The cathedral was dark, cold and smelled of candle wax and incense. They took a few moments for their eyes to adjust.
“How long has it been here?” Ben said.
“Eleven something when it was started.” She scanned the brochure. “1163.”
“Why did Germany let all the buildings of Paris stay while they damn near destroyed London?”
“You’re not much of a history buff, are you?”
“Got me there. Never much cared for the past, only the present.” He squeezed her hand.
“To make it brief, the French government capitulated. They put out the welcome sign for the Germans so the country would be protected. The people didn’t like it so much. One reason the French resistance was so strong. As for London”—she shrugged—“the English told the Germans to stick it up their bright and shiny hiney and they paid dearly.”
“What would you have done?” he asked, taking his gaze from a stained-glass window to look at her.
“It’s really a moot point. While I love the French and the city I would have done what the British did and then some,” she said, walking toward the next window.
“Yeah, I kinda figured that’s what you’d do,” he said, followed by, “Oouph.”
Gemma turned in time to see Ben and a man in a black cassock, arms filled with bundled pamphlets, doing a dance to stay upright. They succeeded but several bundles fell to the floor, sliding across the tiles.
“I’m really sorry, Father,” Ben said, crouching to retrieve the shrink-wrapped packages. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”
“Then we are both at fault,” the priest said. “I left my glasses someplace and can’t see where I am going.”
Ben stood, his arms filled with small bundles. “Let me help you with these. Where are you going?”
“Just there.” The priest hitched his head in the direction of a door a few feet away.
Gemma marveled at the ease Ben had with others. She’d seen in Ecuador how he’d spoken to adults and children alike.
Since she was the only one with a free hand she hustled ahead to open the door. The pamphlets were soon stacked on a small desk. Ben stuck out his hand. “I’m Ben Walsh.” He looked over at her. “This is Gemma Hendrickson.”
The priest took Ben’s hand. “Pere Mitterrand. Thank you for the help.” He nodded to Gemma. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”
“Mitterrand?” Gemma said.
The priest sighed and rolled his eyes. “No, Madame. No relation to the French prime minister. The only thing we share is a name. If I didn’t have on my name tag I would have made up a name to tell you.”
“But, Pere, there is no name tag on your cassock.”
The priest patted the right side of his chest then the left. “Ah, I have one.” A smile spread across his face. “But it’s attached to my shirt.” He hunched his shoulders and reached inside his cassock, withdrawing a pair of glasses. “And I have glasses,” he said, putting them on. He peered at them and flung out his hands. “It is a miracle. I can see!”
They stared at him. “It’s a joke. You can laugh,” he said, looking back and forth between them.
Gemma’s eyes went wide. Ben smiled and winked at her. “My first visit to Notre Dame and I’m witness to a miracle.”
“Your first visit to my beautiful Notre Dame?” the man said as he locked the office door.
“For me, yes,” Ben answered first.
“I’ve been here many times but every time I enter I’m in awe,” she added.
“Ahh.” He nodded. “Be sure to show him the chapels and the organ. The organ is magnificent. Tell him the story of the windows.” He pointed up. “Did you know that here,” he said and pointed to the floor, “is the very center of France from which all distances in the country are measured?”
Ben shook his head. “I didn’t.” He and Gemma exchanged glances and smiles. Pere Mitterrand checked his watch. “If you’d like I can walk with you.”
Gemma couldn’t believe their luck. “Of course. We’d love to have you tell us about your Notre Dame.”
For the next two hours they were given a tour filled with love and trivia Gemma had never heard. Ben was enthralled with the past, listening carefully to the priest and asking questions. By the time they left, Pere Mitterrand felt like an old friend. For their good-bye they did the two-cheek kiss thing and Ben pressed a euro note into his hand, insisting he keep it, and thanked him profusely for his time.
As they left the cathedral Ben linked his arm in hers. “I could get used to this.”
So could I, Gemma thought. So could I.
The dinner cruise was spectacular. The food was excellent but they hardly ate. Ben pulled his chair alongside of hers, and with his arm draped around her and her head resting on his shoulder they watched the lights of Paris slide by. On the way to her apartment they stopped at a café across the river from the brilliantly lit cathedral and sat where they could see the Eiffel tower in the distance. Gemma could not ever remember feeling this way. She’d had many lovers. It had been for companionship when she was lonely and sex when she needed it.
At the entrance to her apartment building she took Ben’s hand and pulled him inside the entry. “See me safely upstairs.”
He hesitated. “Safely?”
She leaned into him and put a hand on his chest. “Gargoyles,” she said in a loud whisper, her gaze darting side to side. “They may have followed me home.” She glanced down at her shawl. “They love cash-a-mere-a.” The day had been wonderful and she didn’t want it to end. She wanted him to kiss her. She wanted him to come in. She wanted him in her bed and to stay forever.
Ben laughed. “I’ll protect your cash-a-mere-a and you.” His voice went deep, hoarse.
They walked up the stairs silently, arms linked around each other. He took the key, unlocking her door. “Mission accomplished. Home safe. No gargoyles and you still have your shawl.” He gave a little bow. When he straightened she went up on her toes and kissed him. He didn’t pull away, and taking that as a good sign she slipped a hand inside his jacket, rubbing her palm over his very warm chest.
“Gemma, I . . .” To quiet him she kissed him again. She didn’t want to hear him talk unless it was to say let me help you out of your clothes. This time he kissed back.
He eased back and fear that he’d changed his mind forced its way into the cracks in her self-confidence. He cupped her head with both hands, fanning his thumbs along the edge of her jaw, then bent and gave her a slow, deep, soul-melding kiss that went on forever. His tongue met and danced with hers and she tightened her arms around him as much to stay steady as to feel his body. He broke the kiss and a voice said, “You must keep this man.” Gemma blinked to bring things back into focus and looked over Ben’s shoulder to see Madame Lorraine standing in her doorway in a bathrobe, a turban on her head. Ben turned his head. “That”—she pointed her cane their direction—“is the way a man kisses a woman when he loves her. Do not let him escape.” She waved the cane as if it were a wand and she was granting them a wish. She smiled, retreated into her apartment, and with a wave of her hand and looking for all the world like a fairy godmother wished them bonne nuit and closed the door. They laughed and Ben took up where he’d left off kissing, touching, raising her blood pressure and temperature until her blood felt like molten steel.
“Stay with me,” she said.
Ben went still and the low guttural sound he made turned her insides to a raging fire.
“You’re killing me.” He shook his head as his eyes searched her face. “You have no idea how much I want that. Want you.” His breath was coming in short bursts.
“Then stay.” Her own voice was low and husky with desire.
“I promised you.” He shook his head. “I promised myself we’d take it slow.” He blew out a breath between clenched teeth.
“What if . . . I don’t want to take it slow?” She rubbed against him. Against the bulge in his jeans. He stepped back like he’d been burned
.
“I don’t want this to just be about sex. I want you to be sure this is what you want. We’ve had one day together. One day without car accidents, drug cartels shooting at us, plane crashes, tramping through a jungle. One day without Navy SEALs, and military types. Let’s give it a couple more days. In a week I don’t want to become a mistake you made.”
“No chance of that.” Her voice quivered.
“I have to leave.” His voice lacked conviction. “I have to make calls and go over patient records with the doctor who’s covering for me. Then, I need sleep.” He smiled. “I go in there,” he hitched his chin in the direction of her open door, “neither of us will get any sleep for days.” Which was exactly what she wanted.
“If you’re trying to make me fall in love with you . . .” There, she’d said the L word. “It’s working.”
Ben closed his eyes for a long moment when he opened them they were misty. He turned his face into the hand she ran over the stubble on his jaw. “Tomorrow?” she asked, brushing his lips with her finger. Thinking about what those lips could do to her.
“It’s three a.m., pretty lady. Already tomorrow.” He pressed against her. “Meet me at the café we just left tomorrow at two, that will give me plenty of time.”
“Yes.” She barely got the word out before he delivered another long, slow, smoldering kiss that turned into a hard desperate one with her arms locked around his neck and his leg jammed between her legs. Ben stepped back. They both groaned and gasped to fill oxygen-starved lungs.
He licked his lips to taste her. “Tomorrow,” he choked out, turned and disappeared down the stairs.
* * *
Ben arrived at the café early and selected a table with a good view of Notre Dame, arranging the chairs so he could see her approach. When she sat, she would see the cathedral behind him. He ordered a coffee when what he really wanted was a cognac. He gave the waiter a ten-euro tip, telling him there would be more after he delivered a bottle of champagne to the table as soon as his lady settled in. He pulled the black box from his pocket, flipped back the lid and stared at the ring. A single ruby circled with two rows of diamonds. Yesterday, while window-shopping, her face lit up as she admired it in the window. When she told him her birthday was the Fourth of July and rubies were her birthstone, he knew this was the one he’d give her. He intended on carrying it around, and when a moment presented itself he’d give it to her. As soon as he slipped it into his pocket he knew there would be no waiting. He had to give it to her today. Gawd, he was nervous. Giving her a ring and asking her to marry him wasn’t exactly taking it slow. There was no rush on the getting married part. That was her decision. They could wait six months or a year. Have a small wedding or a lavish affair, whatever she wanted. That is, if she would marry him.
The sex part was a whole other issue. He didn’t know how much longer he was going to be able to put that part off. Last night he’d gotten so hard the walk to his hotel had been painful. They kissed like that again and he doubted if he’d be able to take it slow. He practiced bringing the jeweler’s box effortlessly from his pocket to the table and opening it. Today his always rock-steady hands had the smallest of tremors. Once more. This time with the words. He smoothly pulled the velvet box from his pocket. “Gemma, I love you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you,” he said, then looked around to see if anyone overheard him. He set the box on the table. “Will you marry me?” And he fumbled the opening, thanks to the sound of brakes locking and tires laying down rubber coming from around the corner. Let’s hope that doesn’t happen again. He jammed the box back in his pocket and checked his watch. Straight up 2:00 p.m. She’d be coming around that corner any second. She was a spot-on-time person.
Pedestrians headed the direction of the screeching brakes. Must’ve been an accident, but he hadn’t heard any metal on metal. His waiter and another man from the café stood at the corner craning their necks. That guy better be keeping an eye out for Gemma. He shook his head. People were the same everywhere. Had to get a good look at somebody else’s misery.
Police sirens sounding like a stuck bagpipe recording, playing two notes saying come on, come on, get out of the way, get out of the way, drew near. Several people now stood at the corner, all peering in the direction of the accident. He checked his watch again. Gemma was coming from that way and must be having problems getting through the crowd. He considered texting, then dismissed the thought. Checking the phone and answering would delay her.
A police car followed by an ambulance appeared in the intersection and disappeared down the narrow street. Ben noted how fast the emergency services had appeared and nodded approval. A young woman obviously upset pushed through the knot of people at the corner and came his direction.
“Mademoiselle, please, what happened?” he asked in French.
“A woman crossing the street was hit. It is awful. She is dead,” she replied in English.
Been pushed to his feet so fast his chair tipped over. He bolted to the corner, shoving through the people with a brusque sorry and excuse me, earning a stream of cusswords for his rudeness. Running on shaky legs, panic fueled him. He scanned the crowd for Gemma at the center of the block where the ambulance stopped. She wasn’t there. God, please, please don’t let it be her. He ran and prayed, searching his memory for names of any doctors he knew in the States who had connections with Paris hospitals. Each step felt like an eternity. He desperately searched the bystanders, hoping he would see her standing among them. The ambulance was nosed up to the back bumper of the police car, lights flashing and sirens wailing on both vehicles. He made no attempt to be polite and shouldered through the crowd, moving people out of his way. On the other side, lying on the cobblestones, was the shawl he’d bought for Gemma.
His world tilted off its axis. “Gemma.” His yell was lost in the noise made by the damned sirens. He climbed the bumper of the police car and jumped down near where a form lay covered by the shawl. His gut turned to a ball of concrete. He’d lost her. Lost her before he had the chance to tell her he loved her. The concrete spread, hardening blood, muscle, and bone. He’d thought he had the rest of his life. There was so much he wanted to tell her. He couldn’t take his eyes from the small form under the shawl. His breath hitched. A sliver of hope cracked the concrete. The form under the shawl was too short to be Gemma. The concrete was jackhammered away when he recognized the cane lying a few feet away. A cane that only two days ago poked him in the side and this morning had granted him a wish. Gemma? Had she been with Madame? Ambulance? He forced his feet to move and head for the rear of the ambulance. She was there. Standing on her own. No blood. No bandages. Talking to a female gendarme. She looked up and saw him. He didn’t know how he closed the distance between them.
“Are you hurt?” he said gently, taking her into his arms.
“No.” She shook her head. “But Madame is . . .”
“I know.” He worked on getting his breathing back to normal. “Were you with her when it happened?” He wanted to be absolutely sure she had not been hit.
“No, I was down the street, I saw . . .”
“Okay.” That was all he needed to know. She was safe.
“You are?” the policewoman asked.
“Ben Walsh, I’m a friend of Madame Hendrickson.” No sense adding the doctor. In some cases it could complicate things and Madame was beyond help. Gemma was his concern. He took her icy hand in his, then released it to strip off his jacket and drape it over her shoulders.
When he finished the policewoman said, “Madame, if you will tell me one more time what you witnessed.”
Gemma was calm but clearly shaken. “I was coming up the street from that direction,” she said and tipped her head, then shoved into the sleeves of his coat and reached for his hand, lacing her fingers between his. “I was on my way to meet Ben. I saw Madame standing there between the cars.” Gemma pointed to a space between a gray car and a red car. “She bent forward like this”—Gemma leaned slightly from the
waist—“and fell to her face right in front of the car. She made no attempt to catch herself. The young man driving didn’t have a chance to stop.” She paused to look at a man leaning against the ambulance taking deep drags from a cigarette. “There was no way to avoid . . . hitting her.”
The officer made more notes in her yellow binder. “Thank you for your help. Would you look this over.” She handed Gemma the notebook. “Be sure the addresses and telephone numbers you have given are correct.” The woman’s English was quite good.
Gemma took the book and carefully read what had been written. “Yes, everything is correct.” She handed it back.
“Thank you for your assistance, Madame Hendrickson.” She closed the book. “You are free to leave.” She took a card from her pocket and held it out. “My card.” Gemma took the offered business card. “Call if you have questions. Should we have more questions someone from police headquarters will call.” Gemma nodded.
You are free to leave was all Ben needed to hear. He wrapped an arm around Gemma and hustled her down the street.
“My God,” Gemma said. “The woman fought for the resistance. Survived the Second World War and its aftermath and dies falling in front of a car.” She looked up at him. “There was nothing I could do.” She stopped and looked back over her shoulder.
He took her by the hands. “Look at me.” He waited until she was looking into his eyes. “You’re right. There wasn’t anything you could do. From what you described, it sounds like she had a massive stroke, a heart attack, or a cerebral hemorrhage. It’s reasonable to believe she was dead before she was hit by the car.”
Gemma looked back at the accident scene. “There are no guarantees in this life.” Her gaze returned to him. “Are there?”
Under Fire: The Admiral Page 16