A Star for Mrs. Blake (23 page)

“Well, he never talked down. Not to servants
or
a child.”

“I remember Henry taking me to the Public Garden to feed the geese. Maybe that’s where I got my love of animals!”

“Florence is well known for her animal statues,” Bobbie said. “She’s got two wonderful rhinoceroses guarding the entrance of—what is it? A famous zoo.”

“Lots of zoos,” Florence said modestly. “And museums. Now I’m doing table sculptures, mostly tigers. People are scaling down these days.”

“Ever do raccoons?”

“No, somehow I’ve missed raccoons.”

“Sammy and his friends used to hunt raccoons because they were taking over the garbage dumps,” Cora said with pride. “They’d get twenty-five cents apiece from the county.”

Florence smiled and raised her eyebrows. “What a waste of a good coat!”

Cora caught more than a whiff of condescension. Her stomach tightened in defense of her son, the island, the entire state of Maine.

Florence was oblivious to the offense. “Why didn’t you stay with me,” she was asking, with a strong arm around Bobbie, “instead of a strange hotel?”

“There’s so little time and they’ve been shuttling us all over. We have to be at the Arc de Triomphe at three.”

“Oh, my, then we’d better sit down.”

Florence led them down a hall. The scent of beef stew grew mouthwateringly intense. Although the house was well appointed,
there were odd things around, mirrors everywhere, and rows of strange white plaster faces of men mounted on the wall.

“What are those?” Cora asked.

“Those are my brave boys,” Florence said. “British and American soldiers who were wounded in the war. We gave them new life here.”

“Florence helped men who suffered facial wounds,” Bobbie said.

Cora swallowed hard, seeing the faces now as dead.

“This house used to be a clinic. I came over to study sculpture but I met an English doctor, James Blackmore, who was doing very advanced, very important work in the area of reconstructive surgery, and joined his staff as an artist. We lived and worked upstairs, and there used to be a surgery ward. Those are the molds we made of each wounded man. Then I’d use a photograph of the soldier from before the injury and make a mask that exactly covered the missing parts. I’d paint it to match his skin, and there you go.”

“And afterward, how do they get along in society?” Bobbie asked.

“The best cases were able to regain their confidence and go back to their families. But some were too ashamed or afraid, or beyond our help, and they’ve wound up in homes for disfigured soldiers. I’d rather remember our successes. Some of them, you wouldn’t know it at first. You’ll see when you meet Griffin. He’s out in the garden, with the cat.”

Through the glass French doors of the dining room the garden looked like a painting itself—filled with wisteria and beds of tulips, and daffodils blooming in the shade. They could see the back of the man in the smoking jacket, seated at a small round table, half hidden by a pink chestnut tree.

“Are you sure?” Bobbie asked. “When we first came in he seemed to avoid us. I would hate to cause the poor fellow more discomfort—”

“No, no, he’s a writer, so he’s naturally antisocial. The mask allows him to have a normal life. You know, drink, go to prostitutes—all the normal things that writers do!” she added charmingly.

“Does he still get treatment?” Bobbie asked, wanting to reassure herself that he was only a visitor, albeit dressed as if he’d just gotten out of bed.

“No, he lives here.”

There was a moment of confusion.

“He lives with
me
,” Florence said quite clearly. Her eyes were merry. She seemed to enjoy shocking people. Cora sensed Bobbie flinching and felt protective of her new friend. She was trying to think of a civil way to put their hostess in her place when Florence opened the glass doors and called, “Grif? Come and say hello.”

The cat jumped off his lap and the man in the smoking jacket walked toward them through the dappled shade. It was true. From a dozen paces, he didn’t look scarred at all. He was of strong build and wore a friendly expression, along with a cheerfully un-American scarf knotted at his throat.

“Meet the journalist Griffin Reed.”

“I know you!” Cora exclaimed without thinking.

“I know you, too,” he replied in a kindhearted way.

Cora looked directly into his keen blue eyes and he gazed back with frank recognition. A shock went through her and she was embarrassed down to her toes, as if it were as obvious to everyone as it was to them that despite the appliance, the war, Florence, Linwood, and everything else, there was an unmistakable connection between these two strangers.

Reed’s hand lingered in hers. His fingertips were soft in contrast to the fixed look on his face, which made the touch all the more illicit.

“We’ve already met,” Cora managed.

“Have you really?” Florence asked. “How is that possible?”

“At the Hotel Ambassador.”

“Ah, Griffin likes to go there and macerate with other gloomy writers. He doesn’t write anymore, that’s the problem. That’s why you’re depressed, darling.”

“Who said I’m depressed? And if I was,” Reed said genially, “how could you tell?”

Bobbie looked perplexed; Cora wasn’t sure if it was okay to laugh.

Florence rolled her eyes. “That’s one of his jokes.”

“I was at American Express,” said Reed. “Next door to the hotel. Then I had a little breakfast.”

“All right,” said Florence. “I forgive you.”

Why should he be forgiven? Forgiven for what? Cora wanted to know.

“Griffin saved me from some terrible reporters,” she said a bit too defiantly. “And I never got to thank him.”

“She was cornered by that idiot Clancy Hayes,” Reed explained. “And his junked-up photographer pal.”

“Why on earth?”

“The Gold Star Mothers tours are big news in America.”

Florence turned toward Cora. “What’s wrong with that? Why not cooperate?”

“I would have, but—”

“He was provoking her to get a picture,” Reed said impatiently. “That’s all.”

Florence caught his tone and dropped it. “Well then, good for you. I’m sure he’ll never bother Cora again. Let’s sit down.”

“I’m going to beg off,” Reed said.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes. Don’t fuss. I’ve got some reading to do.”

Florence patted his metal cheek. “Sorry, darling. There’ll be soup for you.”

They said their goodbyes and Reed went back into the garden.

“Oh my,” said Bobbie, concerned. “Can he only eat soup?”

“It’s just a bout of indigestion. He’s had some tests, but the doctor thinks it’s nervous stomach,” Florence said, because that’s what Reed had told her after Dr. Szabo left. He didn’t want to turn over the rock about anything more serious if there wasn’t a need.

Cora trailed behind and even glanced back through the glass one time to see if he was looking, but he was absorbed in his books. They sat at a table covered by a beautiful white cloth with crystal and silver, in a floral-wallpapered dining room with fresh flowers in big vases. They were served individual ramekins of lobster custard and then the maid brought rice, peas, and beef stew on platters and held them out for each guest to serve herself, which made Cora twitchy.

“How are you doing, Bobbie? Mother’s worried that this might not be the best thing for you. She’s afraid the pilgrimage might bring everything back …”

“It never goes away, Florence,” Bobbie said sternly.

“But you’ve carried on.”

“Not really. The days just come and go. I used to be so active—entertaining and traveling and my charity work—but even though I had a wonderful marriage, without Henry I’ve lost the focus in life. He was everything to me. I always fretted about him, even when I knew he was safe. He was a sturdy little boy, but from the moment they’re born, the worry doesn’t stop. I always take pictures of him along with me, wherever I go, and I talk to him. I don’t think you can understand if you’ve never had children.”

Florence’s jaw tightened but she assured Bobbie that she understood. They spoke of nieces and nephews while the dishes were cleared for the cheese course, and then chocolate mousse and a plate of truffles were served.

“If only I could have Henry back, for just a few minutes,” Bobbie mused. “Don’t you think so, Cora?”

“I dream a lot about Sammy.”

“That’s like having him back, isn’t it?” Florence said.

Cora didn’t answer. It’s not how she saw it. She wished she didn’t have those dreams. She wished she hadn’t seen the plaster faces in the hallway.

“Florence, dear, as you know, we’re leaving Paris tomorrow,” Bobbie said. “It occurs to me, since you knew Henry and are such a close friend of the family, that you might like to come with me to visit his grave. It would mean a lot to me, and to your mother, I’m sure.”

“How far is it?”

“How far is Verdun?” Bobbie asked.

“It’s a two-hour drive if you don’t stop.”

“Would you?”

Florence answered, too quickly, “I’d love to, but I can’t; I have a show coming up. I have to prepare.”

Bobbie’s opinion of her sank like a stone, but mostly she felt sorry for Florence’s mother. Maybe it was best that her daughter lived in Paris so she didn’t have to witness on a daily basis what a selfish woman her promising little girl had become.

“Well, one day, if you get around to it,” Bobbie replied acidly. “Since you are right here. I haven’t traveled much recently, but this is one trip I was determined to make.”

There was a shift in the atmosphere and Bobbie stood up.

“We should go,” she told Cora.

Florence saw them out with kisses on both cheeks and promises to write. The moment she closed the door, Bobbie and Cora knew exactly what the other was thinking.

“Sorry, but I’m not too good at hiding my likes and dislikes,” Cora said.

Bobbie said, “I agree with you. She’s changed. I’ve never seen anything like it, the way she keeps that poor man. Her mother would be appalled.”

“He doesn’t seem put off,” Cora said. Then, to change the subject: “It’s a nice house.”

Bobbie shrugged and lifted her nose. “Maybe it’s bohemian.”

As they crossed the garden, Cora confessed that she really didn’t want to go to the ceremony at the Arc de Triomphe.

“Don’t you feel well?” Bobbie asked. “You seemed a little out of sorts this morning.”

“No, I’m fine. It’s just that I’ve had enough speechifying.”

“The driver will take you to the hotel.”

“I’d really just like to walk. It’s my last day in Paris.”

“But you don’t know the way.”

“Yes, I do,” said Cora, and recited block by block where to turn left and how to get on Boulevard Saint Michel and across the river to Boulevard Haussmann.

“That’s astonishing,” Bobbie said. “How did you remember?”

Cora said, “I just know.”

“All right then,” Bobbie said. “I’ll see you at dinner.” Then she was in the limousine and Cora was free.

It was a relief to be on her own, away from schedules and lectures. She took her time, marveling at the assortment of new things on every block: Gypsy tearooms, interesting-looking food shops, strange old
churches with domes. She was on the corner of rue Soufflot waiting for the traffic light to change when a man standing beside her said,
“Admettez-la, que vous êtes perdue.”

“I’m sorry,” Cora said. “I don’t speak French.”

“Then I’ll say it in English,” said the man.
“Admit it, you are lost.”

It was Griffin Reed.

“I’m not lost.”

“Which way are you going?”

“That way, toward the river.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“Did you follow me here?”

“I felt like getting out. Would you like to get a drink?”

Cora was startled by the suggestion. “I don’t think so—”

“Hot chocolate, then?”

“In the middle of June?”

“You have to try it the French way. I promise you, it’s not like home.”

They walked half a block to a
crêperie
, where they were served two tiny cups through a window. A cookie like a miniature waffle, light as air, nestled in the saucer.

“What do you call this?” Cora asked.

“
Chocolat chaud
. What do you think?”

“Not too bitter, not too sweet. I like it!”

“Thought you might. You’re that kind of girl.”

“What kind?”

“Not too bitter, not too sweet.”

She just stared at him, amazed at his presumption. She wondered if the mask paradoxically made it easier for him to speak freely. She was beginning to read the subtleties of Reed’s communication. The restless shoulders. Playful eyes. The lips you could glimpse in a fleeting smile. Graceful, unimprisoned hands, and a frank masculinity that inhabited his body. Away from Florence’s house he seemed very different. She was surprised that she felt no pity but, rather, that she was in the presence of a human being as in touch with life as anyone she’d known. Being with him was more powerful than being with others, as
if a nameless, transcendent force was reaching out to her from behind a prison wall.

“Have you been to the Luxembourg Gardens?” Reed asked.

Cora shook her head. He slipped his arm in hers and they walked down the street, legs synchronized in stride. He could feel her tension at finding herself with a strange man in a strange city, and tried to be reassuring.

“I’m not making a pass at you, just teaching you how to be Parisian,” he said, pulling her across a mad plaza full of traffic.

“Grif-
fin
!” she squealed, but held on as they ran to the entrance of the park.

“We have to get there before they take the sailboats in,” Reed huffed, as they hurried down a path lined with perfectly spaced trees, all alike, until they came to a wide circular area.

“Here!” he said triumphantly. “This is all you need to know about Paris.”

There were sculptures everywhere. Heroic figures and ordinary humans mingled like renderings of each other. Children in school uniforms chased deft little boats in a sailing pond in a luxurious garden ringed by apple-green trees pruned to look like lollipops. Reed pulled two metal chairs across the gravel with a loud scraping noise.