The Last Time I Saw Paris (27 page)

“Our boys have landed in Sicily,” Walker yelled, his face beaming, as they stepped inside the door.

Anna bounded over to Grey. “Bombardier to pilot,” she said triumphantly in English.

“It won’t be long now. You’ll see.” Walker looked at Grey a moment then at Claire. “Shucks,” he added under his breath.

Claire ran a hand through her hair, found bits of straw. She caught Grey’s eyes and noticed his shirt was misbuttoned. To cover the flush on her cheeks, she went to the kitchen to start dinner. She felt his stare as she walked away.

As she stirred tomatoes into a stew on the stove, she hummed the Billie Holiday song that Grey whispered in the barn. The spoon froze, midair, when she remembered the next line.
You’re too lovely to last.

 

 

T
he full moon lit the sky and still no messenger. They gathered around the radio during the nightly broadcast on the BBC for a coded message, for any news at all. But there was nothing. Grey, Walker and Claire debated the next step. They couldn’t take the truck back into Paris empty, Grey would need to buy a load of something and bury them inside. But where would that leave the girls? Claire couldn’t imagine sticking Anna back into that hole in the truck, the girls ending up trapped in Paris.
I can’t stay here forever,
Walker told them, glaring back and forth. Claire knew what he meant:
You know you can’t either.

And they did know.

The next morning in the still shade of the forest, Claire found Grey. Or he found her. It didn’t matter. On a blanket laid over a bed of leaves, she slipped her hands beneath his unbuttoned shirt and traced the lines of his chest beneath her fingertips. Let the beating of his heart warm her palms.

He slipped the dress over her head, pressing fully against her as though he needed to feel all of her to know the moment was real. He cupped the back of her head and covered her face and stomach in tender kisses. She guided his other hand between her thighs then reached for his loosened waistband. His breath was hot on her neck as he slid between her legs. She smiled and bit her lip against the moan. A day had been far too long. Their moments together so short.

Afterward he cradled her, his body warm and solid against her. His soft words died away at the drone of bombers flying overhead. Claire reached for him to drown out the sound with their bodies. But her heart ached as she stared into his eyes. He might belong to her now, but for how long? And damn it, but it was hard not to care what would come next.

 

 

T
hat night after dinner they tuned the radio to the BBC. Grey jotted intently on a small pad of paper. His frown deepened as the broadcast faded to static. Walker turned the radio off. The click echoed in the silence.

“What did you hear?” Marta asked.

“I don’t know,” Grey said finally. “And I damn well should,” he added under his breath. He stalked out into the darkness.

Claire helped the girls get ready for bed then slipped out after Grey. The heavy summer air was still. She found him on the hilltop above the farm, leaning against the lone oak tree, his eyes on the night sky. She rested a hand on his arm. His muscles were taut beneath her grip, his jaw clenched.

“They should have told us something by now,” Grey said without looking at her. “A messenger. A broadcast. But bloody nothing.”

Claire felt the frustration, the anger in his body. She faced him, sliding her arms around his waist and pulling herself close. His heart pounded against her. Steadfast Grey was desperate. She felt a surge of dread rising in her core.

Grey looked into her eyes. “How many days can we stay here, Claire? How many more?”

She pressed herself against him and stared up into his shadowed eyes. She had to respect his need to get Walker and the girls safe, to get his job done. Her own worry for the girls grew daily. But leaving meant losing these moments, losing Grey. Was he so desperate to escape her, to return to his lover in London? She tamped down the fear that bubbled in her now. She knew better than to think of a future with Grey. She
damn well
knew better. She pressed her lips hard against his.

Grey responded by devouring her with hungry kisses. He pushed her against the tree. The bark bit into her back. Her skin was on fire, heat building inside her. He stared into her eyes as he entered her. She gripped his shoulders, pulling him close, letting his strength fuel her. His rhythm was the ticking of a clock against them. She concentrated on their heartbeats, their breath. It was this moment that mattered. That made her feel whole. Safe. Only this moment. Time slowed and gave way to ripples of pleasure.

A warm breeze dried the sweat on their skin as they lay cupped together in the grass, their gazes toward the faint lights from Lyons-la-forêt in the distance.

Grey brushed the hair from her face. “Claire, I . . .” His words trailed to silence. “Thank you,” he said finally. He wore the ghost of a faint smile as he covered her with his discarded shirt.

In the depths of his slate eyes she saw tenderness, gratitude and, yes, something more. A warmth spread through her chest. She felt such simple joy; she had never been so alive.

In love,
a soft voice whispered in her head.

No, never that. She shoved away the thought. She was too damn smart to let a few fleeting weeks, a
liaison de la guerre
, make a fool of her. In truth, it would be good for all of them to escape this place, this deception. But not yet. Not tonight. She slipped the shirt from her body as she reached for Grey and let the cadence of their breath smother her worries.

They lay intertwined until the sky began to lighten around them. An intimate form of
flânerie
, of the body and the heart.

 

 

T
he moon waned to a crescent. Weeks passed, the summer heat descended and broke. The sun was bright, the sky a translucent blue. Claire and the girls spent the morning in the forest among birdsong and whispered laughter. Claire and Marta each carried a sack of berries. Anna trotted between them, her mouth stained deep purple.

Claire paused at the edge of trees behind the farmyard and motioned for silence.

“They’ve found us?” Marta whispered, reaching for Anna’s sticky hand.

The farm looked as it always did. Building listing to the side, brush overgrown. But there was a stillness in the trees. The yard was too quiet. The skin pricked on the back of Claire’s neck.

“Wait here.” Claire set down the bucket and snuck forward.

The door was closed; Claire crept around under the window, past a dented bicycle with the spokes covered in mud. She held her breath and listened.

“This is not the plan,” Grey said, anger radiating in his voice.

A new voice, a mix of bluster and fear, spoke in a provincial dialect. “My job is to take you to the drop at the appointed time. I do not make the decisions, Monsieur. I cannot control the
pilotes anglais
.”

“Tell him, Grey. No deal.” Walker interrupted in English.

Grey answered Walker. “I can’t do that, Captain. We must do what we can.”

Claire slid back from the windows, let her voice rise. “I’m back.”

Chairs scraped across the wood floor, the door opened. Grey leaned out, the lines around his eyes tight, jaw tense. “Come inside, Evelyn, and meet Monsieur Citron.”

A farmer with hair like a ragged bush stared at Claire as she entered. His hands stuffed in his pockets, he smiled, the smallest bow, but his stare appraised her like livestock. “I see,” he said to Grey.

Walker leaned against the wall, glaring. Grey led her outside. Claire motioned to Marta to stay in the trees as she crossed the yard and followed Grey inside the barn.

“The plane is coming. But they won’t offload any cargo. They’ll take Walker. Not Marta or Anna.” Grey’s face was hard.

“What do you mean? They can’t do that.”

“They can. Only the pilot.”

“No. You can’t accept this.”

“I have to. I’ll drive Citron and Walker to the point, as directed. When I get back, we’ll figure out a way to get everyone out.”

Claire paused, replayed the conversation in her head. There had to be a way to change this. But something didn’t fit. “Citron said
I see
. What did he mean?”

“It doesn’t matter now.”

The way Citron looked at her. It was as if he was judging her worth. What had he expected? Suddenly it made sense. Grey had made another arrangement. For Claire. A deeper wave of anger shook her. “You were going to send me away too.”

“It’s not safe for you in Paris anymore.” His eyes met hers. “I want you all safe, cared for, away from here.”

“You lied to me. I have a life in Paris.”

“Von Richter wanted you, Claire. In Paris, he would eventually find you. If he learned you were a
Resistánt
, he would take you deep into rue des Saussaies, and you would pray, you would beg, for someone to make the pain stop.”

“Marta and Anna are alone today because they weren’t helped. In Paris. I helped save Christophe. I helped you. I’m not leaving.”

“You’ve done enough.” He gestured toward the house with the tilt of his head. “Think of the girls. They need you.”

“When do you leave?”

“Tonight.”

Claire stalked away.

 

 

W
hile the men plotted in the barn, Claire settled the girls in the kitchen, buckets of water at their feet to wash the berries. The girls were quiet.

Claire prayed for Madame Palain’s graceful words, but nothing came. “Walker is leaving tonight. Only Walker.”

Marta’s body went still, dripping berries cupped in her hand. Her eyes turned toward the floor, she reached for Anna. Claire read the tenseness of Marta’s shoulders, her knuckles white where she gripped Anna.

The sight pierced Claire. “I promise you’re going to get out of France. I promise you will be safe.”

Marta nodded, but her expression didn’t change.

T
hat evening, Claire and the girls watched Citron and Grey prepare the truck. As the sun set, Walker hugged Marta and Anna good-bye, a kiss for Claire, then climbed into the truck.

Claire turned to go inside. Grey caught her arm in the doorway. “I don’t have a choice.”

Her eyes caught the glint of a pistol tucked inside his belt, covered by the hem of his jacket. She swallowed the fear surging in her stomach. “I do.”

“It’ll take one day, two at the most. Then I’ll be back for you and the girls.” He bent toward her, his lips brushed her cheek.

When she didn’t respond, he released her and walked toward the truck.

Claire’s heart splintered inside her. She ran, catching Grey as he moved to climb in the driver’s seat. She pulled him close and her lips found his in a deep, ravenous kiss. “Promise me, Thomas Grey.”

“I promise.”

T
hree days had passed since Grey left them. The autumn grass blazed golden in the morning sun. Claire stood with her back pressed against the twisted oak, surveying the rolling hills and shaded forests for any sign of human movement. Any sign of Grey.

She closed her eyes and heard only the cawing and fighting of crows in the field. She slid down the gnarled trunk to a seat in the grass, felt the cool strength of the tree support her. The sun’s rays soaked into her skin as her mind wandered, lighting here and there on single moments or sensations: the feel of Grey’s arms enveloping her, translucent flower petals against the light streaming in the flower shop windows.

The farm behind her was deserted. The girls asked to “wash clothes” this morning. Claire knew they were wading and throwing rocks into the deep pools of the stream, but she let them go. She needed to be alone.

She’d waited for Grey’s return all yesterday, trying to work, trying not to snap at the girls. By this morning, she gave up on appearing unconcerned and came to watch for Grey as soon as the girls were out of sight.

What then?

The way Grey looked at Claire with his slate eyes burning, his smile as he watched Anna play. There was a warmth there. A depth. God, but she wanted to believe he was coming back.

The rumble of a heavy diesel engine startled Claire. Her eyes jerked open and she stumbled to her feet.

An army truck slid to a stop in the farmyard. The doors opened and three soldiers piled out. They wore feldgrau but the twin lightning bolts on their helmets and collars caught the sunlight and revealed them as Waffen-SS. An officer, in SS collar patches and shoulder stripes, stepped on the running board and hopped onto the ground.

Two soldiers rushed toward the house, rifles at the ready. The officer stood by the truck. He lit a cigarette while the soldier at his side fiddled with his gun and peered into the dark doorway of the barn.