The Last Time I Saw Paris (6 page)

Her face flushed. A helpless American woman, he assumed, to be kept, pleasured and, yes, bled of some of her fictitious money. She pushed off him to her feet. “You underestimate me,
Monsieur
. I will stay in Paris. But not with you.”

Doubt marked his face.

She pressed her fingers against his lips. “A shame. We would have enjoyed each other.” She turned on her heel and marched from the room. Jerking on her clothes, she scooped her things in a jumble against her chest.

Laurent caught her at the front door. “You cannot go alone. It’s too dangerous.”

Claire glared straight into his eyes. “Laurent, step aside.”

“No. I won’t let you.”

“Very well.” She kicked him in the shin.

“Merde.”
He gasped and grabbed his leg with both hands.

Laurent didn’t move as she stomped around him, down the stairs and out into the afternoon sun. Randomly picking right over left, she strode down the street, blood pounding.

As she turned onto the next block, a cool current of thought trickled through her anger, stopping her in her tracks.
Alive.
The word bubbled up in her head. She felt so damn alive.

Two women walked their bikes along the sidewalk behind her. Their laughter echoed off the bricks and fluttered like birds. Laurent said there was something about this city. She was starting to think that in this regard, he hadn’t lied. She felt alive for the first time she could remember. The barest smile. And she’d left him wondering. She left him wanting.

Give it a week, maybe two. A surprise meeting on the street, at the Ritz, she’d be in a new dress, a man on her arm.
Yes, Jean-Luc has been so kind introducing me to all the delights of Paris,
she’d say in a way that meant so much more. Laurent would beg her to come back. And damn that Englishman—she just might.

She pulled back her shoulders and, chin up, continued down the sidewalk.

 

 

C
laire wandered for hours through the streets until her stomach growled and her body ached. She paused as she stepped onto a grand avenue. The last sliver of sun outlined a giant stone arch, squared at the top, streets radiating from all sides.

The Arc de Triomphe. Claire trudged toward the arch, her gaze on the buildings around her. This was the Champs-Elysées. The only Parisian avenue she knew of, home of the most luxurious stores in the world. But tonight, the wide sidewalks were empty, windows dim.

She turned onto a small street, a slender channel between tall brick buildings on each side. A quaint neighborhood, as if from a postcard, picturesque shops amidst apartment buildings. A tailor, a grocer, a baker, a café, all closed, and an elegant little flower shop.

Claire paused in front of the flower shop.
La Vie en Fleurs
was printed in white flowing script on a large blue canvas awning stretched over the front door. The building was small, two stories pressed in between larger buildings. Potted plants cascaded off a second-story balcony, pouring red, pink and white blossoms through the iron railing. Masses of flowers overflowing from tin buckets crowded the wide sidewalk around the door and beneath the front window. A small white bistro table and two chairs were nestled between the blooms.

One bucket of roses in particular caught Claire’s attention. Each stem featured a crush of pale blush-colored petals packed tightly inside its blossom. She kneeled, cupping a bloom in her hand. The petals felt of silk, the scent delicate and sweet, a hint of honey and tea, warm breezes and sunshine.

These must be the roses from the photo, the roses cascading down the garden wall, Claire decided as she buried her face into the bloom. Exactly what she pictured all along. Without thinking she reached for a potted ivy and snugged it up against the bucket of roses, arranging the green tendrils to curve around the blooms. She smiled. Perfect.

Claire pushed to her feet and turned. The proprietor of the flower shop stood in the doorway. She looked to be in her sixties, petite, with angled cheeks and a firm jaw sweeping back to silver hair held firmly in a bun. Her posture was erect like a dancer’s, slender arms crossed in front of her chest.

“I don’t speak French. But your flowers are beautiful.”

“
Américaine
, eh? Strange time to be out alone arranging my flowers, no?”

Claire blushed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend. I just . . .”

“There is no need to apologize. You have an eye, a touch for beauty.” The woman smiled gently, her large brown eyes taking in Claire’s bags and travel-worn clothing.

Claire looked down at herself, achingly aware of the dust and creases. This woman, in a simple white shirt and charcoalcolored skirt, midnight blue scarf draping from her slender neck, projected an unmistakable quiet chic. Claire felt more self-conscious than she had in years. She swatted futilely at a spot of road oil staining her skirt and attempted to stand a little straighter.

“But truly, on a day like this, one can do nothing better than enjoy a thing of beauty.” With a practiced eye, she pulled the freshest flower from the bucket and handed it to Claire.
“C’est mon plaisir.”

“Thank you.” Claire cupped the rose to her face and breathed in deeply.

A teenage boy carrying an overloaded box stepped from the darkened grocer’s doorway across the street. His face was friendly, his smile open and simple, and a dark mop of hair framed his head. Though his arms flexed at the weight of the box, he carried it with ease. A loaf of bread and the neck of a wine bottle peeked out the open top. He offered Claire a shy
“Bonjour”
then whispered to the woman. She replied quietly.

The boy picked his way through the masses of plants over to the table set amongst flower pails. He plucked out a loaf of bread, a bottle of wine, a hunk of cheese and two ripe golden pears he set gently on a brown paper wrapper. Nodding shyly to both women, he mumbled,
“Au revoir,”
and hurried down the street.

The woman watched him go. “Georges. He is a good boy. He is a touch slow in his mind or his father would have already lost him to this
catastrophe
.” She nodded toward the table. “It is the time of evening when I take a
petit
dinner. You will join me?”

The florist hurried inside, rattled around behind the counter and returned with a pair of white porcelain plates, stemmed glasses, silverware and linen napkins on a worn silver tray. She placed a single white lily in a small silver vase in the center of the table. “
C’est acceptable?
I am Madame Palain. This is my establishment. Please. We will eat and speak of good things before I retire this evening.”

Claire clasped the florist’s hand. Her grip was warm and strong, but softer than Claire had imagined. “I am Claire Harris. Thank you. I would love to join you.”

Madame motioned Claire to a seat, then took her own. “Claire is a French name. Did you know? It means clear, like clarity.”

Claire gratefully sank into the proffered chair then smoothed the napkin over her lap. “Clarity. Well, that’s fresh.”

Madame cast an eye in her direction but said nothing as she expertly cut slices of cheese and fruit, and deposited them onto each plate.

In spite of her hunger, Claire forced herself to tear off a piece of bread and yield it as daintily as the woman across from her. As her teeth sank into the soft center, she suppressed a moan. She realized she had closed her eyes, blinked open and found Madame watching her as she sipped at her wine. Claire blushed and turned her gaze to the flowers surrounding them.

The florist surveyed the tin pails that nearly covered the brick walkway. “You look at the flowers. They are quite beautiful. Which are your favorites?”

“How could I possibly choose?” Claire shrugged, her attention on the food hitting her stomach. Another glance at Madame and she realized it wasn’t a rhetorical question. The florist leaned forward in her seat, expression as serious as Claire could imagine on that pleasant face.

Claire took a sip of wine and sat back in her chair. She thought back to the countless arrangements she had ordered or made for her parties in Manhattan. Flowers were what she was known for. Among other things. She grinned.

Claire pointed to a pail of apricot-colored ranunculus, their tissue-thin petals packed tight on a slender green curving stem. “Those would look amazing in a golden vase, among golden candlesticks for a semiformal dinner party. For an all-white spring dinner among ladies, I would choose green wire baskets with white narcissus, purple pansies, hyacinth and green viburnum.”

Madame nodded with pursed lips. “And?”

Claire picked up the single rose she had sat on the table. “For a very special event, or just for me, this would be my choice.”

“Accompanied by what else?”

“Nothing else. I would mass them by the dozens in crystal vases.”

Madame smiled approvingly. “Very restrained. Tasteful.” She nudged the remainder of the loaf toward Claire as an offering. “Though I would rethink the wire basket. That would be a disaster.” She took a sip of wine as if to wash away the disturbing thought.

The simple dinner was what Claire needed, in nourishment as well as company. No personal words were exchanged, but it was clear Madame Palain had a level of sophistication that made Claire’s New York crowd seem like little girls playing dress up. It wasn’t any single thing, like the manner in which she held her fork or sipped her wine. The florist enchanted with her ease and polish. Being the center of her attention felt an honor. She challenged Claire to be clever in her thoughts, to pick through the jumble of words in her head to find the one that expressed perfectly what she meant to say.

Night crept in without their assent. The women murmured over the crumbs of their dinner in near darkness, their only illumination the dim half-eaten moon. The light of the streetlamp above was covered in deep blue paint. “The war,” Madame explained with a frown.

Sheer weariness finally forced Claire back to the reality of her situation. With real regret, she reached for her things. “Thank you for the lovely dinner, Madame. I’m afraid I must go.”

“Of course,” Madame said, her tone unconvinced. She deftly emptied the table onto the silver tray and stood.

Claire pushed herself to her feet and stared into the darkness. She was tired but couldn’t make herself walk away. “I’ve made you late. Perhaps I can help you clean up?”

Madame nodded, the flicker of a warm smile. She turned to face the shop and instantly converted into a general. “All the flowers must be pulled in. Then we must cull them and freshen the water. I lost my delivery boy as well as my assistant to this ridiculous war, so I have many flowers left tonight. Then everything must be cleaned and swept for a fresh start in the morning.”

A silent groan as Claire realized she was going to work off her dinner tab. She bent down to grab a bucket. The sweet scent of peonies brushed delightfully against her nose. She had nowhere else to go, after all.

T
he women pulled, pushed and cleaned until the shop was in perfect order. Claire went through the motions in a daze, moving from one task to the next at Madame’s brisk request. Buckets of flowers were lined up in the back room, chilled by heavy brick walls and ice. The counters were wiped, the floors swept. Finally, Claire settled a stack of zinc pots against a wall. She straightened stiffly, her skirt displaying wet splotches and a smattering of shredded leaves.

“Very good.” Madame pulled a key from under the counter. Her appearance remained spotless, her clothes still crisp and bun smoothly pinned. She flicked off the dim lamp. “You must remember, Madame Harris, elegance is in the details.”

“Yes, Madame. I’ll remember.” Claire was so tired, she was nearly wobbling, but this was a woman who knew of what she spoke. Claire picked up her cases and followed her to the door.

Madame waved Claire out and locked the shop behind them. Dropping the key in her small black purse, she gazed through the window at the flowers. “I can only offer you 150 francs a week. There is war coming, after all, and we must be practical.”

Claire stared at the florist, her mouth open. A job offer to be a flower girl? Her snort turned into a sigh as she looked down at her clothes. She couldn’t very well sweep into Parisian high society in this state.

“It is harder work than you may imagine,” Madame continued. “And I demand my employees work full days and they give complete attention to their tasks, whether creating grand arrangements for a ball at the Ritz or sweeping up the petals from the sidewalk.”

“The Paris Ritz?”

“
Oui.
And Le Meurice, Hôtel Emeraude, Hôtel de Crillon and the others. We
are
La Vie en Fleurs.” She extended a delicate finger toward the balcony over their heads. “The wage includes the use of the apartment upstairs. It is small, a sink but no real kitchen, and you must use the bathroom downstairs in the shop.”