The Last Time I Saw Paris - Lynn Sheene [19]
“Very good.” Madame pulled a key from under the counter. Her appearance remained spotless, her clothes still crisp and bun smoothly pinned. She flicked off the dim lamp. “You must remember, Madame Harris, elegance is in the details.”
“Yes, Madame. I’ll remember.” Claire was so tired, she was nearly wobbling, but this was a woman who knew of what she spoke. Claire picked up her cases and followed her to the door.
Madame waved Claire out and locked the shop behind them. Dropping the key in her small black purse, she gazed through the window at the flowers. “I can only offer you 150 francs a week. There is war coming, after all, and we must be practical.”
Claire stared at the florist, her mouth open. A job offer to be a flower girl? Her snort turned into a sigh as she looked down at her clothes. She couldn’t very well sweep into Parisian high society in this state.
“It is harder work than you may imagine,” Madame continued. “And I demand my employees work full days and they give complete attention to their tasks, whether creating grand arrangements for a ball at the Ritz or sweeping up the petals from the sidewalk.”
“The Paris Ritz?”
“Oui. And Le Meurice, Hôtel Emeraude, Hôtel de Crillon and the others. We are La Vie en Fleurs.” She extended a delicate finger toward the balcony over their heads. “The wage includes the use of the apartment upstairs. It is small, a sink but no real kitchen, and you must use the bathroom downstairs in the shop.”
Claire stared up at the cheeky little balcony in the dim moonlight; ivy and blossoms threaded through iron railings. Her body ached to tuck in there for the night, to close her eyes to the scent of flowers wafting in through an open window.
“It is not required you take the room. It is used for storage now.” The florist smoothed a stray hair back into her bun. “Fresh paint, scrubbing, and it could be quite agréable.”
Claire turned to examine Madame. The woman obviously knew a few things about taste and seemed more than willing to impart them. What would it hurt to play with flowers for a few weeks? Get her Parisian feet wet. Get inside the Ritz. It was perfect—in a sense. “But what happens if the Germans do make it to Paris?”
Madame Palain stiffened. “Will we have any less need for flowers? Any less need for beauty?” Her face and tone were icy. “I know what war does. I know its cost. But this is still Paris. This shop will survive. It always survives.”
The florist’s indignation startled Claire. “Madame Palain, I didn’t—”
“My assistant Natalie left when her father and brothers were called up from Lyon. Jon Pierre, my delivery boy, was called away to fight this week.” Madame pointed up at the sign. “You must understand, La Vie en Fleurs is one of the finest, most trusted flower shops in all of Paris. We have a duty to Paris, to France.” A breath was expelled from pursed lips and she shrugged. Madame had made her offer and wanted Claire to see it was all the same to her. “Eh bien, it’s late. I need to get home. If you’re not up to the task, then it would not benefit either of us.”
“I would be truly grateful if I could work here,” Claire said, surprised at the genuine enthusiasm in her voice.
“Bon.” The merest curve of a smile as Madame buttoned her coat.
Gazing through the window at the tidy little shop, at the stone floor, the worn plaster walls, the rows upon rows of tin buckets that held cheery blossoms, Claire realized she actually did want to be a part of this place. She listened to Madame’s shoes click away down the dark sidewalk. The steps paused.
“That will be your first task in the morning, after you help me prepare the shop to open. You must