by L. L. Muir
A fat drop of water thunked her on the head. She opened her umbrella just in case, then winced with embarrassment when nearly half of the canopy collapsed in a broken jumble of bent wire and sagging black nylon.
She tucked her pride in her pocket and held the thing over her head like she didn’t care. After a dozen steps and about ten seconds of being whacked on the back of the head by free-swinging wreckage, she surrendered. She collapsed the rest of the contraption and headed for a trash bin. It didn’t matter that one half had done its part. The whole thing had to go.
Please don’t rain. Please don’t rain. Please don’t rain.
But no one was listening to her silent prayers that night, and as she plodded down the street, splashing water into the backs of her shoes, she searched for anything that might be a restaurant. By the time she reached the corner, with its innumerable lanes of traffic, she decided food could wait a little longer. She had to get out of the rain!
She crossed a side street and made a beeline for a mob. A line of people crowded around the opening to a wide staircase and she joined them, acting as if she were perfectly aware of where it might lead. At the bottom, she stopped to catch her breath and make sure she wasn’t taking some short cut to the red light district. The way her luck was running, she’d end up face to face with that same Frenchman, who would insist on something less friendly than a cup of coffee.
A plaque put her fears to rest, however.
Good news, Julia. We’re headed to the Arch of Triumph. Bad news…no restaurants.
Considering the crowd, she doubted all of them could stay out of the rain once they emerged under the monument, no matter how freaking enormous the arch was. But she rejoined the flow of tourists and soldiered on. After all, the tunnel wasn’t wet, and with all the bodies moving through it, it wasn’t as cold as being street side.
The people in front of her moved to the left and she followed suit. On the right, seated on the ground, was a young girl who took a violin out of its case while an older man, probably her father, watched over her. By the time she started playing, Martine had shuffled along and she missed the chance to listen.
Not much farther, a man stood against the same side of the tunnel and played guitar. He sang softly, and in French, so she didn’t understand more than a word or two. The language was much prettier than the tune however, so she didn’t bother checking her pocket for change.
The tunnel was long enough to accommodate three more performers before they neared the end. The line bulged while people waited for their turn to climb the stairs. Less than anxious to be out in the weather again, Martine jumped at the chance to step out of line and sit on a ledge in a shallow alcove. There was plenty of light and strange but plentiful entertainment, so why not?
A balding, short man stood against the opposite wall, maybe 20 feet short of the staircase. With squares of pale cloth, he painstakingly wrapped up the sections of what had to be an oboe, then placed those pieces in a case. A hat half-full of coins and paper currency lay at his feet as if he were in no hurry to discourage tips, even if he was finished playing. A few times per minute, he would look back over his shoulder, toward the tunnel entrance. Martine suspected his muttering was mostly curse words, judging by his expressions. She was curious to see who he was waiting for.
Another five minutes went by before the man donned his coat and bent to lock his instrument case. He picked up the hat, scooped the contents into his hand, then into his pocket without counting it.
If that was how Martine made her living, she’d count every coin as it got tossed in. She might know just what each coin sounded like.
The bald head disappeared under the very French beret, and the man turned back one last time to look toward the entrance, as if he didn’t dare move his feet until this mysterious person arrived.
Was he waiting for a woman? Did she stand him up? Or was he waiting for some boss to give him permission to go home? Did street performers have some sort of pimp?
The man’s face lit up. Somewhere down the line, his date had appeared.
Martine looked at each face as the line progressed nearer. Everyone seemed to be paired up, however, and she had yet to see a single woman—or man—in the crowd.
There was someone, however, that she hadn’t expected to see. In fact, she wondered if there could be two men in Paris that day who were that tall, that dark, with such long hair.
Her stomach dropped and protested at the same time. A flash of green and blue plaid crossed the man’s wide chest and she had her answer. Though she’d lived the life of a twin sister and knew for a fact that duplicates existed, there was no way there were two of this man’s kind.
Un-freaking-believable!
She looked back at the oboe player to figure out who he was so excited to see, but the man was watching the same dark head making its slow and steady progress down the line. When the Scotsman got close, he seemed entirely surprised when the smaller man dragged him out of line and berated him in French.
The fact that the taller man answered in the same language kind of surprised her. Maybe all Europeans spoke French. It made sense, if you lived so close to France you could drive there in an afternoon.
“I hope you’re happy, Julia. I’m in France and I’m learning things.”
But Julia wasn’t with her. Julia was back in the hotel room. And though that hotel room wasn’t far, it felt like the other side of the world at the moment. And tomorrow, after those ashes were finally spread and Julia’s ultimate wish came true, it would be Martine flying away, to the other side of the world.
“Come back, Julia. Can’t you? We’ll pretend it’s all been a nightmare.”
Chapter Ten
The oboe player was gone.
In his place, the Scotsman stood with his back against the wall. A plaid cap lay open, sad, and empty at his feet. Without an instrument to play, he rubbed his empty hands together, then wiped them down his thighs before letting them settle on his hips. A deep breath made that chest expand and test the buttons on his ruffled shirt.
Holy crap, he’s going to sing!
All feet-shuffling stopped, and Martine realized she wasn’t the only one holding her breath. The Scot gulped again, then his baritone voice, as if coming from the depths of a wet barrel, began singing the slowest, mournful tune she’d ever heard…
Of all the money that e’er I had
I spent it in good company
And all the harm I’ve ever done
Alas it was to none but me
And all I’ve done for want of wit
To mem’ry now I can’t recall
So fill to me the parting glass
Good night and joy be to you all
So fill to me the parting glass
And drink a health whate’er befall,
And gently rise and softly call
Good night and joy be to you all
Of all the comrades that e’er I had
They’re sorry for my going away
And all the sweethearts that e’er I had
They’d wish me one more day to stay
But since it fell unto my lot
That I should rise and you should not
I gently rise and softly call
Good night and joy be to you all
A man may drink and not be drunk
A man may fight and not be slain
A man may court a pretty girl
And perhaps be welcomed back again
But since it has so ought to be
By a time to rise and a time to fall
Come fill to me the parting glass
Good night and joy be with you all
Good night and joy be with you all
But since it fell unto my lot that I should rise and you should not…
Are you kidding me? Was her sister reaching out from the Ziploc bag to tell her something?
Air stirred and stroked her tear-soaked cheeks, turning them icy cold. Before others could notice, she faced the wall, th
en used the sleeves of her dark coat to dry her face. She guessed she should be grateful. Her gut was so full of emotion her stomach had no room to growl.
The bad news was that others had heard the singing and had come back down from the monument, and instead of working their way back to the exits, they lingered and clogged the tunnel, waiting for the Scotsman to sing again.
She was going to starve in a city famous for gourmet food!
The big idiot didn’t help matters when, with that brogue and a hearty handshake, he thanked every woman who dropped a coin into his hat. Judging from the adoring looks on the faces of young women and grandmothers alike, they weren’t paying for the song—they were paying for a chance to touch him!
Who is this guy?
Fighting his way along the wall came another singer holding a guitar over his head. Hopefully, he was coming to tell the Scot to stop upstaging the rest of them so they could sing for their suppers. But after a quick exchange, the guitar player strummed a loud chord to silence the crowd before playing backup for yet another Scottish tune. Or Irish, maybe. Martine only knew that she’d heard this one before. Something about a Galway girl.
The audience, who clearly didn’t understand the concept of claustrophobia, had obviously heard it as well, and joined in the catchy chorus.
A rather desperate-looking girl, maybe fifteen, went from person to person and finally made it over to Martine. “Can you spare a coin? A euro? Anything?”
Besides her home-knitted hat and scarf, the girl’s clothes were a little thread-bare, and she looked a little hungry around the eyes. Since Martine could easily imagine the poor thing having to compete against Scottish show-offs for the crowd’s donations, she was happy to dig her in pockets for what real cash she had on hand.
A five-dollar bill. American money, but hopefully, easy to spend.
Martine handed it over with a wink. The girl’s eyes lit up and she thanked Martine by squeezing her hand. She turned away and pushed her way through the crowd to stand in front of the boisterous Scot—to whom she offered the five bucks!
Martine might have protested, but she wasn’t small and skinny and able to squirm between people like the girl had. All she could do was watch her good deed go into the pocket of the man who had literally ruined her day.
A fire lit in her chest and grew hotter as the crowd cheered and sang and danced to his ditty. It made it easy to dislike him, and she was grateful to have a target for all the emotions running through her. Cold, hungry, tired.
Tired of the duty still hanging over her head.
His fault.
Hungry and stuck with a hundred people between herself and the exit.
His fault.
Cold and wet with no hope of getting dry anytime soon. Out five bucks. And her heart freshly broken, yet again, because of his stupid song!
His fault, his fault, his fault!
A woman stepped aside, thanks to her husband dragging her away, and Martine was given a clear view of the girl’s hand offering up that five. The Scot’s voice faltered for only a second before reaching up…and pushing the money and the hand away. He took the girl’s free hand and kissed it like some old-world gentleman. After a few seconds, the small hand offered again, but he shook his head and gave her a private wink before turning his attention back to his eager, and more age-appropriate audience.
A fresh wave of bodies descended the stairs and filled in all the empty spaces. They groaned their disappointment as the song came to an end. A loud whistle blared from a policeman at the far end of the tunnel, and he began waving furiously for people to exit. Considering his position, he must have been inside the crowded tunnel listening along with everyone else and ignoring the safety hazard until the Scot had finished.
The singer in question waved and smiled as the mob shuffled away, leaving him and the other would-be entertainers to gather up their donations and instruments. With no instrument to worry about, the Scot picked up his hat and marveled at its contents.
Poised to step out of the alcove and confront her tormentor, Martine snapped her mouth closed when he turned to his accompanist and offered a handful of cash and coins. He then moved on to the next busker and donated generously to that one’s empty hat.
And so on, down the line, with Martine trailing quietly behind. When he came to the girl with the violin, he emptied the remainder of his tips into her still-open case, shook the father’s hand, and complimented the girl on her talent, though he couldn’t possibly have heard her from his end of the tunnel.
The young violinist must have realized the same thing, because she shook her head and gestured for him to take the money back. He retreated a step and shook his head, insisting in French and with hand gestures, that he had to pass by her to get to his post. “Certainment, je vous attendez!”
Certainly I heard you? Listened to you? Something like that.
Then he named the piece he claimed to have heard.
Blushing and smiling, the little girl offered him a curtsy.
Holding back, waiting for the Scot to go away so she could escape unnoticed, Martine felt her face mirroring the child’s expression and forced herself to stop. The guy found it easy to charm anyone within twenty feet of him. So what? It didn’t mean—
The policeman whistled again and politely asked everyone to hurry. They were closing early due to the weather. The buskers seemed happy enough with their windfall and headed for the stairway. The Scot paused, then turned back to scan the wall, to see if his generosity had missed anyone.
His expression changed the millisecond he recognized her. Gone was the charmer. Gone was the entertainer. Back, was the angry nut who had called Sacré-Cœur’s grounds a war grave.
Obviously, she brought out the best in him.
Chapter Eleven
“You!” Fisher lifted his arm and pointed at the lass, wishing as he did so that a foursome of gendarmes would come running and surround her, to put the fear of God and France’s army into her.
The woman appeared both guilty and repentant. He should be satisfied. He was not.
She glanced toward the inner stairs where the yellow jacket of one police officer was quickly disappearing. She even took a step in that direction, but Fisher took a mirroring step, letting her know he would not allow her to cause him trouble again. Her single step of retreat told him she’d received his message.
Sufficiently cowered. Again, he should be satisfied.
He’d hoped to see her once more, if only to prove she hadn’t gotten the better of him. That, too, should satisfy him. But strangely, he felt anything but.
She looked like a drowned rabbit in her dark wet coat and her damp hair with one side pushed against her head. He realized she had been the lass standing in the shadows when he’d sung The Parting Glass dirge. The one who had been moved to tears. And though he hadn’t seen her face, he should have recognized the coat at least. The rain made her hair appear darker than in the mid-afternoon light, but that coat? If the crowd hadn’t been so dense, he would have identified her as the woman at the basilica.
The wet rabbit growled. When her hands moved to cover her stomach, he understood the noise had not come from her mouth. The poor woman was hungry. It was something they had in common.
He held out a hand to her. “Come.”
She tilted her head to one side, clearly thinking him a fool for expecting her to come to heel simply because he commanded it. After all, she’d had reason to flee at least one man that day. Two if he counted the way she’d retreated down the cathedral steps. He really ought not give her another reason to be on the defensive.
He curled his fingers, bidding her come instead of demanding she do so. “If it please ye, let us have peace between us. Let us forgive each other. For pity’s sake, let us find some warmth and some food.”
Finally, she stepped closer, ignored his hand, but nodded at his empty hat. “It looks like dinner will have to be on me tonight.”
“Auch, aye. Though I suppose I could sin
g a wee something along the way…”
“No! Please, don’t draw any more crowds until I’ve eaten something. I might get a little grumpy.”
“Grumpy? Ye mean to say crabbit?”
Her brows smashed together. “Crabbit? Let’s stick with grumpy.”
He chuckled and allowed her to precede him up the steps that would take them back into the streets of Paris. At the top, he offered his hand again, turned on its side. “Paix?”
“What is that?”
“The French word meaning peace.”
“Oh. Okay.” She shook his hand. “Paix.”
“Fisher Rankine,” he said, then released her hand.
“What’s that?”
“That would be my name, lass.”
“Lass? Okay. But my name is Martine.”
Along the Rue de Presbourg, not far from the Champs-Élysées and the tunnel from which they’d emerged together, Fisher and the American lass found a restaurant named Sir Winston. It appeared to be a rather dear establishment, but Martine insisted she could afford to splurge, whatever splurge meant.
Something prevented him from sitting in his seat, however, and he remembered the triangular box he had tucked inside the pouch of tartan at his back. He tugged it out, then presented it with a flourish.
“Ye left this on the hillside this afternoon.”
The way her whole face lit with surprise and pleasure was thanks enough.
She smiled all the way to her eyes. “You, sir, just paid for your dinner and then some.”
After perusing the menu and translating for her, they both ordered omelet plates with mushrooms. For centuries, the wee buggers had been the only source of food growing on the battlefield, teasing him, rising one day and turning to mush the next. And by heaven, he was going to finally sink his teeth into some of them.
He did not explain this in so many words. Rather, he claimed to be craving them. But Martine’s reasoning was much simpler—she assumed eggs would be cooked and served much quicker than the rest of the menu. And to his delight, she requested that ice cream be served for dessert.
