The Last Time I Saw Paris - Lynn Sheene [38]
The sharp pinch she felt in her chest reminded her it wasn’t the flowers in front of her that shrank her world to the size of this shop. A gentleman died in her arms. Shot to death because of what? A cane?
Claire wasn’t naive; she’d known desperate people in her life and more than her share of thugs. But the world was filling with an ugliness she had never seen before. She hadn’t gone beyond the block in two weeks. And now she was stuck in a little flower shop staring at plants.
A knock on the window. Georges’ smiling face peered in as he walked by, his arms full of bags. Even Georges was going to take in the Christmas sights of les Champs.
A flash of irritation, a broken stem, another curse and Claire threw down the half-full dried wreath. She had come too far to sit this one out, she told her conscience as she bounded up the stairs. Smoothing her hair, she painted her lips with a nub of lipstick and reached deep inside her closet.
Heavy softness enveloped her fingers. The sable. Claire had shoved it into the darkness the day she arrived. Too ostentatious for a flower shop girl, too close to her old life. As the winter progressed, she looked at it like money in the bank. A month ago, she’d even offered to sell it for food. Madame had gazed at Claire for a moment and patted the coat Claire held against her chest.
“Not yet,” Madame had said. “We are not there yet.”
Sinking her fingers into the fur, Claire stroked the collar against her cheek. Today, for a few hours, she could be the woman she came to Paris to be. She slipped on the fur and spun to face the mirror. Burying her rough hands in the deep pockets, she twisted from side to side. A hat would be preferred, better shoes, but at least the sable was damn decadent and completely covered her worn clothes. She smiled at the woman in the mirror. She’d missed being her.
Locking the shop door, Claire dropped the keys in her pocket and hurried down the narrow street. As she stepped into les Champs’ wide-open avenue, she felt the first touch of the sun’s warmth in months. She turned right, gazing down the wide, straight line to the Arc de Triomphe. On either side, rows of trees were slender bare fingers curled toward the sky. She moved into the meandering flow of people. The tightness evaporated out of her body as she strolled along.
A man in a dark suit waited in front of a luggage store. He watched her come and made a show of moving aside so she could pass. She swished her hips and glanced back at him from the corners of her eyes. Another block and the sight of a gown in a dress-shop window stopped her. Silver, shimmering silk, with thin straps. A jeweled orchid blossom in deep blue sapphires rested at the base of the low-cut décolleté.
Through the window, Claire could feel the touch of silk on her skin, the fabric warming against her breasts, the reassuring weight of the jewels. She sighed and smoothed her hair in the window’s reflection.
Drifting strains of what sounded like “Oh Come, All Ye Faithful” pulled her away from the window. In front of a building on the pointed corner of les Champs and avenue George V, the red awning over the terrace door read Fouquet’s. Where in the summer diners would have lingered in scattered tables, a five-piece orchestra played in white dinner jackets and black bow ties.
Claire pushed into the crowd gathered in front. A cello player, a violinist, and three guitarists. So Parisian, this could be any Christmas. A small smile formed at the edges of her mouth, shared by a tall, ageless woman to her right.
The song ended to applause and calls for more. The next song featured the violin and sounded a bit like “Silent Night.” A pause and the next song started, a mournful tune, led by one of the guitarists. He was dark and thin, leaned over his guitar like a lover. His eyes closed, his face was a shadowed mask.
No one sang or spoke. The crowd was