The Last Time I Saw Paris - Lynn Sheene [62]
Madame Palain was out today. Another day spent in line to get her Ausweis, her permit to travel south to Nice in the unoccupied zone. They had no business to speak of, but the florist wanted to ensure they could procure stock for the long winter ahead.
Claire went to the Hôtel Emeraude to see Leluc. She wore the thin pale blue dress she knew he liked, forced a gay tone. Surely such a distinguished hotel would need increased orders for the holidays. A deposit would be available now, perhaps?
“I will need to check.” Leluc hedged, his expression pinched, as he sat back in the chair behind his desk. He meant no.
Claire had learned there were many degrees of No in France. She played with the curl over her brow, settled a hip on his desk and twisted her body about to face him. “Ah, Monsieur, in times like these, a gift of beauty would mean so much.”
A sigh rose from his feet, then Leluc relented they might need something soon. He pulled a small pile of francs from his desk. “The gift of beauty.”
Claire judged the thickness as she slipped the money in her pocket, offering Leluc la bise good-bye. Enough to keep the shop going for a few more days but nothing more.
She squeezed the bills as she turned into the park at Trocadero, in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower across the Seine. She traced her way along the looping paths through the broad leafy trees. A beautiful fall day, she was in no hurry to face the empty shop.
She heard footsteps approach. She turned, hoping to be met by Grey’s steel-colored eyes and a bemused smile. An older man hurried by her. Thin white hair, hunched shoulders.
Claire sighed. She wasn’t angry at Grey. Not anymore. She thought back to the day they walked nearby and remembered the force of his gaze, the steadiness of his arm around her waist.
She wished for his company. He would let her be. What? Herself? Perhaps. Or someone close to it.
The papers said half of London was destroyed in the Luftwaffe bombing. She hoped it was propaganda. Then she dug out Madame’s hidden radio and listened to the BBC one night in bed. Thousands had died. But London stood strong.
For the moment, the Nazis had turned their attention away from air raids over England. Still, she didn’t doubt Grey had gone where his strength was needed most. No. She wasn’t angry.
An hour lost in mindless reverie, only her feet noticed the distance she traveled back to rue du Colisée. As Claire unlocked the shop door, she heard the phone ringing. She lunged for the phone.
“Allô?” Claire gasped.
“La Vie en Fleurs?” a low voice said.
“Yes.” Claire grabbed the notebook and pen under the register, tried to calm her breath.
“I would like to place an order for Christophe.”
A message then, not a paying order. Claire crumpled the paper in her hand.
“A white posy. Delivered to 17, rue Perrault. Take the Métro to the Louvre station.” The line went dead.
Claire dropped the phone in the cradle and examined the shop. The long, barren shelves, the stack of empty tin buckets. The few flowers they had were artfully arranged on a center table, but they might well die there and join their brothers in the rubbish. La Vie en Fleurs couldn’t go on this way.
She hadn’t been able to swing a deal with the Comte. She would just have to try a different route. Resolution squared Claire’s jaw. This dirt farmer’s daughter had survived worse times. And she’d learned a thing or two since then.
A vase of white sweet peas intertwined with a single shell-pink rose caught her eye. Not exactly a white posy, but . . .
Claire climbed aboard the Métro at the Saint-Philippe-du-Roule station. She settled back in the seat, resting the paperwrapped bouquet on her lap. A young woman in dirty brown trousers sat across the aisle. She looked about fifteen; her face still held the roundness of a child. Only unmarried women were allowed to work. Or widows. With so many men gone, Claire imagined the