A Summer in Paris

by Cynthia Baxter

  The doctor’s smile faded. “No. I am afraid not.”

  Forcing a smile, Nina said, “Thank you anyway.”

  “Wait one moment.” The woman’s eyes grew narrow. “This Monsieur du Lac. Did he like flowers?”

  “Yes! At least, I think so. At one time he gave a bouquet of yellow roses to a special woman, a woman he was in love with, every single day.”

  “Hmm. I remember talking about yellow roses to an old man right after the land sale went through. And I seem to remember him saying he wanted to take the money he was getting from the sale of his house here in Paris and use it to buy a house in one of the small towns to the south of Paris. He said that now that he was leaving the house he had lived in his whole life, the very first thing he was going to do was plant a flower garden.”

  “A small town ... in the south?” Nina’s mind was clicking away. “Could you please tell me the names of some of those towns?”

  “Yes, of course.” The doctor spoke slowly, giving Nina a chance to jot the names down on the pad of paper she had in her purse. “You might try looking him up in the telephone books for those towns.”

  “Telephone books. That’s a wonderful idea!”

  It was all Nina could do not to lean over and give the doctor a hug.

  Chapter 4

  “I guess I should try using this thing,” Kristy said to Alain, opening up her tote bag and taking out the camera her parents had sent her. “I’ve read the manual cover to cover, but this is the first time I’ve actually brought it out of the house. The truth of the matter is that I’m a little bit afraid of it.”

  “Ah, this camera has teeth?” Alain joked.

  Kristy laughed. And it wasn’t only because of Alain’s sense of humor. She was excited about being on her first real date with him. After an entire week of meeting her for lunch right after her morning’s classes, he had invited her to a movie on this cool Friday evening. They had met at the Arc de Triomphe, the tremendous arch built by Napoleon at the beginning of the nineteenth century in honor of his victorious army.

  “Well, then, if you’re ready to give that camera a try, why don’t you take my picture?” Alain offered.

  He struck a few amusing poses as Kristy clicked away. It was fun, she discovered, trying different settings, attempting different effects. He was a willing model, but she quickly grew bored.

  “I think I’ll take some artsy shots,” she decided.

  “Something like that bench over there. Or maybe this sewer cover.”

  Alain rolled his eyes upward. “Oh, no. Already the Parisian artistic spirit is getting to you.”

  After she had used up an entire roll of film, the two of them decided to go off in search of a movie. The Arc, located in the middle of La Place de l’Etoile, was at the edge of the Champs-Elysees, one of the city’s best-known boulevards. While it had at one time been a street lined with elegant shops, it was now little more than a crowded tourist sight.

  Aside from the shops and cafes that catered to the city’s visitors, there were many movie theaters on the strip. Kristy was disappointed to see that most of them were featuring American movies, either dubbed into French or accompanied by French subtitles. As she and Alain strolled down the Champs-Elysees, enjoying the view of all the people passing by, they read the marquees of the theaters.

  “Your choice,” Alain said. “We have Tom Cruise, Jennifer Lawrence—”

  Kristy shook her head. “No, Alain. I’m in France. I want to see something French. Let’s find a movie I couldn’t see at home in the States.”

  “I don’t know if you would enjoy something like that.”

  “Sure I would. Besides, I want to learn everything I can about French culture. And what better way is there than actually experiencing it firsthand?”

  They continued their wanderings until they stumbled across a much smaller theater, tucked away on a side street. Kristy probably wouldn’t even have noticed it if she hadn’t been looking so hard, determined to find exactly what she was looking for.

  “There!” she announced triumphantly. “Night of a Thousand Moons. Let’s see that.”

  She went over to the theater and studied the movie posters displayed out front. She had never heard of any of the actors in the movie. The star, from what she could tell, was a beautiful woman with thick black hair named Charlotte LePage. And according to the poster, she was France’s number-one actress.

  “This is the movie I want to see,” she told Alain, who had come up behind her.

  “But Kristy,” Alain protested. “I don’t think you will like this movie very much. It’s so ... so French.”

  “That’s the whole idea!”

  “But I read some of the reviews, and it’s supposed to be terrible.”

  “I don’t care.” Kristy shrugged. “I want to see it anyway.”

  “But this theater is always so ... so hot inside.”

  Kristy was growing impatient. “Alain,” she said, “you told me I should choose any movie I wanted to see, and this is the one I am choosing. Now are you coming along, or should I go by myself?”

  “You American girls,” he muttered, grinning despite himself. “Once you make up your minds about something, there is no holding you back.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said a few minutes later as she and Alain sat inside the theater, waiting for the film to begin. “If this movie got such bad reviews, why is the theater so crowded? We’re lucky we even got seats!”

  “Oh, well, it is Friday night. All the movies are crowded on the weekend.”

  “And it’s interesting that even though it is so crowded, this theater isn’t hot at all. In fact, I’m quite comfortable.”

  Alain just shrugged. “Maybe they fixed their cooling system.” As if he were trying to change the subject, he commented, “I suppose you go to the movies all the time.”

  “Huh? What do you mean?”

  Alain was grinning. “Kristy! You are a famous movie star, don’t forget!”

  “Oh, right. Uh, sure. I go all the time.”

  “How about opening nights? Are they exciting? Tell me what they’re like!”

  “Oh, well ... Really, Alain, no words can describe them.... Gee, it is getting a little warm in here, after all.”

  “What kind of movies do you make? Have I ever seen any of them, do you think?”

  “Oh, probably not,” Kristy replied with a wave of her hand. “I don’t think any of them have ever been released in Europe. It, uh, has something to do with licensing. I signed a contract once that made it impossible for ... Oh, look. The movie is starting.”

  Kristy was relieved that the lights were finally going out. Talking about her stardom—her made-up stardom—made her uncomfortable. She still wasn’t sure if she had made a mistake in making up all those stories in the first place, especially since she was becoming so fond of Alain.

  But this was no time for worrying about that. She was quickly drawn into the movie. It had a clever, involving plot, and Kristy’s French was good enough for her to follow it—and even to understand some of the more humorous lines.

  But what struck her most was its mesmerizing star. Charlotte LePage was a beautiful woman and a wonderful actress. It was easy for Kristy to understand how she had become the country’s most popular movie actress. By the end of the film, Kristy was ready to sign up for her fan club herself.

  “What a fantastic movie!” she cried as she and Alain walked out of the theater.

  “I guess the critics don’t always know what they’re talking about,” Alain said with a rueful smile.

  “That Charlotte LePage is wonderful. I’d love to find out more about her.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I was just really struck by her talent and her beauty.” She eyed him curiously. “Why, don’t you like her?”

  Alain laughed. “Kristy, all of France loves Charlotte LePage. Why should I be any different?

  “Now enough about movies,” he said firmly.
“How about something more real? Something like my stomach. I’m hungry, and I happen to know a place that makes the most wonderful chocolate éclairs in Paris.”

  Kristy was only too happy to say yes.

  * * * *

  “Gee, Kristy. I’m really thrilled for you,” Jennifer said dryly. “It sounds like you’ve met the man of your dreams.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t go that far,” Kristy replied uneasily. She could tell from her friend’s tone of voice that she had made a mistake in calling her to report on her date with Alain.

  You should have known how she was going to react, Kristy told herself. She made a vow that, from then on, she would be careful about what she told her friend.

  Jennifer, meanwhile, was in a terrible mood when she hung up the phone.

  Great, just great, she was thinking. Everybody is having the time of their lives except me. She started to retreat to her bedroom, armed with the latest book she had bought, a novel written in English. Well, I’ve managed to get through the first week, anyway. Only seven left to go.

  On her way to her room, however, she met up with Madame Cartier. She was wearing a huge smile, as always.

  “Ah, Jennifer, there you are,” the woman said in French. “I have some good news for you.”

  I can only imagine, Jennifer thought. “What is it?”

  “I have invited my granddaughter, Michèle, up to Paris for a while. She lives in Lyons, but she often comes to stay with Henri and me. She loves Paris so, and of course we always enjoy seeing each other.”

  Terrific. Another Cartier to deal with. “When is she coming?”

  “In a few days. And I am certain you will like her, Jennifer. She is seventeen years old, about the same age as you. And she is so much fun.” Earnestly Madame Cartier added, “I think she will help you have a better time while you are here in Paris.”

  But I don’t want to have a good time in Paris, Jennifer was thinking. All I want to do is get this summer over with—and have as little to do with anything or anybody as possible.

  And when she finally managed to get away from her talkative hostess, she went into her bedroom, closed her door, and began writing one of her daily reports to Danny, in which she repeated exactly that.

  * * * *

  What a different world the small town of Sainte Marie was from Paris. As Nina stepped off the train, she could hardly believe she had traveled only ten miles south of the bustling city. The sweet air, the sound of birds singing, and the quiet streets, practically deserted so early on a Saturday morning, were her first real reminder that there was more to France than the cosmopolitan city she had already begun to think of as home.

  She was pleased that she was getting the opportunity to see a charming little town like Sainte Marie. But as she set off toward the center of town, she reminded herself that she was hardly here on a sight-seeing trip. Her research into the telephone books for the region south of Paris, the suggestion of the kind doctor at the clinic at Number 7 rue des Fleurs, had told her that there was only one Marcel du Lac. This morning, Nina intended to find him.

  Slowly, the town was beginning to come to life. As she walked down the main street, the shops were just opening. The proprietor of a tiny flower shop was arranging bouquets of bright, colorful blossoms. Up ahead, the owner of the grocery store waved to her before turning the metal crank that opened up the red-and-white striped awning. Already she was getting a warm feeling from the people who lived here.

  Yes, Sainte Marie was special, a picture postcard come to life. It was precisely the kind of place in which she would expect Marcel du Lac to be living.

  “Pardon, Monsieur,” Nina said, approaching the grocer. He was a heavyset man in an apron. He had gotten the awning in place, and now he was patiently unpacking a huge basket of peaches and arranging them on a wooden counter underneath the awning.

  She showed him the address she had carefully printed on a piece of paper, wanting to make certain she did not make any mistakes. The man nodded, pointing and letting forth with a spew of sentences. He spoke so quickly that Nina didn’t catch everything he said. But she understood enough.

  What an adventure this is turning out to be, she thought. On an impulse, she stopped and bought a small bouquet of flowers. Clutching it tightly in her hand, she continued on, still relishing the feeling of the early morning sun on her back, the sweet sound of the birds chirping, the peaceful sight of this small French town getting ready for the new day.

  When she found herself standing in front of the house whose address matched the listing she had found in the telephone book, Nina was certain this had to be the right place. The house was small but carefully kept. It was white with pale blue shutters that looked as if they had just been painted. As she peeked around the corner, Nina saw that in the back there was an exquisite garden, a lush growth of vibrant flowers in every color of the rainbow.

  And in the front, there were no fewer than six rosebushes. And every one of them was bursting with bright yellow blossoms.

  Nina laughed. This simply had to be the right place.

  Suddenly her smile faded. What if Marcel du Lac wasn’t here? She hadn’t even considered that possibility up until now. She had been so determined to find him, so excited over finally having the chance to talk to him, that she had never even entertained the idea that he might not be in. He could have gone away for the summer, he could have moved to a new house ... there were a hundred different possibilities.

  Suddenly she could wait no more. Nina opened the gate and strode through the tiny front garden, crossing in just a few short steps. Her heart was pounding as she knocked loudly on the wooden door.

  “Please, please be home,” she muttered. “And please be the right Marcel du Lac!”

  The moment the old man opened the door, Nina knew she had found him. His eyes perfectly matched the description her grandmother had given in her letters. They were warm and lively ... and the color of the sky on a cloudless June morning.

  “Monsieur du Lac?” Nina asked breathlessly.

  “Oui,” the man said, nodding his head and looking a bit confused.

  “Marcel du Lac?”

  “Oui, c’est moi.” Yes, that’s me.

  Nina took a deep breath, then spoke in slow, careful French to make sure he would understand.

  “Monsieur,” she said, “my name is Nina Shaw. I am the granddaughter of Anna Wentworth.”

  * * * *

  “When I heard you say her name,” Marcel du Lac said in a voice hoarse with emotion, “that was the first time I have heard anyone speak of her in almost fifty years. I thought my heart would stop beating.”

  Nina and Marcel were in the small living room, sitting next to the front window that looked out on the rosebushes. The shutters were open, and as a breeze wafted in, it caused the yellowing lace tablecloth thrown over a rickety table to flutter. On it was the tea Marcel had made, served in delicate china cups. He had also brought out a loaf of dark brown bread and a small piece of cheese. But so far, neither of them had touched the food.

  “And Anna, you say, has been gone now for ... for how many years?”

  “Almost four,” Nina replied. “I miss her terribly.”

  Marcel leaned forward in his old wooden chair, his blue eyes narrowing as he peered at Nina. “Ah, yes. I can see it. I can see Anna in your face. The same nose, the same eyes ... but mostly I see that same smile. Yes, you are very pretty.”

  “Am I as pretty as my grandmother?” Nina asked teasingly, unable to resist.

  The old man thought only for a fraction of a second before answering. “Ah, I am afraid that no one could ever be as pretty as your grandmother.”

  He stood up and made his way across the room, stopping at the chest of drawers that was pushed into one corner. The top was covered with old photographs, most of them black-and-white. He opened the top drawer, reached underneath the assortment of things stashed inside, and pulled out one more photograph.

  “Here she is,” he said, his
voice almost reverent. “I have saved this for all these years.”

  He brought the photograph over to Nina and presented it to her like a fine gift. Then he stood back, his eyes still on the picture. It was a photograph of her grandmother—not as Nina remembered her, but as a beautiful young woman, probably not much older than Nina was now. Her eyes were shining, and a flirtatious smile played about her lips. In her slender hands she was holding a bouquet of roses, blossoms so full they looked ready to burst with life.

  It wasn’t hard to tell from the expression on the young woman’s face that she had very strong feelings about whoever was taking that photograph.

  “I took that picture in Paris,” Marcel said, answering her question before Nina had a chance to ask it. His voice was filled with excitement. “It was just after we met.” He paused, then asked, “Do you know the story of how we met?”

  “I do know it,” Nina returned with a shy smile, “But I would like very much to hear you tell it.”

  “Ah, it was so very long ago. I was a student in Paris, studying law. I was a lawyer for many years, you know. I practiced in Paris.

  “I still remember that day as if it were only last week. I was hurrying off to class. I was late, as usual. I was running down the Boulevard St. Germaine, on the Left Bank, near the Sorbonne. I was trying to get to class on time, really I was. But all of a sudden I noticed a beautiful young woman, carrying a big art portfolio, standing on the corner. There was a flower shop there, and she had stopped to lean over and sniff a bouquet of yellow roses that was outside the shop.

  “When I saw her, I stopped. It was as if I had been struck by lightning. I knew I had to meet that girl, and suddenly nothing else mattered. Certainly not getting to class on time!”

  Marcel du Lac laughed. For a moment, all the stress, all the signs of age, left his face. For that fleeting second, Nina was able to see him as he had looked fifty years earlier—as he had looked when he was a young man, about to fall in love with her grandmother.

  “I went over to her, bold as could be, and said, ‘Ah, Mademoiselle. Do you like flowers?’ “