The Last Time I Saw Paris (26 page)

“Thoughtful,” Claire said.

“Provincial and prudish were her words,” Marta said, with a touch of humor. Her face darkened. “After the Nazis came to Paris, my father fled to Marseilles. This spring, he wrote Mother a letter. He arranged for Anna and me to go south to a country house with mother’s paintings. To be safe. But mother thought it was silly. She said she wouldn’t let her paintings be snuck out of the city like gypsies. We were Parisians now.”

Over the crest of a hill, a thick growth of delicate purple hyacinths blanketed a slope beneath a green canopy of beech trees. Claire chose a grassy spot beneath the branches, setting the basket at her feet. She leaned back against a thick trunk and patted the ground next to her.

Marta sat, her face scrunched up into a scowl. She plucked a flower and crushed the petals, one by one. “But I couldn’t go to school anymore. Anna and I stayed inside with Madame Russo, our servant. Mother said the Nazis wouldn’t dare bother her. She still painted for those who could pay, and many nights went out.”

The muscles in Claire’s back relaxed against the trunk, warmed from the walk in the sun. The soft breeze and touch of shade was pleasant on her skin, but she felt a chill with Marta’s listless tone. “What happened?”

“One morning, it wasn’t quite light yet, I was watching out the window, waiting, like I always did, for Mother to come home from a party. Police stopped her on the street in front of our house. I recognized one of them, his father was our
boulanger
. They made her open the door. I heard them downstairs.
Where are your children? Where is your husband, Jewess?
Madame Russo rushed in our room—her face was so pale. She grabbed Anna from her bed. We ran to the side door. There were two cases there, waiting. We snuck out into the courtyard. Mother screamed so loud at the men. So loud. Madame Russo made us climb over a fence into the alley and run.” Marta’s face was still, but large tears rolled down her face unheeded as she stared at passing clouds. “Father knew they would come. He had ordered Madame Russo to pack our bags and be ready. She hid us in a neighbor’s cellar. But father never came for us.”

“Your mother?” Claire asked.

“Madame Russo told me the police took all the Jews they could find in all of Paris. They hauled them away in our school buses. They were shipped away to Germany on a train.” Marta wadded the flower stem in her fist then dropped it into the grass. “I know my mother isn’t coming back.”

Claire rested her hand on Marta’s arm.

“No. I don’t miss Paris,” Marta said.

Marta sank silently into her arms. Claire’s heart ached. Months ago, Christophe had told her about the roundups. Perhaps she’d wanted to believe that he was just trying to draw her into his fight. Madame Palain and the shop had to come first. But thousands of people? Her fists clenched as she absorbed the girl’s agony, her betrayal by the world and her own anger at herself.

A breeze blew a lock of hair in Marta’s face. Claire brushed it from her eyes. At that simple kindness, the girl shuddered and released deep, wracking sobs. Legions of puffy clouds marched overhead as Claire rocked her in her arms.

Marta grew soft against her, sobs fading to breaths. She pulled her head away, swiping futilely at her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said, her cheeks red from tears and embarrassment.

Claire wiped the girl’s face with the hem of her dress and looked deep into her eyes. “I am your friend, Marta. Truth, no matter how sad, is meant to be shared among friends. I am grateful you chose to tell me. And please, call me Claire.”

Marta nodded, her eyes taking in Claire as if for the first time. Hand-in-hand, they meandered back toward the farm, picking hyacinths and white anemones until the bucket was full. Marta wore a crown of braided flowers in her hair and a fragile smile when they got back to the house.

Anna’s laughter sounded like a bird’s trill as she and Grey returned from the forest. Grey cradled a bag bulging with eggs. Anna’s hands and pockets were stuffed full of rocks and leaves. She held a leaf up before her.
“Fagus sylvatica,”
she pronounced.

Claire turned to Marta. “How would you like to help me cook an omelet?”

 

 

A
nother 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.”

 

 

T
hat 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 room door.

“Do you miss him?”

Claire laughed. “My driver, terribly. My husband, hell no.” She pulled the tangle off the wall. A plow harness, the leather cracked from age. She examined it. The thread had rotted and once-tight seams split open in her hands. “I don’t understand this place. This was good leather and well made. It would have been too valuable to leave behind, if they’d had a choice.”

Grey walked over next to Claire. “Who are you? Who are you really?”

She stared, swallowed by his gaze. “A bloody Yankee princess.”

“No. That is what you show, but underneath.” He shook his head, forehead wrinkled as if he didn’t understand. “I’d heard of the courage you showed in Paris. I saw it. But here, you’ve shown heart, grace.” He reached out and stroked the back of her hand. “Who are you?”

Claire felt herself falling into his eyes; she stepped back from the precipice. A deep breath, something ripped free inside her chest. “A plow horse, then, who dreamt of champagne and diamonds. And did what it took to have it.”

Grey tugged the harness from her hands, dropped it onto the packed dirt floor and reached for her. Claire met his hands with hers, softly pushed them away.

“I was born Clara May Wagner on a dried-up farm in Greenville, Oklahoma, population 317. My family were sharecroppers, worth less than our plow horse. Dirt poor. After my mama died, I got a chance to leave and I took it.”

“To New York?”

She nodded. “I taught myself how to dress and how to talk. To drink and lie, to make a man feel important. I became Claire Harris, with a pedigree I’d stolen from a dead woman in an obituary.”

“Your husband?”

“He didn’t know. We had an arrangement. He needed a blue-blooded wife to become respectable. I needed money. I had certain abilities he put to use.”

“Albrecht von Richter?” The anger was clear in Grey’s voice.

Claire shrugged. “Among others. The drinks flowed and I made certain businessmen feel very important.”

“He made you—”

“Not that. Hinted, but no, sex wasn’t part of the deal.” The thing inside burst free, left her throat aching but her mind crystal clear. No matter the cost, she needed Grey to see her as she really was. “I’m Clara May Wagner, runaway daughter of a dirt farmer.”

He caught one hand. With a callused thumb, he wiped at a smudge of dirt on her knuckles. His warmth sparked her skin. “You are so much more, you have no idea. There is a fire banked deep inside you. I’m sorry I was so wrong about you.”

His eyes were the color of slate and drilled deep inside her. Heat flooded her core; her lips sought his; her free hand slid behind his neck. He pressed her backward against the wall, cupping the back of her neck with one hand, his mouth tasting hers. He smelled of sun, oil and tobacco. She melted into the hardness of his body. The heat from his breath woke the skin on her face, then her neck as his lips tasted lower. His hand slid to her hip, then under the hem of her dress.

Anna’s laughter drifted from the house.

“Not here,” Claire said, her voice breathy.

“The hayloft.” Grey held out his hand, palm up, his expression serious. “Join me?”

A hundred responses flashed and died on her lips. The truth was this life was uncertain, darkness was always too close, and she could be sure of nothing.

Except for this.

She took his hand. His grip was tight. He followed her up the ladder.

Lines of sunlight illuminated the loft floor through warped boards overhead. They faced each other. He watched her pull her dress over her head and slither out of her panties. She slid her fingers over the muscles in his stomach and up to his chest then slowly freed each button until his shirt fell open. She peeled it from his shoulders.

Their breath was loud in the hot liquid air. He ran his fingers over her lips, over the curves of her breasts, his palms flat against her waist, her hips. He pressed her backward against the wall. She gripped his belt buckle and pulled, fumbled with his zipper, then was rewarded with a low moan.

Her hands rested on his shoulders. With the wall at her back, his hands lifting and guiding her hips, her legs opened.

His lips and tongue found the soft skin of her thighs. She shivered at the sensation and pulled him up to face her. His gaze was consuming as he traced her lips with a finger. With a glint of a smile, he pressed her against the wall. She shut her eyes, held him close, felt his breath on her neck, their sweat mingling, her fingers in his hair as she accepted him inside her. Their breath combined in a rhythm that took over all thought. An exquisite pressure mounted until she cried out. He responded, gripping her tighter, driving her against the slats. Pleasure exploded in waves that rippled through her body then his.

Afterward, they lay on the floor, his shirt, her dress stretched flat beneath them. More gentle now, he explored every inch of her with the tips of his fingers, then his lips. The cadence of their breath and their bodies became music, a world for them alone. They were drowsing, limbs intertwined, when they heard a burst of static from the radio inside the house, then strains of a song too faint to make out.

“I miss music,” Claire said drowsily to Grey’s neck.

He rolled over to face her, head propped up on an elbow. “Let me guess. Jazz?”

Claire smiled. “Billie, Ella, Louis.”

His eyes closed, with a finger he traced a line on her stomach, his voice a low whisper. “Just when you are near, when I hold you fast, then my dreams will whisper—”

Walker whooped inside the house. They both jumped, sat up, stared at each other a moment then leaped up to slip into their clothes and stumble down the ladder. They didn’t look at each other as they raced across the yard.