All the Flowers in Paris

by Sarah Jio

  “Maybe,” I say with a grin. “You’ll just have to wait and see.”

  I tuck the letters I’ve been writing to Luc in the inside pocket of my coat, along with some paper and envelopes.

  “What about breakfast?” Cosi asks.

  “We’ll eat on the train.”

  She scratches her head. “Shouldn’t we pack a suitcase?”

  “Don’t you worry, love,” I say. “Papa and I have everything figured out.” I don’t tell her that a suitcase would draw attention, and that we’ll have to purchase the things we need later.

  “All I need is Monsieur Dubois, anyway,” she says cheerfully, giving her bear a squeeze. “And my journal.” She tucks her precious book into the pocket of her coat. I’m pleased to see that it fits.

  Papa surveys the apartment a final time. For all we know, it might be the last time any of us lays eyes on these walls. He stops at the bookshelf and picks up the framed photo of Mama. “Do you have room in your purse for this?”

  “Yes,” I say, pulling the photograph from its frame.

  “We aren’t ever coming back here, are we, Mama?” Cosi asks with wisdom far greater than her eight years.

  I kneel down beside her. “Maybe someday,” I say. “A long time from now.”

  She nods and turns to the door. “I’m ready now.”

  * * *

  —

  “CAN I HAVE a back ride?” Cosi asks Papa on the street below. We have about an hour until the train leaves, plenty of time to purchase our tickets, two coffees, and a snack for Cosi at the station, and yet I’m anxious and want to get there as soon as possible.

  “No, Cosi,” I say. “That will slow us down, and besides, you know Papa’s back has been bothering him. Your legs are strong. You can walk.”

  Papa hears none of it, however. He crouches, and Cosi climbs onto him, giggling happily.

  “All right you two,” I say. “Let’s go.”

  I don’t remember Paris ever being so quiet. It’s as if the entire city is asleep save us. We walk ahead, beginning the fifteen-minute journey to the train station, but before we can round the first corner, the beam of a flashlight and a loud, startling whistle stop us in our tracks. Just ahead, a group of German soldiers approaches. There are six or seven of them, and when I see that one is Reinhardt, my heart sinks.

  “Well, well,” he says, walking toward us with four other men. “Going on a little outing, are we?”

  Papa opens his mouth to speak, but Reinhardt silences him. “Save your breath, old man. You’ll need it where you’re going.”

  “Please,” I say, attempting to buy us some time. Even a few seconds. “We are just out for a morning walk.”

  He holds out his hand to catch the falling snow. “In this weather?” He turns to one of his counterparts. “A perfect day for a family walk, wouldn’t you say?” The men laugh. “When I told you to arrive at my apartment at eight A.M. today, it was a test,” he continues. “And you failed.”

  “But it’s not even six yet,” I say, glancing at Cosi, who clings to Papa tightly. “I was going to come. I…I still am.”

  Whatever I say makes no difference. We are mice, and these are great big cats before us. With guns.

  “Céline,” Reinhardt continues, “I warned you how much I hate to be disappointed.” He looks at Cosi.

  “Please,” I beg, falling to my knees. The right one is still sore from yesterday, and it smarts when it hits the cobblestones.

  Reinhardt smiles. “I like it when you beg.” He touches the nape of my neck where my necklace from Pierre drapes over my collarbone, then rips off the gold chain as Cosi lets out a scream of terror. I look up at her, my eyes welling with tears. “I don’t like clutter on collarbones.” He grabs my arm and jerks me to a stand. As he does, my purse falls to the street and the photo of Mama spills out. Reinhardt turns to the men beside him and nods. “Take them.”

  He smiles. “Wondering how I caught you? Well, it was thanks to my sharp instincts, of course, but I wouldn’t have intercepted you at precisely the right moment without help from Monsieur Toulouse.”

  My cheeks burn. The neighbors on the second floor have turned us in.

  “A little tip,” he continues. “When planning your escape in an old, drafty apartment building such as yours, be sure to avoid divulging your plan beside the radiator vent.” He laughs. “Sound carries. People might hear you.”

  Papa quickly thrusts Cosi down from his shoulders and into his arms, slinging her over his shoulder, and turning down the street. I watch Monsieur Dubois flap against Papa’s back as his tired legs work as hard as they can to carry them out of danger. It’s a futile attempt, but I love Papa all the more for it.

  “Papa!” I cry.

  Cosi screams for me. “Mama! No, Mama. No!”

  I fight against Reinhardt’s grasp in vain, twisting this way and that, screaming Cosi’s name over and over again.

  Right before the men reach Papa, his legs give way. He breaks Cosi’s fall, and a moment later, I watch her jump to her feet and dart to the left, clutching her bear. She gets four paces away before one of the soldiers captures her. Her little legs kick wildly. Two others lift Papa to his feet, just as a truck arrives. I sob, falling to my knees again as the men push Papa and Cosi inside.

  I watch in horror as the truck drives off into the early-morning light, taking away both halves of my heart.

  CHAPTER 15

  CAROLINE

  The next weekend, Victor and I stop at the restaurant briefly before heading to the train station. Just like a new mother fretting over an impending separation from her baby, he is nervous about leaving the restaurant, I can tell, even if it will be in capable hands. His kitchen staff, headed up by the very talented Julien, will take care of the back end; Raoul, the bartender, along with Margot, will handle the front of the house, although, when I see her this morning, she looks worse than ever. I can detect a faint bruise around her left eye, which she’s obviously tried, unsuccessfully, to cover up with makeup.

  When Victor heads to the kitchen to talk to Julien, I stay and check on Margot.

  “Please,” I say softly. Her eyes are red, misty. “Do you need help? What can I do for you?”

  She turns away, attempting to hide her tears, then faces me, collecting herself. “He’s a good man, he really is,” she says, smoothing her dress. “But when he drinks…” She shakes her head, looking away again. “I only worry about my little boy.”

  I reach for her hand.

  “Do you have somewhere safe you can go?”

  She doesn’t reply, so I reach into my bag and pull out the keys to my apartment. “Why don’t you stay with me until you get back on your feet? I have the extra space, and my apartment is very close to the restaurant. It would take some strain off you, at least for a little while.” I hand her my keychain.

  She examines it, then hands it back. “I wouldn’t think of troubling you like that.”

  “Where is your son right now?”

  “With my boyfriend’s sister. She runs a day care center outside the city. She watches my son while I work. I thought about staying there, but he would find me for sure.”

  “That settles it then,” I say. “You’ll stay with me. It’s no trouble whatsoever.” I smile. “Besides, the apartment is much too large for just one single lady.” I hand the keychain back to her. “I could use the company.” I squeeze her hand. “What is your son’s name?”

  “Élian,” she says.

  I smile. “You and Élian will be my guests. Eighteen rue Cler. The concierge is Monsieur de Goff. He’s a little prickly around the edges, but I’m certain there’s a teddy bear under all those thorns. Tell him I sent you.”

  * * *

  —

  VICTOR LOADS MY bag onto the train, along with his duffel, tucking them both in a luggage-holding
area before we find our seats.

  “It’ll be nice to get away for a while,” he says. “It’s been nonstop since I took over the restaurant.” He reaches for my hand. “I think you’re really going to love the south. It’s so peaceful.”

  “I can’t wait,” I say, taking the seat beside him.

  “When I was growing up, my family and I took the train down every few months to visit my grandmother in Lyon.”

  “Tell me about them, your family.”

  He nods. “My mom’s name is Babette. She grew up with wealth and never quite got over it when her father lost most of his money in a bad investment when she was sixteen. They had to move out of their posh apartment to a much less prestigious address. You would assume, given the trauma of losing her nearly endless monthly allowance from Daddy, that she’d have sought out a wealthy man to marry, but instead she chose my father, Charles. He’s a college professor. For every one hundred words my mother speaks, he speaks three.”

  I grin.

  “She’s flighty, he’s grounded. She stays up late into the night, he’s up at five A.M. You’d think that after all these years they’d have ended up divorced, but you know what? I think they’re actually perfect for each other.”

  I smile. “Ah, I love that.”

  I look out the window wistfully, wishing I could make my mind release the memories it stubbornly keeps of my own family, wherever they might be.

  Victor’s eyes meet mine. “Oh, I almost forgot to tell you about Hugo.”

  “Hugo?”

  “My crazy brother. He’s four years younger than me, devilishly handsome, and a favorite among the ladies.”

  I laugh.

  “Last I heard from him, he was in Portugal, on the yacht of some heiress.”

  “Did Babette ask to join them?”

  He grins. “Very good,” he says. “You catch on quick.”

  “I’d love to meet them all,” I say, then suddenly wish I hadn’t let the words slip out. My cheeks feel hot. How completely ridiculous to talk about meeting his family when we’ve only gone on a handful of dates, if you could even call them that. “I mean…someday, if they ever come to the…restaurant or anything.” I want to crawl into a hole and stay there for a thousand years.

  “You’d love them all,” he says, seemingly unfazed as he gazes out the window. “Look,” he continues, pointing. “A castle.”

  I see it in the distance. A castle indeed, but very run-down. The entire left wall has collapsed, and its perimeter is encircled in weeds and tall grass. A few broken-down cars are scattered nearby.

  “It’s so funny that people can actually own and live in those old buildings,” I say, marveling.

  “Yeah,” he says. “They’re everywhere in these parts. Look, there’s another.”

  I see it ahead. A bit better kept than the last, but still very modest, with a rusty aluminum swing set and plastic slide to its right.

  “My cousins and I would play this little game we made up called Castles and Sheep.”

  I laugh. “Castles and Sheep?”

  “The thing is so ingenious, I really should have branded it,” he says, smiling. “I know you’re dying to know how to play it, so fear not, I’ll tell you.” He looks out the window. “As you’ve probably noticed, even as we’ve just begun our journey, this great country of mine has a lot of castles, and a lot of sheep.”

  I smile at the hilarity of this but play along, pointing out the window to my first sheep. “There, at three o’clock!”

  “Good,” Victor continues. “Now, sheep get you two points, and castles five. Inevitably, it’s neck and neck, the castles and the sheep. Whoever has the most points after the train ride wins. No cheating.”

  “Castle!” I point out as we pass an old stone home with a spire.

  “Sheep!” Victor counters with an animal on the left side of the train.

  Fifteen minutes later, and after a lot of laughing, we’ve lost count and give up, opting instead to head to the dining car to purchase a bottle of wine and some snacks, which we bring back to our seats.

  Victor uncorks the wine and pours us each a glass. I take a sip, then turn to him. “What if my memory comes back, and it…changes everything?”

  He looks at me with tender eyes, waiting for me to continue.

  “It’s just that…” I pause to look out the window again, then back at him. “I like this. I like my life, just the way it is right now. Does that make any sense at all?”

  He nods, giving me the space to go on.

  “I’m getting used to the unknown.” I swallow hard and reach for his hand. “I’m getting used to this. I don’t want anything to change.”

  He looks at me like he doesn’t want anything to change, either. But he doesn’t say that. Instead, he kisses the left side of my cheek and whispers into my ear, “Don’t worry so much. It will all work out as it should.” He grins. “I just hope we don’t find out that you’re married to a male model who just happens to be away for a lengthy catalog shoot in Milan.”

  I laugh, then turn back to the window and watch, deep in thought, as the rolling green hills whiz by.

  Another castle. Another sheep.

  * * *

  —

  “OH, VICTOR, IT’S beautiful!” I exclaim as he pulls our rental car into the gravel driveway. The house is exactly as I’d imagined, with its stone façade and casement windows with sheer white curtains. Lavender and rosemary everywhere. I grab the paper sack from our brief stop at a market along the way as Victor carries our bags to the door.

  Inside, soothing neutrals abound: white slipcovered sofas, ashy wood coffee table and dining set. “That’s it,” I say. “I’m moving in for good.”

  “Isn’t it great?” He reaches up to dust away a cobweb from the ceiling above him. “Such a shame it doesn’t get more use. My friend works in Spain half the year, so it just sits empty.”

  I point ahead. “Look at that kitchen!”

  He nods. “Oh, I fully intend to find my way in there tonight to make you something very Provençal.”

  “And the pool!” I throw open the French doors and run out to the patio and back garden, where cypress trees line the perimeter. I pull the cover off one of the chaise longues beside the large rectangular swimming pool and settle in, exhaling deeply. “If anyone needs me, I’ll be right here.”

  “Why don’t you go put your swimsuit on,” Victor suggests. “I’ll make us a drink.”

  I find what appears to be the master bedroom and wheel my bag inside, thinking about what it might be like to live in a place like this with Victor, and the scene is a beautiful one: the two of us, breathing in the sunny, herb-filled air, eating delicious dinners, making art and—my cheeks flush—love. I slip on my black bikini and cinch a towel from the bathroom around my waste self-consciously.

  “I’ll just be out on the patio,” I say in the living room, where Victor hands me a cocktail muddled with lavender flowers.

  I take a sip as he walks closer. “Let me see you.”

  I’m nervous as he places his hand on my waist, releasing the towel to the floor. He smiles at my shyness. “You didn’t tell me you were a swimsuit model.”

  “Oh stop,” I say, retrieving the towel with flushed cheeks. “I probably look…I don’t know…”

  His expression momentarily freezes as he pulls me to him. “I wish you could understand how beautiful you are. I wish you could know…” His voice trails off as he runs his fingers through my hair.

  Do the words feel strange on his lips? Does he even mean them? Or does he merely pity me, the girl with no memory?

  “Let’s swim,” he says, his smile returning. “I’ll go find my trunks.”

  He returns minutes later shirtless and in sunglasses. Although he doesn’t seem to be the sort of man who spends much, if any, time at the gym
, his muscles are defined and toned. “Tell me,” I tease, “how is it that a chef can have a six-pack?”

  He rubs his stomach. “First of all, this is in no way a six-pack. But thank you.” He grins. “This bodes well for me when your supermodel husband materializes next week. I’ll need to put up my best fight, and it will be stiff competition.”

  I laugh. “But seriously. How do you eat with such gusto and stay so fit? Are you getting up at the crack of dawn and running up and down the steps of Montmartre or something?”

  He removes the cover from the chaise longue beside me. “No. I am much too lazy for that.”

  “Then what is it? Good genes? Because I have a hunch that if I ate crème brûlée as often as you do, I’d be twice my size.”

  He lies down in the lounge chair beside me and grins. “It must be my tapeworm, then.”

  I laugh. “Your tapeworm?”

  “Yeah, a godsend, that critter.”

  “You’re pretty funny, you know?”

  “I’m glad I make you laugh,” he says. “Not everyone gets my humor.” His smile fades for a moment, then returns. “Hey, how about some music?”

  “Yes, please,” I say.

  He pulls his cellphone from his pocket. “Let me see if I can hack into this Sonos system. Do you like jazz?” he asks as the gentle sound of a saxophone filters through the outdoor speakers.

  “Is the sky blue?” I take a sip of my drink, then I close my eyes, rocking my body slowly to the melody. I may be suffering from amnesia, but even so, somehow I know that jazz runs through my blood. “Stan Getz,” I continue.

  “Nice. One of my favorites as well. You know what I’ve always said?”

  “What?”

  “Must love jazz.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Remember the movie Must Love Dogs?”

  I nod.

  “For me to get serious with anyone, she absolutely must love jazz.”

  “I guess I pass, then.”

  “Well, we’ll see how you stand when I quiz you on Chet Baker later.”