by Lynn Sheene
He looked up to her, cloudy eyes gleamed over the pallor of his face. “Ha.” His voice was raspy. “I nearly brought that batârd down.”
The old man was fighting back the best way he could. He may well have fought the Germans twenty years before in the Great War. Even here, bleeding in the frozen slush, he was a proud French soldier. Claire blinked back tears burning behind her eyes and smiled. “You fought a good battle today, Monsieur.”
He choked on a reply, his breath a thin wheeze. Claire looked up for help.
Across the street, the soldiers guarding the hotel were staring, guns at attention. Everyone else had disappeared except for one of the men who warmed himself in the café’s heat. Even he had retreated back into the building’s shadows. He watched beneath a cap pulled low over his eyes.
“Help us. He needs to get to a doctor,” she said.
His bearded face remained expressionless as he scrutinized her. He finally turned away, cigarette clenched in his mouth, gaze on the street. Biting back a curse, Claire turned to the old man. His grimace faded as he let out a long, hoarse sigh. His rigid body went slack. He was gone.
Claire sank back into the slush, feeling its bite as it soaked through to her legs. She heard panting, realized it was her breath. The cane rested half off the curb. The handle was ivory, goldrimmed, an elaborate dog’s head. Claire reached, felt the cold surface press into her skin.
Coarse laughter echoed from the café. A moment’s amusement for them, she realized. The fear and anger she felt for the old man, the German soldiers, the constant struggle for life in this tortured city blazed together. She leaped to her feet, cane clenched in her fist, and strode for the door.
A strong hand grabbed her shoulder and yanked her back. The man in the shadows—the connard who hadn’t lifted a finger to save the old man—was dragging her away from the café. Claire elbowed him hard in the ribs as he pulled her into an alley.
He cursed and let go. Under the sandy beard, his face was sculpted with sharp cheekbones and deep-set eyes. Those eyes. The English bastard that insisted Laurent send her away. Thomas Grey.
“You sorry—” Claire gripped the cane and swung it toward his head.
Grey caught the ivory handle. “Claire? What are you doing here?”
“You stood there and let—”
“There was no help for him.” He tossed the cane across the alley.
She shoved hard on his chest. “You watched an old man die on the street.”
“I watched an old man be murdered. We both did.” He caught her hands and pulled her face close to his. “Tell me, Claire. Now. How were you in Hôtel Emeraude?”
“You don’t get to ask me questions.” She jerked herself free.
Harsh shouts rose from the direction of the restaurant. A truck engine rumbled. Grey motioned for her to stay put with a finger pointed at her face, then leaned his head out into the street. He grimaced then bit words off in his mouth. “Just go. Right now.”
“I need to get my cart.”
“No. Leave it. Go.”
Claire brushed by him and peered into the street. A truck had brought more troops. They were filing into the restaurant. The sounds of breaking glass echoed off the stone buildings.
Grey tugged on her arm. “You—”
“Just shut up.” Claire turned into the darkness of the alley and stalked away from the restaurant, away from everything.
The banks of the Seine forced her to turn. She walked mindlessly along the brick quai toward the tall spire of Grand Palais. With every stride, the anger drained away, leaving her weak, her stomach churning. Marching into that restaurant would have been an idiotic thing to do. She would have been carted off, likely killed.
Brushing away frozen snow, Claire slumped onto an empty bench that overlooked the pont des Invalides spanning the Seine. How was she going to explain this to Madame? Now the money was going to have to buy a new cart. If one could even be found. The muddy water tossed and churned in its banks. Claire let out a long breath and closed her eyes.
Warm lips pressed against her cheek as the scent of Gauloises hit her nose. Her eyes jerked open and her hand flew up in a fist.
Laurent peered down at her, smiling. “Ah, ma chérie, you used to like that.” He slid onto the bench next to her, parking the lost cart at her side.
Claire looked at the cart then back to him, trying to regain her poise. To see his smiling face so suddenly after the shooting, she couldn’t think. His English sounded strange to her ears.
“Today must be the day for unexpected reunions,” she managed to say.
“Yes. A surprise for everyone.” He paused as two businessmen walked past. “Where have you been, Claire? What have you been doing? We thought you left. Went back to New York.” He shifted on the bench to rest one arm around her shoulder and the other on her leg.
Claire smiled grimly. Same old Laurent. But the touch felt good. And he still had those lips. “I’ve done a little of this, a little of that,” she said, in her best French.
His forehead wrinkled, lips pursed. He was surprised. And, she realized, troubled.
Claire smoothed her dirty, soaked coat against her legs. She had planned on meeting him again in such different circumstances. A man on her arm, a fine dress. Jealousy was the intent. In truth, his expression read worry for her. She couldn’t help that her cheeks were thin.
“Your French is very good,” he said finally.
“Merci.” Claire extricated herself from his hands and stood. She gripped the cart, didn’t meet his eyes. “I need to go, Laurent.”
He plucked the handle from her hands. “By all means, ma chérie, lead the way.”
The empty cart bounced along behind them as they walked in silence. Claire tried to strategize, but the image of the old man crowded out every thought. She rubbed her dirty glove over her nose to erase the memory of those damn chocolates.
Laurent watched her. “Grey told me he saw you. He couldn’t believe it was you at first, but then when you glared at him as though you wished him dead, he was sure.”
“A man died on the sidewalk. Grey could have helped.”
“No. He couldn’t. He was working.”
“I’ve seen whores on street corners work harder.”
He snorted, seeming impressed by the breadth of her language skills. “I’ll tell him you said that.”
Claire threw him a dark look. What the hell had Grey been doing hanging around next to a Nazi hotel? There were rumors of Resistánts banding together to make life harder for the Germans. But how could it matter how the Nazis slept or ate? She clamped her mouth shut. She didn’t care what Grey heard.
“You didn’t leave Paris. What did you do? Where did you go? The hotel today—” Laurent tugged at her arm. She slid out of his grasp without slowing, leaving him struggling with the cart and trotting to catch up.
It was another block to the flower shop. She toyed with the idea of continuing on to avenue des Champs-Elysées. Can’t a girl do a bit of shopping, she would say. But then where would she go? Her shoulders sagged as she realized she didn’t have the energy to lie. Not after this afternoon. She thought back to the moment on the street. The last wheezing breath. Grey’s expressionless face. She turned and stared Laurent in the eye. “What was Grey doing?”
Laurent looked uneasy. He rooted in his coat pocket for a cigarette, a move Claire remembered. He lit a half-smoked Gauloises and took a long drag.
They stopped in front of the flower shop. He glanced up, expression puzzled, as though he had just noticed where they were. She waved toward the awning that read La Vie en Fleurs.
“This is where I’ve been.” Claire straightened her shoulders, head up. She would not be ashamed. “I’m a florist.”
Laurent’s eyes widened. His mouth relaxed into a surprised grin. “Ah. You work with Madame Palain?” He shook his head and took a drag off his cigarette. As he chuckled, a trail of smoke escaped his lips. “You were making a delivery today?”
&
nbsp; “Yes. It amazes you that much I can be useful?” Claire snagged the cart from his hand and rolled a tire over his foot as she opened the door.
His mouth crimped in pain and he shifted his weight on his heels, but he still struggled to answer her question. “No. It is Madame. She is very . . .”
“Proper, Monsieur Olivier.” Madame stepped from the door and pulled her sweater tighter over her shoulders. “I imagine you were going to say proper.”
Laurent blushed deep scarlet. “Yes, Madame. I was going to say that.”
Claire looked back and forth between them.
Madame smiled at Laurent then at Claire. “I have offered suggestions to Monsieur Olivier in the past. I don’t believe my opinion has always been welcomed.”
Laurent chuckled, his head hanging like a guilty schoolboy.
Claire held back a snort. The florist was even more powerful than she knew.
Laurent looked up from his shoes. “Perhaps I can atone for some of my less refined days. I am having a small party. It would be my deepest pleasure to invite you both to dinner tonight.”
A trace of excitement bubbled in Claire’s chest. Another chance with Laurent? Then an equally fast quashing. A cavalier dinner invitation was hardly an offer, compared to the ones he’d whispered so long ago. “No. It would be impossible.”
“Oui, Monsieur. It gives us great pleasure to accept your invitation,” Madame said.
Claire glared at the florist, her lips biting back a protest. Madame didn’t deign to notice. She extended her hand to Laurent, palm down, the way, Claire had learned, either an aristocrat or Madame Palain exited a conversation.
Laurent leaned down, a soft kiss with the propriety befitting a knight and his queen. “Perhaps you could find yourselves at my apartment at eight thirty this evening?”
“Of course. That will be perfect,” the florist said.
Laurent looked back to Claire. “I can’t believe you were here all along.” He took one last drag from his cigarette and carefully snuffed it out with a finger and thumb, then replaced it into the tin in his coat’s hip pocket. He stepped forward, lips pursed as though to offer Claire la bise, a kiss on each cheek.
She leaned away from him, her face nonplussed. “Au revoir, Laurent.”
“Until tonight.” He inclined his head to her then turned on his heel. “Here all along.” He shook his head as he walked away down the street.
The florist hummed a tune as she maneuvered the cart against the wall in the back room. Claire marched straight to her.
“Madame, why did you say we would go?” Her voice was shrill to her own ears. “I can’t eat his food. You don’t know what went on between us. Before.”
“If you knew Monsieur Olivier before, it is not hard to imagine what went on between you. He has spent a great deal of money here over the years. The address file of women he has sent flowers to is as thick as my palm.” She grasped Claire’s shoulder and tugged her over to the mirror lining the back room wall. “Look at yourself. What do you see?”
“I don’t know. What do you mean?”
“You are a beautiful woman. You are in Paris and the only people you speak to on many days are Georges and I. And you are too thin. Don’t be foolish. You will go to dinner, laugh, flirt and eat until you can’t swallow another bite. There is a use, at times, for that kind of man.”
“But, Madame, you’re coming too, right?”
“Ah, Claire, I am not going. Monsieur invited you, not me.”
“He invited us both. And you accepted. For. Us. Both.”
Madame shook her head and sighed. Her hands dropped to her sides as if she didn’t have the will to hold on anymore. “You must pay better attention, Claire. There was what was said and what was meant. You will never learn to be Parisian if you insist on conversing like an unschooled American. You are impossible.” She left Claire alone in front of the mirror.
Soft yellow light glimmered from candles clustered in a silver tray in Claire’s dim bedroom. Staring into the full-length mirror, she smoothed the grey wool dress over her hips and twisted her body to view her silhouette. The bulky fabric helped hide her thinness and almost gave Claire her figure back. She’d been so active trying to help Madame make ends meet in the flower shop, her skin, though pale, exhibited a healthy glow. A touch of crimson red lipstick was all it took. Not bad, but something was missing.
She laughed. Of course, how could she have forgotten? She tugged the top drawer forward until its face rested on her bent knee and groped around behind the drawer’s backing until her fingers touched a hard bundle wedged against the wood. Her jewelry roll. Sitting on the bed, she untied the ribbon and unrolled the silk fabric.
In spite of herself, her pulse quickened. Diamonds. The necklace’s weight pressed into her palm, stones sparkling in the faint light. She hadn’t even thought of it since she put it away the day she arrived. She ran her hands over the sharp, cold edges. So ridiculously big! The pendant extended past the curves of her palm. Madame would pronounce it gauche. It was still ravishing. Claire slipped it on and let the pendant slip down toward the vee in her dress.
The touch of cold stones against her skin sent her mind back to the last evening she wore the jewels. Her final night at her brownstone in the city. Distance had faded the memory to a blur of men in tuxedos, women in diamonds and fur, and the orchestra playing Glenn Miller. Something out of a picture show, but the cold weight squeezing against her chest wouldn’t let her forget how it ended.
Claire dropped the necklace back into the cloth, rolled it into a ball and tucked it back into its hiding place. She was smarter now. She’d learned. She wouldn’t trade her life now, hungry and cold as she remained, to have that New York–socialite role back. Not for anything in the world. Including diamonds. Staring at the bare space the necklace left behind, she pulled a midnight blue scarf from the drawer and knotted it around her neck as Madame had taught her. Tonight she would be restrained. She would have impeccable poise. She would do and say as Madame would. She was Parisian now.
It was just a few blocks from the flower shop to Laurent’s apartment on rue d’Artois, but the cold and memories of Claire’s last trip down this street jarred her with each step. The blackout was in effect and the darkness of the city compounded her mood.
Claire arrived at Laurent’s doorway at the moment she determined she would turn around and go home. Better to face Madame’s chiding in the morning than walk in there again. Undoubtedly the sullen Englishman would be in attendance. It was clear in what regard he held Claire from their unfortunate meeting today. And she was confident she thought even less of him.
“Excusez-moi.”
Claire whipped around, bumping into the door. “Oh. It’s you.” She inspected Grey’s dark bundled shape.
The muscles tightened in his freshly shaved jaw. His steel eyes narrowed. “I didn’t expect you here.”
“Really?” Claire pulled the flaps of the thick coat collar away from her face and fluffed her hair. “Perhaps you aren’t in charge of the guest list.” She rapped on the carved wood with gloved knuckles.
Grey slipped past her and opened the door.
She threw a smile back at him as she entered past him into light and music. “I’m sure your parties are a real scream though.”
He slipped off his coat and held his hand out for hers. Claire shrugged her coat into his arms and inspected him as he turned away. His tailored suit revealed broad shoulders narrowing to a trim waist as he hung the coats in a concealed closet.
They walked side by side to the salon’s doorway then paused and looked at each other. She wasn’t about to enter the party with this bastard. He stood back from her, the hint of a smile on his lips. Apparently, neither was he.
“After you.” Grey tilted his head toward the doorway.
Claire peeled back her lips into her coldest smile. “Merci.” She entered.
The salon shimmered in candlelight. Men in tailored suits and women in soft dresses, the strain
s of forbidden jazz on the record player. A long marble-topped table reflected glints of flickering candles between the black-market bread, cheese and wine. Paintings in gold-leaf frames glowed like scattered embers in the light. Laurent’s photos, framed in black, leaned discreetly against the wall.
It amazed Claire to think this place had almost been home. For a while anyway. She could almost imagine what it would have been like if she’d stayed. If she had helped throw tonight’s fête. She felt a stab of sadness that she and Laurent weren’t a beautiful couple, ensconced in a beautiful life.
No one seemed to notice her. Claire found an empty space next to the fireplace. She extended her cold hands toward the flames as Grey headed to a couple across the room. He kissed the woman on the cheek and greeted the man with the first smile Claire had seen on him. In spite of herself, she noticed how the grin sparked Grey’s eyes and warmed his face in a way some might call handsome.
The man was short, stocky, with a burst of dark hair on the top of his head. He wore heavy trousers, faded tie, stiff collar and a sweater with the sleeves rolled up to reveal thick forearms. The woman was in her early forties, in a worn but impeccable brown tweed suit. After a moment of talk, the woman squeezed Grey’s hand, left the men and approached Claire.
Claire’s mouth dried up. What did Grey tell them about her? She took a deep breath and smoothed the wool over her hips. Poise, restraint, grace, she told herself. She pulled back her shoulders and arranged a smile as the woman faced her.
“Good evening, Madame Harris. I am Odette Berri. I am pleased to make your acquaintance.” The woman extended a firm hand. Her pleasantries didn’t extend to her face, kept politely neutral.
“Good evening, Madame Berri. Thank you.”
“My husband, Jacques.” She gestured toward the man speaking with Grey.
That was a surprise. Though Odette’s suit was a bit worn, her manner appeared too refined to be married to the man next to Grey. He looked like a farmer fidgeting in his Sunday best.
Odette distractedly fingered a loose curl of wiry salt-and-pepper hair and glanced back toward the men as if thinking about rejoining them. “How are you finding Paris?”