The Last Time I Saw Paris - Lynn Sheene [84]
Claire turned to Marta. “How would you like to help me cook an omelet?”
Another week passed, supplies dwindled to crumbs. Claire woke hungry, an old memory in her mouth of the taste of fresh tomatoes still warm from the sun, the deep ache in her shoulders from picking vegetables all day in the blazing August heat. Her eyes flew open and she jerked upright. “A kitchen garden,” she whispered.
They were on a small farm, too far from town and too poor to shop for more than the essentials. A kitchen garden would have been a necessity. Her body felt what this time of year was on a farm. Harvest. That morning, Claire instigated the hunt.
A game for flagging spirits, the prize for finding the garden was a kiss or a spoon of sugar, the victor’s choice. Anna giggled and slid her fingers into Grey’s hand. A smile and he led her outside. Walker teamed up with Marta, leaned on her shoulder and hobbled out the door.
Claire scoured the barn for a shovel or trowel while the search continued outside. Climbing the ladder to the darkened hayloft, she felt her way across the room and swung open the heavy door overlooking the yard. Sunlight revealed the room empty except for a bundle of rusting tools and bits of straw pushed into the corners. Claire gathered a bent rake, two chipped shovels and a pick, then watched, from the doorway, the scene below.
Grey stood nearly motionless, his eyes studying the sky then the ground, while Anna kicked up dust next to him. Finally, they set off hand in hand, working their way through clumps of low brush alongside the road. Walker leaned on a fence post next to the orchard, wiping sweat from his eyes as Marta thrashed through the grass behind him.
“Here, here,” Anna cried.
Marta burst into a run and Walker stumbled along behind. Claire slid down the ladder and caught up with Walker. They found Grey on his knees between low brambles. His shirt clung to him in the heat as he dug into a tangle of vines and grass with his hands. An exhale and he leaned back. “Look, Anna, what is this?”
The little girl jumped to her feet, holding it aloft like a trophy, dancing from one foot to the other.
“A dried-up squash?” Marta couldn’t hide her disappointment.
“No, better. A marker,” Claire said. “Like a treasure map. Take a rake and poke through these bushes. There may be tomatoes, green beans, onions, garlic, or other vegetables hidden there.”
Grey nodded; he understood. “Plants that reseed themselves year after year. Smart. How did you know?”
“Lucky guess. Your prize?” Claire said.
“Sugar, sugar,” Anna yelled, jumping up and down.
“The lady chooses.” Grey bowed toward Anna with a benevolent smile.
Claire pointed them toward the tools in the barn and led Anna into the house. As they stepped inside she heard Walker say, “Sugar is sweet for Anna, Grey, but you are a goddamn fool. The sweets you want come with a kiss.”
That afternoon, a meal of fried squash and apples, and the garden still held much more. Marta and Anna sat at Walker’s feet, learning words for their journey: soda pop, square and jitterbug.
Claire made a plate for Grey, found him inside the barn, the upper half of his torso hidden inside the open hood of the truck.
“Food.” Claire laid a towel over a board, setting the plate on top.
A curse from deep inside the engine, and Grey reappeared, arms black up to his elbows. He jumped to the ground, wiped his hands on a rag, sniffed the air and grinned.
“A problem with the truck?”
“Not really. An oil leak, I think, but we must have reliable transport out of here, whether we make the drop or not.” He took a bite of squash, savored it and smiled. “Thank you. Are you a secret mechanic, as well?”
Claire shook her head.
“Neither am I. I admit to using a driver, before.”
“So did I. Well, my husband’s.” Claire circled the barn, peered into the dusty stalls that lined one wall and examined a tangle of dried leather and iron hanging from a rusted hook on the empty tack