The Last Time I Saw Paris

by Lynn Sheene

  Claire’s eyes misted over as she took the kerchief; her fingers traced the elegant AO embroidered in one corner. Nothing had been said, but somehow Adele knew a man had brought Claire to Paris. The woman handed her a slip of paper as she planted a light kiss on each cheek.

  “Merci beaucoup,” Claire said carefully, with great conviction, and accepted her case and hatbox from Martin. She glanced down at the paper as she stepped out into the street, an address was written in firm script by Adele’s careful hand. Claire felt markedly alone on the busy cobble street. Not for long, she told herself.

  Chapter 2

  THE ADVANCE

  22, rue d’Artois, Paris. May 13, 1940.

  Claire didn’t mind the walk through Paris streets. The brick sidewalks lined with precise-shaped trees. Elaborate stonework on grey buildings created an older, more fanciful world. Patisseries and newspaper stands. Cafés with small tables pulled out on the sidewalk. Even in her crumpled suit, men’s heads followed as she walked by. Crossing the river Seine on the pont de l’Alma, Claire was struck by the sight of the Eiffel Tower above a line of leafy green treetops. The graceful curve of metal lace stitched into the fabric of pale blue sky. She couldn’t help but think of how much Mama would have loved to see this, just once.

  It was late afternoon when she turned onto rue d’Artois and sat on a bench in the shadows of Laurent’s building. She wiped down bare skin with Adele’s kerchief as she stared up at the windows and tried to ignore the anxiety tightening her throat.

  Laurent had made plenty of promises in New York, his face buried in her breasts, in her soft stomach, in the heat between her thighs. It was amusing then because she recognized something in him she knew very well. A price tag.

  After all, it was well established in the society pages that the Harrises were old money. A now rare but still distinguished lineage. What little matter would it be for a Harris to leave her industrialist husband’s vulgar new money? Laurent offered so much pleasure for a taste of dusty old treasure. How wrong he was.

  Claire stared up at the building’s stonework, worn with the years but still showing the artistry of its birth, the depth of its history. Black iron railings curved out from balconies overflowing with plants. Beautiful, as Laurent promised, in a city drenched in beauty.

  She shivered in the sunlight. It wasn’t the Germans that concerned her. In fact, the confusion from the invasion might buy her a few more weeks. The truth was the problem. Soon enough Laurent would guess the truth. Or a shade of it.

  Harris was a name, read from a dusty obituary in the recessed stacks of the New York Library on Fifth Avenue. Just a name, as her husband had learned three nights previous, picked out years ago by the runaway daughter of an Oklahoma dirt farmer.

  A wave of weariness swept over her. Eleven years ago, she’d gone to New York and stood in the breadlines like all the rest. But she didn’t stay with them. After she’d married Russell, she thought she was done with the struggle. Damn, but she thought she’d won. A shadow moved against the glass in the fifth-floor window. Claire caught her breath and straightened. Laurent.

  That simple county girl was dead. She never really was alive, was she?

  Claire smoothed her jacket and straightened her skirt. Head held high, she marched up the shallow brick steps to the carved wooden door. Past the lobby, a small metal stairwell curved enough to make her hold fast to the railing. Five flights of stairs then a heavy door with the snarling mouth of a tired-looking bronze lion as a knocker. She rapped twice, pulled back her shoulders and cocked her hip to offer her best introductory silhouette.

  Painful seconds ticked by but the door remained closed. Her smile faded and she pressed her ear against the door. Voices rumbled in the background. The words, unintelligible, were heated.

  She recognized Laurent’s voice, but he wasn’t alone. She tamped down her rising sense of foreboding and listened close. Heated, yes, but both male. Claire didn’t bother with the lion and pounded on the door with a closed fist. The thuds echoed through the empty hall.

  Claire put her ear to the door again. Silence. She waited, back arched, an elegant ankle extended nonchalantly in front of her.

  The door swung open. Laurent stood before her, a frown marring his aristocratic face. He could be standing in this same doorway in any century, dark hair, sculpted cheekbones, strong nose and brown eyes.

  “Well, darling, aren’t you going to invite a girl in?” Claire let her gloved hand skim across her chest.

  His frown melted. He stared, his mouth hung open.

  “Laurent? Qui est-ce?” a voice shouted from the background.

  “Zut alors, Claire!” Laurent swept her into his arms and inside the door in one motion. His hands cupped each shoulder; his gaze drank her in from her feet to her hat. “What in the world are you doing here?”

  Claire smiled. This was the reception she’d hoped for.

  “What the hell is it, Laurent?” a gravelly English voice demanded from the next room.

  Over Laurent’s shoulder, Claire watched a man stomp through the arched doorway. In his late thirties, perhaps, muscled where Laurent was slender. His hair was dirty blond and cut short, strong cheekbones softened by stubble. Razor-sharp, blue grey eyes narrowed as he strode toward them. His lips compressed into a scowl, arms folded in front of his chest. “A woman. Of course. Bloody hell.”

  Laurent turned to him, smiling as though he had been awarded a hard-earned prize. “Claire Harris Stone, this is Grey. Thomas Harding Grey. Please, forgive his rudeness, ma chérie. He is English.”

  Claire ran her fingers over Laurent’s lips. “It’s Claire Harris now, Laurent darling. There is no Stone involved.” She turned then to smile at Grey, her expression sweet as she sized him up. “Grey? How very appropriate,” Claire purred, staring at his rough grey trousers and worn sweater, pulled snug across his chest.

  Grey’s frown deepened as he stared at her.

  Laurent broke in. “Claire, ma chérie, you must join us in the salon.”

  Ornate bureaus and tables, curved chairs and chaise lounges were grouped for conversation around an immense stone fireplace. Stacked groups of photographs leaned against a corner wall. The room was lit from the outside through oversized windows that looked out over a quiet courtyard, invisible from the street.

  Laurent poured a glass of Bordeaux from a half-empty bottle then slid into a high-backed chair next to her. Grey stationed himself by the windows, just out of range of conversation.

  “How did you get here?” Laurent asked Claire.

  “Yankee Clipper. It was breathtaking.” Claire opened her eyes wide and took a sip, shifting her sable on her shoulders. “The plane took off right out of the East River, Laurent.”

  “But . . . the Germans. Surely someone told you . . .” Laurent said.

  “Well, first of all, we left New York before things got so interesting.” She adjusted the hem of her skirt, covering a bare knee while managing to show more skin.

  Grey glowered at the curve of her knee and the glimpse of cream thigh. “You must not count travel restrictions among your interests.”

  “Second of all . . . ” She spoke as if she didn’t hear. “We landed in Lisbon, well, let’s see, three days ago. I didn’t really talk to anyone there, just boarded the train for Paris. You know I don’t speak French or Portuguese. How could I know what others were doing?”

  Laurent leaned in to stroke her fingers, splayed across the armrest. “I am so relieved you made it safely. Traveling is too dangerous right now for a woman alone.”

  “Americans are lining up to leave. She must get out and quickly,” Grey said.

  “Pardon?” Claire’s tone was sugary, her eyes hard.

  “Nazi armored units are pushing through France. There’s nothing left between them and Paris. Nothing. You can’t take on a woman like this, Laurent, not now.” Grey faced them. “I know a man who can get her on a ship tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” Laurent said doubtfully.
/>   “It must be tomorrow.”

  Claire looked back and forth between them. Who the hell is this bastard and why was Laurent listening to him? She kicked off her shoes and swung her feet up, tucking them beneath her knees and showing more skin. “I just arrived. I haven’t been anywhere yet. I’m certainly not leaving tomorrow.”

  Grey looked to Laurent for agreement. Laurent, however, was admiring her thigh. She leaned back into the chair cushions, body curving to reveal every feminine bend. She caught Laurent’s eyes, feigned shock to find him staring.

  “I am so surprised you decided to join me, ma chérie.” Laurent stroked her hand with a soft finger.

  “I couldn’t spend another day away. Are you only surprised? Not at all pleased?”

  Claire tilted toward Laurent, lips in a pout. He leaned in to kiss her, but she turned her face and offered him a cheek. She shot a glance at Grey, baring her teeth in a smile.

  A few terse words in French to Laurent, then Grey looked back at Claire. “Good day to you, Mrs. Stone.” He slammed the door behind him.

  “I am pleased.” Laurent kissed her.

  A half hour later, Claire stretched languidly as she climbed out of the deep porcelain tub. Body dripping, she retrieved a soft towel from a hook placed at head height on the bathroom wall. She leaned against the cool porcelain of the sink as she dried herself, methodically scrubbing stray memories of the past few days from her skin and mind. Slipping on a thick robe, she stared into a full-length mirror. Not bad, even without her marabou-trimmed sheer silk robe.

  Laurent stared as she entered the salon. “You are even more ravishing than in my dreams.” He took her in his arms, his mouth probing hers.

  Claire felt her body respond in spite of her fatigue. She pressed against him, allowing the robe to slip open. He ran his hands over her waist and stroked her hips with his fingertips.

  “Forgive me.” Laurent pulled back from Claire. “I offered lunch and then I attack you. You must be hungry.”

  She could eat a horse. “A bit.” She shrugged her robe off one shoulder.

  They sat on a chaise lounge in front of the windows. Between them, a silver tray held a spread of cut fruit. A bottle of champagne chilled in a silver bucket on the parquet floor.

  “I’m afraid I can’t offer anything more extravagant. My grocer was ordered to report to his unit yesterday and . . .” Laurent popped the cork free with a crack and poured.

  Claire rearranged her robe and bit into a pear. A long swallow of champagne and she smiled. After the warm bath, the wine and food hit her system like a good bottle of scotch. A wave of goodwill rolled over her.

  “Who’s Grey?”

  “He’s an old friend.” Laurent smiled, his eyes turning back years. “We were in school together. At École des Beaux-Arts.”

  “But, he’s English,” Claire said.

  “I know.” Laurent nodded with a sigh. “He’s very English. But, please forgive his rudeness. It is the fighting, the German advance. Grey hears his own call to arms. He can be very passionate in his own way.” He paused as he refilled her glass. “He’s a good man, a good friend. But, I hope you didn’t come all this way to think about another man.”

  Claire took a sip of champagne and deposited the glass on a marble-topped table. She felt almost giddy. Paris. She slid across the chaise to Laurent, her robe slipped from her shoulders. “I was thinking about this.” Her lips tasted his. “And this.” She pressed his hands against her hips.

  Laurent pulled her against him and kissed the soft hollow of her neck. “Tonight, I will make your journey worthwhile.”

  Claire barely registered his words over the pounding of her blood. His lips were like caressing fingers. Make your journey worthwhile. A sliver of doubt wedged itself in her mind. “What do you mean, exactly, Laurent?”

  He smiled. “Do you want me to spell it out for you? I will, if you like.”

  Claire covered a frown. “You said tonight. What will happen tomorrow?”

  “This is war. Who can say?” He leaned in to kiss her shoulder.

  His lips traced the line of her collarbone, but Claire hardly noticed. She understood what he wasn’t saying. He was going along with that damn Englishman.

  “Laurent, darling, you wouldn’t send me away tomorrow, would you?”

  In response, his kisses moved lower.

  Claire felt her face flush. She fought to keep the anger hidden. All this and he offers one sorry night? She let the robe flutter to the floor, pushed him back against the cushions and straddled his legs. “Over and over, you told me of the pleasures, the beauty, of your Paris.”

  He watched her, his expression hungry.

  She pressed her lips against the pulse thrumming in his neck. “I want your Paris.”

  He pulled her onto him as he fumbled with his shirt buttons with one hand. Peeling open his shirt, she ran her hands down his stomach, her fingers sliding beneath his waistband.

  Keeping her tone low and sweet she spoke again. “I’m not leaving. You understand, don’t you, darling?”

  He reached for the buttons on his pants. She blocked his hands. “Don’t you, Laurent?”

  A low groan as he sat up. “I want you, naturellement, with me. But these are not good days. Grey’s people can get you back to New York. Go back to your life, until . . .” He shrugged and reached for her.

  Until it’s convenient for you, Claire thought, silently cursing. Her fresh start was about to dry up if she didn’t somehow raise the stakes. She forced a smile. “Naturellement, I’ve enjoyed our time together, Laurent darling. But what makes you think I would stay with you?”

  He said nothing, eyes drinking in her exposed body. Lips pursed, he raised his hands, palm up, in an exaggerated shrug. “You know nothing of Paris. Where else would you go, ma chérie?”

  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.

  Claire 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 a
rch, 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.

  “Bonsoir.”

  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.”