The Last Time I Saw Paris - Lynn Sheene [5]
A burst of heat burned away the pain in Clara’s heart. There had to be more to look forward to than dying. She needed more.
It had only been two long steps to the screen door. Three short miles to town and Mrs. Johnson’s boardinghouse, where that handsome Bible salesman was loading up to head back to New York City. Clara left town that night in the front seat of a Studebaker with Bernard’s hand on her knee.
The sting of the long-buried pain pulled Claire back to the present. She took a deep breath and fished inside her gown for the letter. Thick fingers had painstakingly printed Clara May Wagner, New York City.
Claire could recognize Willy’s heavy-handed print anywhere. She had worked on it with him, their heads bent close over a flickering candle the winter after he quit school to help Pa. She felt a familiar pang as she remembered the soft smile lighting his sweet eyes when she’d praised his careful lettering in front of Mama. But by the following winter, when he had time to practice again, he had given up the idea of learning.
She carefully smoothed the letter open against the vanity’s lacquered surface.
Dear Clara May,
I hope this letter finds you well in New York City. Bernard Morris is back in town today. He says you are rich now. He has seen you in the newspaper and will pass this letter to you.
Pa died last winter. The drought here got real bad. Worse every year. Finally, last summer we lost the farm. There wasn’t much left of it, anyway. We live in town now, next to Mr. Nelson. I drive a truck for Morris. Hank works in the slaughterhouse. We don’t need anything. I just wanted to let you know about things. I hope New York City is as pretty as you wanted.
Willy
Claire stared into the mirror’s reflection, the letter gripped in numb hands.
Gone. The past she had worked so hard to escape had disintegrated on its own. She couldn’t scrape together any sympathy for Pa. Any strained bond they might have shared died long ago with Mama. The farm—well, it was just a dirt hellhole that swallowed up lives. Maybe Willy and Hank could have a life now. She’d send money to help.
I hope New York City is as pretty as you wanted. Claire examined the room surrounding her. The glitter of the Venetian chandelier reflected off the white Italian marble floors and lacquered furniture. The best money could buy, a room of her own, designed for a woman of her standing. But also a crypt, a mausoleum filled with finery. As cold and empty as her insides.
Heavy footsteps lumbered down the hall. Claire listened, breath held. A high-pitched giggle, the steps continued, a door opened and closed. Air drained from her chest. Russell had once again found himself one of the serving girls they’d hired for the night. Good. A few hours reprieve, then.
Clara May Wagner. Still, with his connections, Russell would uncover everything tomorrow. The blue-blooded wife he’d married to claim a glimmer of respectability was a fraud. A destitute farmer’s daughter.
Bernard received just the tip of Russell’s anger. Claire had made a fool out of him for the past five years. He wouldn’t let her stay, not now. But his reputation was on the line. He couldn’t afford to drag her through the mud; he’d be exposed too.
He’d make her disappear.
She fought to breathe. The walls were cracking around her. Claire Harris Stone was exposed. Lost.
Her eyes focused on a black-and-white photo tucked in the corner of the mirror. A quiet garden scene, artfully captured, no larger than a snapshot. A gift from Laurent during their final afternoon together, months ago. Before her lover returned to Paris. Alone.
The beating of her heart sparked a warmth in her chest that spread