The Last Time I Saw Paris - Lynn Sheene [74]
An elderly man with silver hair scrutinized roses at Madame Palain’s side as Claire entered the shop. “They are a young couple, a small ceremony. This small thing I can give,” he said.
“Of course, Monsieur, I understand.” Madame’s eyes washed over Claire as Claire passed them without a word and hurried up the stairs to her room.
Shutting the door firmly behind her, Claire turned on the faucet over the washbasin and stripped down as it filled. Don’t think, she commanded herself. Her mind fastened on the cotton rag she dipped in the cool water, working a thin sliver of soap into a lather and methodically scrubbing her skin until it glowed red.
“Claire,” Madame said from the bottom of the stairs.
“Une minute.” Claire grabbed her towel, dried herself and slipped on a clean dress. She leaned out the doorway, found Madame waiting on the foot of the stairs. “Yes, Madame?”
The florist scanned Claire’s face, her expression worried. Her mouth opened to speak, clamped shut. A determined frown and she tried again. “Your friend?”
“It seems as though my friend is going to be better. Thank you, Madame.”
Madame nodded as if relieved, but kept her eyes on Claire. “I am going to close up early this afternoon. We have been paid with a chicken. I will make coq au vin. Would you care to join me?”
Claire clenched the doorjamb, felt tears form in the corners of her eyes. Madame worried for her. It was a grand offer of discreet compassion, of conversation with nothing said but much heard. Claire had to clear her throat before she spoke. “Thank you, Madame, but no. I have some reading to do.”
Madame watched her, nodded deliberately, as if that were a reasonable excuse. “Of course.” She disappeared from view.
Claire leaned back against the door and sucked in a ragged breath. The sun glinted in the window, illuminating dust motes. The oak parquet floor was golden in the light. Safe.
Steps creaked on the stairs. Claire straightened, the forced smile returned. Madame stopped in the doorway; she held a delicate crystal bud vase. In it, one exquisite pale blush rose. “For your reading, then,” she said, handing Claire the vase, a quick kiss on each cheek, before descending the stairs.
Claire centered the vase on a silver tray atop the dresser. This was the grace that Madame practiced. Claire still gazed at it when the front door thudded shut and the lock clicked into place.
A heavy silence filled the empty shop. The weight of it pressed the air from her lungs; her pulse began to race. Avoiding her reflection, she plucked the garden photo from the mirror’s edge and drifted toward the bed. The mattress creaked as she curled up into a ball on top of the covers, the way she slept as a child. Head resting on a pillow, she held the photo in front of her face.
She could smell the sweet fragrance of apple blossoms and lush grass. She could feel the tree’s rough bark under her fingers, the smooth cold marble of the statue, the goddess’ knowing stone eyes looking down at her. Time slowed then stopped.
Claire slept.
She awoke in darkness, heart thumping. She sat up, unsure of what woke her. A sharp tap on her half-open window and a small pebble rolled across the floor. Claire tiptoed to the window.
The stars were out, a sliver of a moon. A dark form looked up from the shadows in the doorway of Dupré’s store. Claire leaned back against the wall in the darkness. The Nazis would have busted in the door and pulled her out by her hair, she told herself. She peered out again. There was something familiar.
Claire hurried down the stairs. She felt her way across the dark shop and unlocked the front door. A moment later Grey slipped inside and clicked the door shut behind him.
“Away from the windows,” he said, motioning with his head.
Claire led him to the back of the shop, up the stairs to her room.
As he stepped in behind her, she became intimately aware of his body next to hers, so near her still-warm bed. She slid away from him, closing the shutters. The room fell into darkness. Fumbling with a match,