The Last Time I Saw Paris (23 page)

His mouth twisted, his eyes closed. Another jerk, and he let out a satisfied breath and pulled his hand away. With a decorated sleeve, he wiped the sweat from his face. “I have many questions.” His mouth drew close, as if to kiss her.

Yanking away, Claire slammed her head into the wall behind her.

A small smile, the slightest regretful shake of his head, and he tucked her papers inside her shirt. “Later.” He promised, reaching for the door.

Loud voices, one hoarse, rose outside the door. Heydrich sighed and gripped her left arm. They heard a scuffle, the crack of bone on bone, and the voices faded. He pulled a key from his pocket and opened the door, pushed her ahead of him into the hall.

Claire stared at the banner as he locked the door behind them. About fifteen feet, she guessed, to the lower left corner of the banner and behind it a certain crevice. The four soldiers guarding the hallway faced the other direction.

The blood pounding in her ears, in one motion Claire swept her free hand past her captured elbow and jacket cuff, hooking the vial with her finger. She palmed the vial in her free hand. Heydrich dropped the keys in his pocket, pleasant smile returned to his face, and started toward the lobby with Claire at his side. Two steps before the banner ended, Claire tripped and fell hard against the wall, tangling Heydrich with her legs. He stumbled to the floor next to her.

She kept her palm closed on the vial to take the impact. Don’t break the glass in your hand, she ordered herself as the pain shot up through her knuckles. Blinking the tears out of her eyes, she stretched to the banner, slipped her hand underneath, felt a smooth crevice under her fingers and released the vial.

“Was zur Hölle!”
Heydrich lurched upright.

He slapped her with the back of his hand and shoved her past the soldiers into the lobby. Her legs wobbled as she stepped, free, out onto the sidewalk.

“Claire!” a voice called out from behind her. “Claire Harris Stone!”

The guards’ gazes flicked toward her. She forced her feet to move. One shaky step after another, she turned left from the doors and hurried down the sidewalk, darting inside a restaurant’s shadowed entry.

A man burst out of the Gestapo doorway. Feldgrau uniform, red swastika armband glinting in the sun. The officer that had passed her as she waited in line. Her body went cold. She knew who it was. The German she’d met in New York. The businessman. Alby. Albrecht von Richter.

“Claire,” he shouted again and started her direction. Two soldiers followed.

She hurried out of the restaurant doorway, head down staring at her watch, then scurried into the street. Behind her, she heard the squealing of tires, a crash and shouting. She glanced back as she slipped into an alley.

A delivery truck had swerved around von Richter and hit a streetlight. The driver held his cheek with one hand. Von Richter was pounding on the crumpled hood of his truck, the guards had their guns pulled.

Claire turned and ran. At the alley’s end, she nearly gagged from the smell of a pile of rotting trash in a boarded-up doorway. A quick glance behind her, and Claire slipped off her armband and red jacket. Holding her breath, she dug down into soggy, dirty papers, rotting food, a dead rat. She shoved the armband inside, then the jacket.

Claire joined the flow of pedestrians onto rue d’Anjou and clamped down on thoughts that threatened to spin into darkness. Von Richter was here and he’d recognized her.

Only one thing she knew for sure. Grey was the truck driver.

A
n 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, she lit a candle.

“A Sturmbannführer recognized you,” Grey said, his voice hard.

Heat churned up inside her. After all she had faced, she was to be examined by Grey?

“Claire,” he said, as if commanding a stubborn child and moved close.

Her calves smacked into the bed as she jerked away. “Go to hell,” she said, her voice shaking.

“How did he know you?”

Up close, Claire saw his cheek was swollen and red. A memento from the streetlight or the Nazis. A stab of guilt she brushed aside.

“He is a Sturmbannführer, for god’s sake. The SD on his armband is Sicherheitsdienst. Nazi intelligence. Who is he to you?”

“Your concern for my welfare is overwhelming,” Claire said, in spite of herself, her voice cracking.

Grey stopped and stared at her. His frown gave way to concern. His eyes scanned her face. “What happened in there?”

Claire felt the start of a sob, covered it with a laugh that came out too loud. What could be said? His bruised cheek was so close. What happened after she ran? She shook her head as if shaking off the question. “I completed my mission. What does it matter?”

He stared at her like he didn’t believe her. A breeze rattled the shutters against the window frame.

“His name is Albrecht von Richter,” Claire said.

“And he knows you?”

“From New York. From before. I hadn’t seen him since I left.”

“How well does he know you?”

Claire shrugged.

“He was very intent on finding you.”

“He was in a business deal with my husband.”

Grey stared, his eyes were nearly black, mouth set. He didn’t believe her, she could tell.

“Well. It’s true. And he couldn’t have been positive that it was me.”

“He was sure, Claire.”

“But my identification said Claire Badeau. I gave them an address in Montparnasse. Nothing tied me here.” She hated the note of pleading in her voice.

“He knew you. Personally. You weren’t just some grainy photo on an identification card. An SD Sturmbannführer can tear the city apart brick by brick to find you. Everything we’ve built could be destroyed.”

“I didn’t ask to go to goddamn Gestapo Grand Central.”

He sighed, shook his head. “You have to leave here, tonight.”

“No.”

He reached for her, then stopped. He pointed toward the window. “We are hiding people who will die unless they get out of France. Their escape line has been compromised. We are their only hope.”

Claire stared at her hands.

“Tomorrow morning, before daylight, I will drive a truck into the countryside. A simple farmer on his way home. But with a wounded American pilot and two civilians hidden inside the truck. In a few days, they will be transported out to freedom.”

“So?”

“A farmer needs a wife. And the civilians, well, they need a woman.”

“Need me for what, exactly?” She didn’t try to hide the frustration in her tone.

“They are girls, Claire. Young, too young. At the farm, I can’t—”

“I am needed here.”

“We need time to try to get a handle on von Richter to try to contain the damage. It doesn’t have to be forever if you leave tonight.”

She didn’t believe him. Sneaking away in the darkness always meant forever.

He looked around. “You may bring a small bag.”

“What about Madame Palain? I need to tell her good-bye.”

A quick headshake, no.

“A note, then,” Claire said.

His jaw twitched. “Nothing. In this, that is the kindest farewell that can be offered. I’ll be below, when you’re ready.”

She stared at the room through the flickering candle. Her window and Paris outside. The dresser Georges had found and carried up the stairs on his shoulders. The mirror Madame brought Claire from her own bedroom. The single rose posed on the silver tray,
un petit monument
to La Vie en Fleurs.

Claire packed three dresses, a thin slip, a toothbrush and panties. Flipping a drawer upside-down, she retrieved the jewelry roll and a wad of francs. The Cartier’s sharp edges pressed through the fabric into her skin as she gripped the silk roll.

If she took the necklace, it meant she wasn’t coming back. She strode to the window, swung open the shutters. A quick scan of the street to make sure it was clear and she leaned out over the ledge and jiggled free a loose stone cornice. She pushed the necklace then the money in the opening as far as her fingers could reach then slid the stone back into place.

In this shop she’d discovered a family in Madame’s gentle guidance, in Georges’ sweet friendship. She’d found her own worth, a gift with flowers more lasting than a pretty face and supple body. What she had created here mattered. More than her Oklahoma farmhouse or Manhattan brownstone, the shop was her home. She was damn well coming back.

Claire slipped the photo into her jacket pocket and plucked the rose from the vase. She met Grey at the bottom of the stairs and took one last look around. Flowers in tin buckets posed against the walls like vain ballerinas. Her eyes were hot, her chest hurt.

Grey took the case from her hand. “Claire,” he said, his voice gentle.

She looked up at his face. “Did it work? What I delivered at rue de Saussaies?”

“It did. Our man inside was able to pass it to the person in need.”