The Last Time I Saw Paris - Lynn Sheene [35]
Madame smoothed a loose fleck of gold leaf with a fingernail as she spoke. “A party at the Ritz will be sophisticated, extravagant, no doubt. But La Vie en Fleurs brings a spirit of cultivated beauty—romance—to the night. That can’t be bought. Only earned.”
A loud rapping against the shop window made the florist pause.
“You seek artistry, Claire. But discipline must come first.” Madame turned and left the back room.
The front door’s bolt clicked. “Bonjour, is Madame Harris here?” asked a woman’s warm voice.
Claire stepped around the corner, dusting bits of dried flecks of leaf from her dress. “Odette? What a surprise.”
“Bonjour, Claire. I apologize for coming unannounced. Care to take a walk?”
Outside, trees shivered against a pewter sky. An icy wind gusted from the north in staccato coughs that pricked the skin. The women walked in silence. Claire inspected the passing buildings as they walked down rue Rembrandt toward parc Monceau.
Odette’s mouth was pinched, her forehead creased. She spoke slowly. “I have known Laurent for seven years. Thomas introduced him to us.”
It took Claire a moment to remember Grey’s given name. She nodded.
“My husband works at L’Express. He is the foreman for the printing machines. We are simple, Jacques and I. Our social circles, we would never have crossed paths with Laurent, except for Thomas. Perhaps it is because he is English or because he is that kind of man.”
Claire thought about the possibility of a man like Jacques at one of her Manhattan parties. He never would have been let in the door. “I see.”
“I understand Laurent. He and I both had the same past. A few generations back, we were important. Some of us marry for love and accept who we are now. Others marry money, trying to get back to the place where we were raised to believe we belonged.”
“I would say you made the better choice,” Claire said, with a smile.
“C’est vrai.” Odette laughed. “Jacques can be a beast, and sometimes I think he would be better living in a barn. But he’s good to me.” She considered her words before continuing. “Sylvie is mean-spirited. It was bad enough Laurent was forced to bring her last night. He never should have invited you.”
Claire shrugged. There were many things about that night she would prefer not to dwell on.
Ahead rue Rembrandt spilled into a small side entry of parc Monceau. Claire’s eyes were drawn to the stately apartment buildings surrounding the park. In the dead of winter, the dark and shuttered windows looked down on the women through jagged branches of giant desolate oak trees. She shivered as much from unease as from cold.
Odette glanced back at Claire as she headed for the open gate of the iron-spired fence. “It will feel less exposed inside.”
True enough. Once inside the park, Claire felt the calm dignity seep into her raw nerves. Hands bunched in pockets, they strolled along a side path tracing the park’s perimeter. On their right, the buildings were a fanciful backdrop. Barren trees lined the paths they crisscrossed. Even dressed in a snowy winter grey, the park’s architectural lines of trees and stone defined beauty. To Claire, parc Monceau was a stately woman, her well-bred bones showing through the ravages of the season.
Claire had come once before with Madame Palain, not long after the Occupation began. They walked beneath green spreading trees, past the grand rotunda, over a delicate bridge that arched over a finger of pond. Children chased each other along the water’s edge, throwing bits of stale bread to the ducks. The mothers cajoled and ordered, Martine, slow down; Jon Pierre, don’t push your sister, but the words rang hollow and halfhearted. Claire understood they were going through the motions. They were there because they were Parisians and, damn it, it was their park.
There was just one little boy at the bridge today. He skipped stones across the pond’s half-iced surface. No bread, no matter how stale, could be wasted on birds. A nervous mother hovered behind them.
Odette turned onto a path beneath towering oaks. “Sylvie and Laurent