A Summer in Paris (8 page)

On her way to her room, however, she met up with Madame Cartier. She was wearing a huge smile, as always.

“Ah, Jennifer, there you are,” the woman said in French. “I have some good news for you.”

I can only imagine, Jennifer thought. “What is it?”

“I have invited my granddaughter, Michèle, up to Paris for a while. She lives in Lyons, but she often comes to stay with Henri and me. She loves Paris so, and of course we always enjoy seeing each other.”

Terrific. Another Cartier to deal with. “When is she coming?”

“In a few days. And I am certain you will like her, Jennifer. She is seventeen years old, about the same age as you. And she is so much fun.” Earnestly Madame Cartier added, “I think she will help you have a better time while you are here in Paris.”

But I don’t
want
to have a good time in Paris, Jennifer was thinking. All I want to do is get this summer over with—and have as little to do with anything or anybody as possible.

And when she finally managed to get away from her talkative hostess, she went into her bedroom, closed her door, and began writing one of her daily reports to Danny, in which she repeated exactly that.

* * * *

What a different world the small town of Sainte Marie was from Paris. As Nina stepped off the train, she could hardly believe she had traveled only ten miles south of the bustling city. The sweet air, the sound of birds singing, and the quiet streets, practically deserted so early on a Saturday morning, were her first real reminder that there was more to France than the cosmopolitan city she had already begun to think of as home.

She was pleased that she was getting the opportunity to see a charming little town like Sainte Marie. But as she set off toward the center of town, she reminded herself that she was hardly here on a sight-seeing trip. Her research into the telephone books for the region south of Paris, the suggestion of the kind doctor at the clinic at Number 7 rue des Fleurs, had told her that there was only one Marcel du Lac. This morning, Nina intended to find him.

Slowly, the town was beginning to come to life. As she walked down the main street, the shops were just opening. The proprietor of a tiny flower shop was arranging bouquets of bright, colorful blossoms. Up ahead, the owner of the grocery store waved to her before turning the metal crank that opened up the red-and-white striped awning. Already she was getting a warm feeling from the people who lived here.

Yes, Sainte Marie was special, a picture postcard come to life. It was precisely the kind of place in which she would expect Marcel du Lac to be living.

“Pardon, Monsieur,”
Nina said, approaching the grocer. He was a heavyset man in an apron. He had gotten the awning in place, and now he was patiently unpacking a huge basket of peaches and arranging them on a wooden counter underneath the awning.

She showed him the address she had carefully printed on a piece of paper, wanting to make certain she did not make any mistakes. The man nodded, pointing and letting forth with a spew of sentences. He spoke so quickly that Nina didn’t catch everything he said. But she understood enough.

What an adventure this is turning out to be, she thought. On an impulse, she stopped and bought a small bouquet of flowers. Clutching it tightly in her hand, she continued on, still relishing the feeling of the early morning sun on her back, the sweet sound of the birds chirping, the peaceful sight of this small French town getting ready for the new day.

When she found herself standing in front of the house whose address matched the listing she had found in the telephone book, Nina was certain this had to be the right place. The house was small but carefully kept. It was white with pale blue shutters that looked as if they had just been painted. As she peeked around the corner, Nina saw that in the back there was an exquisite garden, a lush growth of vibrant flowers in every color of the rainbow.

And in the front, there were no fewer than six rosebushes. And every one of them was bursting with bright yellow blossoms.

Nina laughed. This simply had to be the right place.

Suddenly her smile faded. What if Marcel du Lac wasn’t here? She hadn’t even considered that possibility up until now. She had been so determined to find him, so excited over finally having the chance to talk to him, that she had never even entertained the idea that he might not be in. He could have gone away for the summer, he could have moved to a new house ... there were a hundred different possibilities.

Suddenly she could wait no more. Nina opened the gate and strode through the tiny front garden, crossing in just a few short steps. Her heart was pounding as she knocked loudly on the wooden door.

“Please,
please
be home,” she muttered. “And
please
be the right Marcel du Lac!”

The moment the old man opened the door, Nina knew she had found him. His eyes perfectly matched the description her grandmother had given in her letters. They were warm and lively ... and the color of the sky on a cloudless June morning.

“Monsieur du Lac?” Nina asked breathlessly.

“Oui,”
the man said, nodding his head and looking a bit confused.

“Marcel du Lac?”

“Oui, c’est moi.”
Yes, that’s me.

Nina took a deep breath, then spoke in slow, careful French to make sure he would understand.

“Monsieur,” she said, “my name is Nina Shaw. I am the granddaughter of Anna Wentworth.”

* * * *

“When I heard you say her name,” Marcel du Lac said in a voice hoarse with emotion, “that was the first time I have heard anyone speak of her in almost fifty years. I thought my heart would stop beating.”

Nina and Marcel were in the small living room, sitting next to the front window that looked out on the rosebushes. The shutters were open, and as a breeze wafted in, it caused the yellowing lace tablecloth thrown over a rickety table to flutter. On it was the tea Marcel had made, served in delicate china cups. He had also brought out a loaf of dark brown bread and a small piece of cheese. But so far, neither of them had touched the food.

“And Anna, you say, has been gone now for ... for how many years?”

“Almost four,” Nina replied. “I miss her terribly.”

Marcel leaned forward in his old wooden chair, his blue eyes narrowing as he peered at Nina. “Ah, yes. I can see it. I can see Anna in your face. The same nose, the same eyes ... but mostly I see that same smile. Yes, you are very pretty.”

“Am I as pretty as my grandmother?” Nina asked teasingly, unable to resist.

The old man thought only for a fraction of a second before answering. “Ah, I am afraid that no one could ever be as pretty as your grandmother.”

He stood up and made his way across the room, stopping at the chest of drawers that was pushed into one corner. The top was covered with old photographs, most of them black-and-white. He opened the top drawer, reached underneath the assortment of things stashed inside, and pulled out one more photograph.

“Here she is,” he said, his voice almost reverent. “I have saved this for all these years.”

He brought the photograph over to Nina and presented it to her like a fine gift. Then he stood back, his eyes still on the picture. It was a photograph of her grandmother—not as Nina remembered her, but as a beautiful young woman, probably not much older than Nina was now. Her eyes were shining, and a flirtatious smile played about her lips. In her slender hands she was holding a bouquet of roses, blossoms so full they looked ready to burst with life.

It wasn’t hard to tell from the expression on the young woman’s face that she had very strong feelings about whoever was taking that photograph.

“I took that picture in Paris,” Marcel said, answering her question before Nina had a chance to ask it. His voice was filled with excitement. “It was just after we met.” He paused, then asked, “Do you know the story of how we met?”

“I do know it,” Nina returned with a shy smile, “But I would like very much to hear you tell it.”

“Ah, it was so very long ago. I was a student in Paris, studying law. I was a lawyer for many years, you know. I practiced in Paris.

“I still remember that day as if it were only last week. I was hurrying off to class. I was late, as usual. I was running down the Boulevard St. Germaine, on the Left Bank, near the Sorbonne. I was trying to get to class on time, really I was. But all of a sudden I noticed a beautiful young woman, carrying a big art portfolio, standing on the corner. There was a flower shop there, and she had stopped to lean over and sniff a bouquet of yellow roses that was outside the shop.

“When I saw her, I stopped. It was as if I had been struck by lightning. I knew I had to meet that girl, and suddenly nothing else mattered. Certainly not getting to class on time!”

Marcel du Lac laughed. For a moment, all the stress, all the signs of age, left his face. For that fleeting second, Nina was able to see him as he had looked fifty years earlier—as he had looked when he was a young man, about to fall in love with her grandmother.

“I went over to her, bold as could be, and said, ‘Ah, Mademoiselle. Do you like flowers?’ “

He laughed, then shrugged his shoulders. “And that was how it began. After a meeting like that, how could Anna help but fall in love with a charmer like me?”

His cheeks turned pink as he asked, “Did she ever tell you that she and I were very much in love?”

Nina nodded. “Yes. She told me everything. Or, to be more exact, the letters told me everything.”

“The letters?” Marcel looked confused.

She reached into her purse and pulled out the stack of letters she had found in her grandmother’s trunk, more than twenty of them, lovingly tied together with a piece of faded, fraying pink satin ribbon.

“Do you remember these?” she asked gently, holding the stack of paper out toward him.

Marcel remained silent but his eyes filled with tears.

“Oh, my,” he finally said. “My letters. She saved them.”

“Yes. Your letters to her, and letters from friends she had written to about you and the feelings the two of you had for each other. She kept them in a special place where no one would ever find them. And she held on to them her whole life.” Nina took a deep breath. “I felt greatly honored that when she died, she left me an entire trunk filled with her most personal and beloved things. There were wonderful old clothes inside, hats with feathers and beautiful dresses and some jewelry I know Grandmother had loved ... and at the very bottom, tucked away where they would not be easily noticed, I found these.”

Marcel sat down and took the stack of letters that Nina was still holding out to him. Lovingly he untied the ribbon, keeping his eyes away from Nina. He took out the first letter, opened it up, and read it. Nina could see the emotion that registered in his face.

“Ah. You have read these?”

“Yes. Every one.”

“And so you know the whole story.”

“I know what happened in Paris fifty years ago,” Nina said gently. “As for the ‘whole story ...’ Well, that is why I wanted so much to come speak to you. I wanted to tell you what happened. I wanted to tell you my grandmother’s side of the story, something you haven’t known up until now.”

The man sat back in his chair. “I am ready to listen.”

Nina took a deep breath. “Monsieur, the reason I know so much about this is that in addition to the letters, my grandmother also left me her diaries. One of them was the journal she kept the year she spent in Paris—and the months that followed, when she came back home to the United States.”

“Go on.”

“I know how it looked. The two of you were so much in love, and then, one day, she just left without any explanation. She never even said good-bye. You wrote to her for months, but you never got any reply. Finally, you just gave up.”

“Yes,” Marcel said softly. “That is what happened.”

“My grandmother knew that you thought she left because she didn’t love you enough to stay. Or perhaps that you decided she hadn’t loved you at all, that she was merely toying with you while she was in Paris.”

Marcel nodded slightly. “That did occur to me,” he said sadly. “But I never believed it. Not really.”

“Monsieur, let me explain. My grandmother had very strict parents. And in those days, young women always did what was expected of them. Yes, she was allowed to come to Paris for a year to study art and polish her French and learn a little bit about life. That, in those days, was acceptable. What was
not
acceptable was for a nineteen-year-old woman to break away and do what she wanted instead of what her parents had decided was best for her.”

“And what did Anna’s parents think was best for her?”

“To come back home and marry a successful and respectable man who would make her a good husband. Someone who would provide her with security and take care of her her whole life.”

“I understand,” Marcel said. He spoke so softly that Nina could hardly hear him. “And is that how Anna’s life turned out?”

“Well, according to her diaries—and according to the things I remember her saying even when I was a small child—the man she married did provide her with security. That man—my grandfather—was a good, solid, loving husband. He was always kind to her and she, in turn, made him a good wife.”

“Ah. So it was for the best.” Marcel sounded very sad.

Nina bit her lip, trying to regain her composure before speaking.

“Monsieur,” she said in a strained voice, “I think it is important that you know that every spring, my grandmother spent hours caring for her garden, a garden filled entirely with yellow roses. And that every summer, she spent her evenings sitting among them, just thinking. Her eyes would take on this dreamy, faraway expression, even when she was very old. All of us knew not to disturb Grandmother when she was sitting among her roses. It was simply understood.”

The look that crossed his face made Nina fear that he was going to start to cry. Instead, Monsieur du Lac stood up.

“You must excuse me,” he said, stumbling toward the bedroom. “I must ... I must... excuse me.”

Nina was afraid that she, too, would start crying as she watched the old man stumble across the room, hunched over from both age and emotion. She understood that he wanted to be alone. And so she stayed in her chair, only too happy to give him a few moments to himself.