by Lynn Sheene
Claire raised an eyebrow at the rather wishful attempt at benign conversation.
The woman glanced away and tried to suppress a grin. “Never mind.” She met Claire’s gaze. “You find Paris cold, hungry and beaten. Same as every other cold, hungry person in the city.” Her eyes were an arresting green, with laugh wrinkles at the corners. “I hate inconsequential conversation.” She nodded toward the table, still unvisited. Her eyes lingered on a platter laden with slices of cream-colored paste layered on toasted bread. “I wish Laurent would join us so we may begin. I haven’t tasted foie gras or brioche in months.”
A genuine smile found its way onto Claire’s face. “I can’t believe he has all this.”
“It cost him.” Madame Berri shook her head with a sideways look.
Claire shrugged, the what can you do in these times? expression the Parisians fell back on more and more. Still, her mouth watered looking at the table. “Thank you for asking, Madame Berri. About Paris. I do love it.”
“Good.” A grin tugged at her lips. “You may call me Odette.”
“Thank you, Odette. Please call me Claire.”
Laurent walked into the room with a woman on his arm. Unlike the other women in the room, she made no concessions for the cold weather. Early thirties, in a thin silk dress, deep green with fluttering cap sleeves. Dark hair cut short and fingered into place. Long emeralds dangled from her ears. Her thin silver heels cracked across the parquet floor.
Claire raised an eyebrow toward Odette.
“Couture. New, I’m sure.” Odette’s nose wrinkled, as if she’d eaten something bad.
Not Claire’s style, but no denying the clothes were expensive. Nicer than could be found in stores these days. But the woman wasn’t much to look at. Tiny eyes and a hard little mouth that seemed to search for reasons to turn down. It appeared Laurent had found himself a moneyed woman. Not what Claire expected to find this evening, but, she decided, good for him.
“Is that his latest?” Claire watched as they circled the room, welcoming guests, making their way toward the pair by the fire.
Odette’s head swiveled toward Claire. “Oh . . . No. I wish. That—” Odette sighed. “That is his wife of many years.”
A flash of heat tore through Claire’s body. He had asked, almost pleaded, for her to leave her husband and move to Paris with him, and he was married? She willed her cheeks cool, her expression composed while thoughts screamed in her head.
Laurent smiled and said hello to Odette, then switched to English as he turned to Claire. “Claire. I am so glad you could make it. Was Madame Palain not able to join us?”
Claire smiled, anger adding warmth that wasn’t there. Poise. Restraint. “Thank you, Laurent, for your kind invitation. Madame was indisposed tonight.” And it’s damn lucky for her she’s not here. Claire offered her cheeks for Laurent’s la bise, quick pecks, right and left, right and left.
He put an arm around the woman’s shoulders and drew her forward. “I would like you to meet someone. This is my, eh, wife, Sylvie Olivier.”
Sylvie’s eyes flicked once down and up Claire’s form. Her skin pinched around her lips as if she bit into a lemon.
Poise. Restraint. “Madame Olivier, I am pleased to—” Claire said.
Sylvie turned to Laurent. In a voice that cut across the room, she said in French, “From what I’d heard, I expected her to be more attractive, Laurent.”
Claire felt Odette flinch next to her. An icy smile stretched across Claire’s face. She’s going to play it this way, eh? Claire responded in French, her tone loud and cheery. “That is so sweet of Laurent to speak of me. He never mentioned you at all.”
Silence exploded across the room like a mortar. Claire arranged her most innocent expression. She knew how to win this game. Rising in position in New York society was a blood sport.
Grey coughed into his drink.
Claire kept her smile as Sylvie’s eyes glittered and her pinched expression deepened. It was a standoff, and neither woman was going to back down.
Laurent retained his smile but his eyes twitched like a snared animal’s. His discomfort was a small salve to Claire’s pride. He will have to chew off more than his foot to escape this trap, she thought.
“This is a beautiful display you put together tonight,” said Odette. “Laurent, would you like to open the champagne?”
“Oh, yes. Of course.” He gestured welcome to the scattered guests in the room. “My good friends. Thank you all for joining us tonight. Please enjoy yourselves.”
He steered Sylvie away. She took her seat at the end of the table without another glance back.
Odette hung back with Claire. Her tone was light. “You must try the foie gras. This is from ducks raised in Gers. It is worth it.” A gentle squeeze on Claire’s arm held more meaning. There is more here than you know, it implied.
As the guests gathered around the table, Claire found and slid into her chair. The seating arrangement had taken some thought, though it seemed to be explicitly to her disadvantage. To her left was Jacques, Odette sat to his left. Grey was across from Claire, between him and Laurent at the head of the table sat Monsieur and Madame Bruel.
Sylvie’s cousin sat on Claire’s right. He was introduced as Bertrand or perhaps Burcet. In Paris on business, he was middle management in Sylvie’s family’s textiles factory in Lyons. Sylvie sat at the end of the table to his right. The family resemblance was noticeable. They shared the little eyes and tight mouth, though on him it was muffled in the vacuum of his personality.
To Grey’s left preened a young bird in burgundy organza. She was new to Laurent’s group, a friend of Sylvie’s. She leaned in to Sylvie’s ear and whispered something that made her hard eyes glint.
Claire fortified herself with a glass a wine and watched the bird, also referred to as Babette, attempt to charm Grey. As the first plate was passed by, Babette rubbed Grey’s shoulder with her bare arm. Puff pastries skittered dangerously toward the edge of the leaning plate. When he was forced to answer a question, Babette leaned into his face and cooed her agreement. With each attempt at seduction, Grey’s posture became more erect, his expression more stern. Claire wondered how long until he climbed up on the table in self-defense. At least Claire wasn’t the only one suffering.
Laurent presided at the head of the table. A side Claire had never seen, a stuffy aristocrat, too much self-conscious congratulation mixed with a host’s graciousness. It almost bothered her more than the sudden appearance of a wife. But not quite.
They spoke of the weather, some inane story of a cousin’s yacht in Nice running aground last summer while the captain charted a course across the cousin’s wife. The couple, the story went, refused to be rescued from the listing boat for hours.
“Good. A captain must go down in his ship,” Jacques pronounced, raising his glass.
Chatting wasn’t easy. Every detail of life since last summer was imprisoned in the cold depths of the Occupation.
The mystery of how Laurent managed the feast was solved at the first pause in conversation. Business had doubled at Sylvie’s family’s factory, the cousin announced at Sylvie’s nudging. The coldest winter in years, competition shut down. It was sad of course, but Grandpa’s company must persevere through these difficult days. Nods of agreement and the conversation stalled. Grey’s eyes darkened and he busied himself forming a forkful of puffed pastry and baked chicken.
After a moment of whispering between Babette and Sylvie, Babette turned to Claire. “You’re an American. What is it you do that you haven’t been shipped back to your own country?”
The attention of the table swiveled to Claire. She swallowed hard at the food lodged in her throat. Without the right papers, she wasn’t legally able to work. Wasn’t able to do anything, for that matter. Madame Palain turned a blind eye. Vous travaillez au noir, meaning she worked under the table. With a room full of strangers and Sylvie gunning for her across the baguettes, Claire couldn’t risk answering and putting herse
lf or Madame Palain in the German’s sights.
Grey looked up from his plate for the first time seemingly in hours. “She is what they refer to as a socialite in the United States. Apparently, Madame Harris is known to be particularly talented at important social activities.”
Claire didn’t know what to say. She wasn’t sure where he was going with this. He very may well be insulting her.
“What does a socialite do, exactly?” Grey grinned now; he appeared to be enjoying needling her.
Claire rewarded him with an honest smile. “Oh, I usually throw extravagant parties, shop for diamonds and seduce”—Claire glanced at Laurent—“pitiful, dim-witted men. A bit tiresome, really.”
A low laugh rolled over the table. Madame Bruel began a story about an American movie she had seen like that, Hôtel Grand. The cousin poured Claire more wine. Dessert was served, a runny cheese confection spooned onto crystal plates.
They laughed, drank and ate. Soon a feeling near warm camaraderie blanketed the table. The cousin—was it Burcet or Bertrand?—laid his hand on Claire’s thigh when he yet again refilled her glass. Jacques and Odette excused themselves to get home to little Gerard.
“Grandma will have had her fill of him by now.” Odette extended a warm smile to Claire as they left.
Monsieur and Madame Bruel also begged their leave; he was a lawyer and had an early case. The remaining group drifted from the table, the women to the chairs by the fire, the men near the window. The cousin eyed Claire before he took his place with Laurent and Grey, a thin pout on his face.
Claire turned to examine the painting over the fireplace. It had been brilliantly executed, tiny brushstrokes depicting two poor farm children gleaning the last stray bits of the harvested field. “Très enchanteur,” Claire murmured as she wondered why the hell Laurent hung such a depressing scene over his mantel.
Sylvie and Babette closed ranks around Claire. “Laurent said you didn’t speak French,” Babette started.
“I’ve learned.”
“Strange you hadn’t studied it in school,” said Sylvie.
“Yes. Isn’t it.”
“I thought all American socialites went to finishing schools. Babette and I met in Switzerland at Château Mont-Choisi.”
“How nice for you both.” Claire took a drink and smiled, showing her teeth. “I was already finished.” Claire was reminded of something her Mama said: You gotta be careful, Claire, fighting with pigs. They like to roll around in the mud. You just get dirty.
“C’est vrai? Well, in France it takes more than blue eyes and lipstick to interest a man of consequence,” Sylvie said, eyes glittering.
Claire felt a pair of eyes on her back. She turned. The men were standing by the window drinking scotch. Laurent was pointing something out to the cousin on the street below. Grey was watching her.
She drank deep and emptied her glass. “I think I’m ready for something stronger.”
Claire marched past Grey and placed a hand on the cousin’s thick shoulder. Gazing deep into his eyes, she slid her fingers down his arm to tap the rim of his glass. She smiled, running a tongue over her lips. What the hell was his name? “Hello again, my personal bartender, how about some scotch?”
In short order, her glass was full, the scotch was building a warm fire in her stomach, and Sylvie and Babette, for the moment, stopped stalking her. They all retired to the stuffed chairs scattered around the window. Babette slid next to Grey. Claire leaned against the cousin, the most boring man she had ever met, and asked him about textiles. It was hard to feign interest and keep the conversation going. She still couldn’t remember his name, and the drink had gone straight to her head.
She ran two fingers down his jelly-filled leg toward his knee. Sylvie and Babette were silent. Apparently, even in France it was in poor taste to insult the woman who was giving your cousin a small erection. Laurent lost the pretense of being interested in his wife, and his gaze kept falling on Claire. All that was ruining the pleasant fuzziness she felt were the burning cold glares from Grey.
“It’s late. And time for me to go.” Grey lurched from the seat, away from Babette’s tangling arms.
The cousin’s hand slid down her hip toward Claire’s thigh. His pudding body pressed against her. A wave of nausea hit her. She swallowed. Cold air was needed. Fast.
Claire pulled herself free and stood. “I also must be leaving. I have a full day of shopping tomorrow.” She looked over at Sylvie. “You know how tiring that is.”
The cousin scrambled to his feet next to her. “I will take you home.”
The scotch was burning its way up her throat. “Burcet—”
“Bertrand,” he said, lips pushing forward in an angry pout.
“I’m sorry, I don’t even know your name, but you are. So. Boring. And—” She shuddered and slipped away from his hands. “Don’t.” She waved him off. “Just don’t.”
“Claire.” Laurent reached for her elbow.
She jerked her arm back, stepping away. “Laurent. Thanks for an . . . evening.” Lurching from the salon into the hallway, thank God, the closet was open and her coat in sight. She skittered down the stairs as fast as she could go. A few wobbly strides across the hall and outside. Doubling over, she vomited into the cone-shaped topiary boxwoods.
“Let me take you home. You aren’t well.” Grey shrugged on his coat behind her.
“Damn.” She hadn’t wanted to lose dinner. Claire straightened up. It took a moment for her eyes to catch up to her head, but her stomach seemed to be staying put.
Grey handed her a kerchief. “It’s past curfew. I’ll take you.”
Claire wiped her face with the cloth. She was relieved to find she hadn’t thrown up on her dress or coat.
Laurent rushed onto the step, hugging his arms to his body against the chill. “Claire, you mustn’t misunderstand this thing with Sylvie. We married when we were very young, in school. This is Paris. She doesn’t even live—”
“Laurent,” Grey said, a low warning tone.
Laurent frowned, then turned to Grey. “I deserve the chance to explain myself.”
“Not now. You are needed inside.”
Laurent sighed, facing Claire. “Au revoir, Claire. I was truly glad to see you again.” He turned on his heel and hurried back in the door.
Grey watched him close the door and turned back to Claire. “I don’t like anything that happened tonight. But”—he shook his head and tugged his coat collar up around his ears—“I’m getting you home.”
“Really?” Claire said with as much venom as she could muster, pulling her coat tight around her. “I am not interested in your opinion of my actions. Nor do I need or desire an escort.” She marched away, head high, saying a prayer she wouldn’t stumble. She called over her shoulder. “Thanks for the kerchief. I will wash and return it.”
She felt his eyes bore into her back. She glanced behind her. He hadn’t moved from the sidewalk; his hands were stuffed in his pockets, his stare drilling through her. A warm shiver rose up her torso.
As she turned the corner, she heard him swear, bloody Yankee princess. A sharp ache dug into her chest. She was so damn tired of pretending to be someone she was not, of scratching her way up. It never worked. Not for long. The little barefooted farm girl was still there, inside her. Bloody Yankee princess. He had no idea. She breathed deep into the cold air, letting it burn away at the fuzz in her head and lungs.
Chapter 4
THE OFFER
52, rue du Colisée, Paris. November 28, 1940.
The click of a heavy bolt into the flower shop’s ancient front door marked lunch break. Claire pressed away from the bench in the back room and stretched. She had hand-painted curved tree branches silver and gold all morning. They hung like long jeweled fingers from a wire stretched across the small room. Lunch wasn’t in mind. Her stomach still churned from last night’s scotch; she couldn’t even look at the brined egg Georges had passed her.
It was easy to stay busy. The
Paris Ritz called this morning. The hotel had lost their florist to the fighting, and their greenhouses had been requisitioned for growing food for the hotel. But apparently Marshal Goering, Field Marshal of the Luftwaffe and said to be running the Blitz against England from the hotel’s Imperial Suite, demanded something lavish be done for the New Year. The staff at the Ritz turned in desperation to La Vie en Fleurs. The contract was generous, much-needed money, and Claire’s first opportunity to make masses of lavish arrangements. Overseen, of course, by Madame.
The florist left Claire mercifully alone this morning. She took one look at Claire’s face and sent her to the back with gold leaf and paste. The branches were structural elements of the arrangement; small crystals would hang from them, like icicles in a golden forest. Tomorrow, Claire would be gold-leafing ceramic nuts.
Madame walked into the back room. She inspected each stem, her eyes inches away, her hands tucked behind her back. “Quite nice, Claire. I’m pleased. You show discipline.”
Claire raised an eyebrow at the compliment. Discipline?
Madame smoothed a loose fleck of gold leaf with a fingernail as she spoke. “A party at the Ritz will be sophisticated, extravagant, no doubt. But La Vie en Fleurs brings a spirit of cultivated beauty—romance—to the night. That can’t be bought. Only earned.”
A loud rapping against the shop window made the florist pause.
“You seek artistry, Claire. But discipline must come first.” Madame turned and left the back room.
The front door’s bolt clicked. “Bonjour, is Madame Harris here?” asked a woman’s warm voice.
Claire stepped around the corner, dusting bits of dried flecks of leaf from her dress. “Odette? What a surprise.”
“Bonjour, Claire. I apologize for coming unannounced. Care to take a walk?”
Outside, trees shivered against a pewter sky. An icy wind gusted from the north in staccato coughs that pricked the skin. The women walked in silence. Claire inspected the passing buildings as they walked down rue Rembrandt toward parc Monceau.
