he pours their second glass of wine it has eased.
“So,” he says, “are you ready to tell me this long story you’ve got?”
Max gives a chagrined smile. “I guess so,” she says. Although she cannot bring herself to tell of Julien, she does explain that she has been robbed and now has no phone and no credit cards.
“Do you think maybe you could lend me enough money to make it through next Sunday? I can pay you back the minute—”
“Of course.” Andrew reaches into his pocket, pulls out a handful of bills and peels off a half-dozen fifty-euro notes. “This should last a day or two. I can give you more if you need it, but I think you need to cancel your credit card and get a replacement.”
“I can’t,” Max says, “at least not until I get home. The bank phone number, my account number, even the password is all stored in my phone and—”
“What bank do you use?”
“First Richmond.”
Andrew checks his watch and grins. “You’re in luck. It’s only three-fifteen in Virginia, and First Richmond is where I have my business account. I’m on a first-name basis with my rep.” He pulls out his phone, scrolls down the list of contacts and taps the bank logo.
Moments later he is talking and laughing with someone called Susan. He explains the situation and asks her to look up Max’s account.
“I can vouch for her,” he says, “she’s right here with me.” Before he hangs up, Susan has cancelled Max’s old card and is overnighting a new one via FedEx. She’s promised it will be in Max’s hands by Wednesday.
“You are a miracle worker!” Max laughs, and this time the sound of her laughter is genuine. “How can I ever thank you?”
“Give me a minute or two, and I’m sure I can come up with a few ideas,” Andrew says. Then he returns her smile.
Max
In a million years I would have never guessed I’d meet Andrew Steen here in Paris, and it could be two million before I would have guessed he’d be so nice about helping me out.
Up until last night I thought he was somewhat of a snob. But the truth is he’s just a bit shy. Once he gets started talking he’s actually fun. You know, in a casual sort of way. He’s smart too. I was amazed at how he called the bank and bingo-bongo got me a new credit card.
I felt ridiculous telling him the real reason I came to Paris was to find Julien, so I said I wanted to be inspired by the architecture. Thinking back on it I guess that sounded like a pretty lame reason, but it was all I could come up with at the moment. I was too ashamed to admit I’ve wasted three years of my life pining over the same guy who robbed me.
Okay, maybe it wasn’t Julien who actually stuck his hand in my bag and took those things, but it’s still the same thing. He and the girl are a team, and in my mind one is as guilty as the other. Actually, I feel sort of sorry for her. My bet is that sooner or later he’ll do her just as he’s done me.
Julien gets away with it because he’s the kind of guy girls turn around to look at, so you feel good about being the one he’s with. At the time you’re so infatuated with his looks and charm you don’t stop to think about the fact that he hasn’t got one ounce of character.
Andrew is the total opposite. He’s sort of ordinary looking. Cute, but not the kind of cute that makes your eyeballs pop out. His hair is this curly kind of messed up, and he’s got nice eyes. He’s also got a really sweet smile. It’s funny, I never before noticed how genuine his smile is. When I said he was my hero for dealing with the bank as he did, he blushed.
Imagine a guy blushing. Julien could stand naked in the middle of the Champs Elysées and wouldn’t blush.
Actually, I thought it was kind of sweet Andrew blushing like that. When I asked if there was some way I could repay his kindness he finally said yes, I could go sightseeing with him. He’s been to Paris six times and not once been to the Louvre or the d’Orsay. How can you possibly be in Paris and not visit those museums?
Andrew has a meeting this morning, but he said let’s get together this afternoon. Not like a date or anything but just to hang out and do some sightseeing. He suggested the Louvre, but it’s closed on Tuesday so we’re going to the d’Orsay. I enjoy the d’Orsay more anyway, and I think he will too.
Maybe I’ll surprise him and stop by the museum to pick up tickets before we meet. Yeah, that’s what I’m going to do. It’s kind of a way of repaying him for how nice he’s been to me.
Annie is going to die laughing when I tell her about this.
Surveying the Damage
It is the wee hours of Tuesday morning before the wind finally subsides and the sound of things thumping against the house ceases. Annie and Ophelia are lying on the cot, curled together like two fingers of the same hand. Annie, with her arm tucked beneath her stomach, seems to be cradling the unborn child. Oliver paces the floor; he walks to the edge of the circle of light then turns and comes back again. Ophelia’s oil lamp is enough to light this small area of the room, but the rest of the basement is in total blackness.
Oliver checks his watch. Two-thirty. He waits and listens for another fifteen minutes then says he is going upstairs to check on the damage. He clicks on the flashlight and starts up the steps.
“Be careful,” Annie calls out, but careful of what she doesn’t say.
“Don’t worry,” Oliver replies.
His footsteps are slow and cautious. The howl of the storm was worse than anything he has ever heard, so he is uncertain of what to expect. As soon as he pushes open the basement door he catches the odor of wet earth. Extending his arm in front of him, he swishes the circle of light back and forth to see where it is safe to step and where it is not. In the hallway there is broken glass, and the picture that once hung in the living room is torn apart. The frame lays splintered into sticks of wood.
From here he can see the front door. It is still intact. No damage there. He moves back toward the kitchen and feels water squish beneath his feet. Shining the light toward the dining room, he sees a branch large enough to be considered a tree atop the dining room table. Ophelia’s suspicion is correct; the tall pine has come down on the house. Splashes of rain still blow through the broken window.
The branch needs to be cut into pieces and carried out, but it will have to wait until daylight. He continues to the kitchen. In here the air is heavy with the earthy smell of the storm, but there is no damage other than a geranium that has fallen to the floor and broken the pot. He breathes a sigh of relief and crosses to the alcove that leads to the back porch. He tries the door, but it seems to be stuck. He sticks the flashlight in his pocket and tugs at the door until it finally gives way and creaks open.
Something feels wrong. Oliver hesitates before stepping across the threshold. He pulls the flashlight from his pocket and swishes the small circle of light back and forth across where the
porch should be, but there is nothing. Not a hanging patch of screen, an overturned table or even a throw pillow.
Impossible, he thinks.
With one hand braced against the inside frame of the door and the flashlight gripped tightly in the other, he sticks his head out the door. The back porch is gone. There are a few loose boards dangling from the side of the house, but everything else has disappeared.
“I can’t believe it!” he exclaims.
He pulls back inside and slams the door hard enough for it to remain stuck.
More wary than ever, he continues through the house. Downstairs there is no further damage. The mustiness of the storm is everywhere, but that is little more than an inconvenience compared to the damage of the back porch. The apothecary is the only room that does not have the odor of the storm. It has somehow held on to the sweet fragrances of lavender, ginger and chamomile.
The loft is the only remaining room to check. But seeing the back porch torn loose from the house has unnerved Oliver, and as he starts up the stairs he prays the skylight has not come crashing down.
Taking the steps slowly, he listens for the sound of an unfamiliar creak and tests the sturdiness of each stair before lifting his full weight onto it. At the top of the staircase he pauses for a deep breath then pushes the door open. He is prepared for the worst, but the room is completely intact. He turns the circle of light toward the skylight and sees it covered with debris from the storm but otherwise unharmed.
“A miracle,” he mumbles.
After he has gone through the entire house, he returns to the basement to tell Ophelia and Annie of the damage.
“It’s safe to come upstairs,” he says. “The dining room is in rough shape, but the bedrooms are okay.”
What the Heart Remembers Page 11