The Last Time I Saw Paris - Lynn Sheene [103]
The garden delivered her to Grey.
The garden slept around her, like an enchanted maiden from a fairy tale. Grey’s garden. His mind, his heart, was in every stone, every branch. Her voice, strong and clear, startled her in the night air. “I love him.”
The flush of warmth was replaced by a fierce stab in her heart. The first time she’d said it and understood what it meant. But Grey was gone.
Her body began to shake and she slid off the bench. She clawed at the grass with her hands, sinking her fingers deep into the dirt until she’d dug a hole. Pain cramping her chest, she nestled the box into the earth and covered it with dirt. Leaning against the bench, she watched the garden wake as the moon arced over the horizon and the stars faded to an indigo sky.
The house was quiet as she climbed the stairs to her simple room. She stared at the bed, still made, and wondered at the alertness she felt. She looked into the small mirror over the dresser. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes overly bright.
She found a slip of paper and a pen in the desk. I will do the right thing for Thomas. She signed it, La femme américaine.
Turning onto rue du Colisée later that morning, Claire’s eyes lit on the blue awning of the flower shop. In the distance, the windows were dark, as though they didn’t reflect the morning sun. Her pace quickened as she crossed the street.
The window panes were broken. The door hung off its hinges and leaned drunkenly against the frame. Claire gripped the knob, the metal felt cool in her hand. The blood pounded so loud in her ears she felt but couldn’t hear the glass crunch beneath her shoes. She nudged the door aside and entered.
The sun lit the front half of the shop; the back lay in shadows. Trampled flowers and dented tin buckets were strewn everywhere. Claire’s breath caught as she saw a dark shape on the floor behind the counter. She forced herself forward.
The shape she found was a heavy clay urn broken on its side, on top of a pile of broken roses. Relief made her lightheaded. Then she saw a large dark pool underneath the blossoms. Her gaze followed dark brown flecks splattered up the grey wall. About chest height, she saw them. Two small circles in the wall. She pushed herself off the floor, her fingers reached out and pressed into the broken plaster.
Bullet holes.
Claire pounded up the stairs and pushed through the broken bedroom door. Clothes and papers were scattered across the floor. The dresser facedown, the back cracked open. Mirror shards glinted crazily throughout the room.
Claire sagged against the wall, her eyes on Marta’s suitcase open upside down on the floor. A small pink sock with ruffled edge stretched from under the broken latch.
“Claire. Come with me now.” Dupré stood in the doorway. His expression grim, he jerked his head toward the stairs and disappeared.
Claire pushed off the wall and stumbled after him down the stairs. At the back door, he peered each way then slipped out. She followed, her mind numb.
At the end of the alley, he saw her expression and reached for her arm. “For God’s sake, Claire, be strong now.”
They walked into the street as a strolling couple. Claire concentrated on keeping on her feet, only vaguely aware of where they were going. Another alley and then a dark squat building backed up to a passage, the heavy door covered in locks.
Dupré fiddled with a massive key and, one by one, the locks snapped open. He motioned her inside and closed the door behind them. “My warehouse.”
The building was littered with crates, lit by a string of bulbs dangling from the low ceiling. Dupré slid through the space between a crate and the wall. On the other side, a small storeroom. Short empty crates were pulled up