The Last Time I Saw Paris - Lynn Sheene [17]
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.”
“Américaine, eh? Strange time to be out alone arranging my flowers, no?”
Claire blushed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend. I just . . .”
“There is no need to apologize. You have an eye, a touch for beauty.” The woman smiled gently, her large brown eyes taking in Claire’s bags and travel-worn clothing.
Claire looked down at herself, achingly aware of the dust and creases. This woman, in a simple white shirt and charcoalcolored skirt, midnight blue scarf draping from her slender neck, projected an unmistakable quiet chic. Claire felt more self-conscious than she had in years. She swatted futilely at a spot of road oil staining her skirt and attempted to stand a little straighter.
“But truly, on a day like this, one can do nothing better than enjoy a thing of beauty.” With a practiced eye, she pulled the freshest flower from the bucket and handed it to Claire. “C’est mon plaisir.”
“Thank you.” Claire cupped the rose to her face and breathed in deeply.
A teenage boy carrying an overloaded box stepped from the darkened grocer’s doorway across the street. His face was friendly, his smile open and simple, and a dark mop of hair framed his head. Though his arms flexed at the weight of the box, he carried it with ease. A loaf of bread and the neck of a wine bottle peeked out the open top. He offered Claire a shy “Bonjour” then whispered to the woman. She replied quietly.
The boy picked his way through the masses of plants over to the table set amongst flower pails. He plucked out a loaf of bread, a bottle of wine, a hunk of cheese and two ripe golden pears he set gently on a brown paper wrapper. Nodding shyly to both women, he mumbled, “Au revoir,” and hurried down the street.
The woman watched him go. “Georges. He is a good boy. He is a touch slow in his mind or his father would have already lost him to this catastrophe.” She nodded toward the table. “It is the time of evening when I take a petit dinner. You will join me?”
The florist hurried inside, rattled around behind the counter and returned with a pair of white porcelain plates, stemmed glasses, silverware and linen napkins on a worn silver tray. She placed a single white lily in a small silver vase in the center of the table. “C’est acceptable? I am Madame Palain. This is my establishment. Please. We will eat and speak of good things before I retire this evening.”
Claire clasped the florist’s hand. Her grip was warm and strong, but softer than Claire had imagined. “I am Claire Harris. Thank you. I would love to join you.”
Madame motioned Claire to a seat, then took her own. “Claire is a French name. Did you know? It means clear, like clarity.”
Claire gratefully sank into the proffered chair then