I
t was just a few blocks from the flower shop to Laurent’s apartment on rue d’Artois, but the cold and memories of Claire’s last trip down this street jarred her with each step. The blackout was in effect and the darkness of the city compounded her mood.
Claire arrived at Laurent’s doorway at the moment she determined she would turn around and go home. Better to face Madame’s chiding in the morning than walk in there again. Undoubtedly the sullen Englishman would be in attendance. It was clear in what regard he held Claire from their unfortunate meeting today. And she was confident she thought even less of him.
“Excusez-moi.”
Claire whipped around, bumping into the door. “Oh. It’s you.” She inspected Grey’s dark bundled shape.
The muscles tightened in his freshly shaved jaw. His steel eyes narrowed. “I didn’t expect you here.”
“Really?” Claire pulled the flaps of the thick coat collar away from her face and fluffed her hair. “Perhaps you aren’t in charge of the guest list.” She rapped on the carved wood with gloved knuckles.
Grey slipped past her and opened the door.
She threw a smile back at him as she entered past him into light and music. “I’m sure your parties are a real scream though.”
He slipped off his coat and held his hand out for hers. Claire shrugged her coat into his arms and inspected him as he turned away. His tailored suit revealed broad shoulders narrowing to a trim waist as he hung the coats in a concealed closet.
They walked side by side to the salon’s doorway then paused and looked at each other. She wasn’t about to enter the party with this bastard. He stood back from her, the hint of a smile on his lips. Apparently, neither was he.
“After you.” Grey tilted his head toward the doorway.
Claire peeled back her lips into her coldest smile.
“Merci.”
She entered.
The salon shimmered in candlelight. Men in tailored suits and women in soft dresses, the strains of forbidden jazz on the record player. A long marble-topped table reflected glints of flickering candles between the black-market bread, cheese and wine. Paintings in gold-leaf frames glowed like scattered embers in the light. Laurent’s photos, framed in black, leaned discreetly against the wall.
It amazed Claire to think this place had almost been home. For a while anyway. She could almost imagine what it would have been like if she’d stayed. If she had helped throw tonight’s fête. She felt a stab of sadness that she and Laurent weren’t a beautiful couple, ensconced in a beautiful life.
No one seemed to notice her. Claire found an empty space next to the fireplace. She extended her cold hands toward the flames as Grey headed to a couple across the room. He kissed the woman on the cheek and greeted the man with the first smile Claire had seen on him. In spite of herself, she noticed how the grin sparked Grey’s eyes and warmed his face in a way some might call handsome.
The man was short, stocky, with a burst of dark hair on the top of his head. He wore heavy trousers, faded tie, stiff collar and a sweater with the sleeves rolled up to reveal thick forearms. The woman was in her early forties, in a worn but impeccable brown tweed suit. After a moment of talk, the woman squeezed Grey’s hand, left the men and approached Claire.
Claire’s mouth dried up. What did Grey tell them about her? She took a deep breath and smoothed the wool over her hips. Poise, restraint, grace, she told herself. She pulled back her shoulders and arranged a smile as the woman faced her.
“Good evening, Madame Harris. I am Odette Berri. I am pleased to make your acquaintance.” The woman extended a firm hand. Her pleasantries didn’t extend to her face, kept politely neutral.
“Good evening, Madame Berri. Thank you.”
“My husband, Jacques.” She gestured toward the man speaking with Grey.
That was a surprise. Though Odette’s suit was a bit worn, her manner appeared too refined to be married to the man next to Grey. He looked like a farmer fidgeting in his Sunday best.
Odette distractedly fingered a loose curl of wiry salt-and-pepper hair and glanced back toward the men as if thinking about rejoining them. “How are you finding Paris?”
Claire raised an eyebrow at the rather wishful attempt at benign conversation.
The woman glanced away and tried to suppress a grin. “Never mind.” She met Claire’s gaze. “You find Paris cold, hungry and beaten. Same as every other cold, hungry person in the city.” Her eyes were an arresting green, with laugh wrinkles at the corners. “I hate inconsequential conversation.” She nodded toward the table, still unvisited. Her eyes lingered on a platter laden with slices of cream-colored paste layered on toasted bread. “I wish Laurent would join us so we may begin. I haven’t tasted foie gras or brioche in months.”
A genuine smile found its way onto Claire’s face. “I can’t believe he has all this.”
“It cost him.” Madame Berri shook her head with a sideways look.
Claire shrugged, the
what can you do in these times?
expression the Parisians fell back on more and more. Still, her mouth watered looking at the table. “Thank you for asking, Madame Berri. About Paris. I do love it.”
“Good.” A grin tugged at her lips. “You may call me Odette.”
“Thank you, Odette. Please call me Claire.”
Laurent walked into the room with a woman on his arm. Unlike the other women in the room, she made no concessions for the cold weather. Early thirties, in a thin silk dress, deep green with fluttering cap sleeves. Dark hair cut short and fingered into place. Long emeralds dangled from her ears. Her thin silver heels cracked across the parquet floor.
Claire raised an eyebrow toward Odette.
“Couture. New, I’m sure.” Odette’s nose wrinkled, as if she’d eaten something bad.
Not Claire’s style, but no denying the clothes were expensive. Nicer than could be found in stores these days. But the woman wasn’t much to look at. Tiny eyes and a hard little mouth that seemed to search for reasons to turn down. It appeared Laurent had found himself a moneyed woman. Not what Claire expected to find this evening, but, she decided, good for him.
“Is that his latest?” Claire watched as they circled the room, welcoming guests, making their way toward the pair by the fire.
Odette’s head swiveled toward Claire. “Oh . . . No. I wish. That—” Odette sighed. “That is his wife of many years.”
A flash of heat tore through Claire’s body. He had asked, almost pleaded, for her to leave her husband and move to Paris with him, and he was married? She willed her cheeks cool, her expression composed while thoughts screamed in her head.
Laurent smiled and said hello to Odette, then switched to English as he turned to Claire. “Claire. I am so glad you could make it. Was Madame Palain not able to join us?”
Claire smiled, anger adding warmth that wasn’t there. Poise. Restraint. “Thank you, Laurent, for your kind invitation. Madame was indisposed tonight.” And it’s damn lucky for her she’s not here. Claire offered her cheeks for Laurent’s
la bise
, quick pecks, right and left, right and left.
He put an arm around the woman’s shoulders and drew her forward. “I would like you to meet someone. This is my, eh, wife, Sylvie Olivier.”
Sylvie’s eyes flicked once down and up Claire’s form. Her skin pinched around her lips as if she bit into a lemon.
Poise. Restraint. “Madame Olivier, I am pleased to—” Claire said.
Sylvie turned to Laurent. In a voice that cut across the room, she said in French, “From what I’d heard, I expected her to be more attractive, Laurent.”
Claire felt Odette flinch next to her. An icy smile stretched across Claire’s face. She’s going to play it this way, eh? Claire responded in French, her tone loud and cheery. “That is so sweet of Laurent to speak of me. He never mentioned you at all.”
Silence exploded across the room like a mortar. Claire arranged her most innocent expression. She knew how to win this game. Rising in position in New York society was a blood sport.
Grey coughed into his drink.
Claire kept her smile as Sylvie’s eyes glittered and her pinched expression deepened. It was a standoff, and neither woman was going to back down.
Laurent retained his smile but his eyes twitched like a snared animal’s. His discomfort was a small salve to Claire’s pride. He will have to chew off more than his foot to escape this trap, she thought.
“This is a beautiful display you put together tonight,” said Odette. “Laurent, would you like to open the champagne?”
“Oh, yes. Of course.” He gestured welcome to the scattered guests in the room. “My good friends. Thank you all for joining us tonight. Please enjoy yourselves.”
He steered Sylvie away. She took her seat at the end of the table without another glance back.
Odette hung back with Claire. Her tone was light. “You must try the foie gras. This is from ducks raised in Gers. It is worth it.” A gentle squeeze on Claire’s arm held more meaning. There is more here than you know, it implied.
As the guests gathered around the table, Claire found and slid into her chair. The seating arrangement had taken some thought, though it seemed to be explicitly to her disadvantage. To her left was Jacques, Odette sat to his left. Grey was across from Claire, between him and Laurent at the head of the table sat Monsieur and Madame Bruel.
Sylvie’s cousin sat on Claire’s right. He was introduced as Bertrand or perhaps Burcet. In Paris on business, he was middle management in Sylvie’s family’s textiles factory in Lyons. Sylvie sat at the end of the table to his right. The family resemblance was noticeable. They shared the little eyes and tight mouth, though on him it was muffled in the vacuum of his personality.
To Grey’s left preened a young bird in burgundy organza. She was new to Laurent’s group, a friend of Sylvie’s. She leaned in to Sylvie’s ear and whispered something that made her hard eyes glint.
Claire fortified herself with a glass a wine and watched the bird, also referred to as Babette, attempt to charm Grey. As the first plate was passed by, Babette rubbed Grey’s shoulder with her bare arm. Puff pastries skittered dangerously toward the edge of the leaning plate. When he was forced to answer a question, Babette leaned into his face and cooed her agreement. With each attempt at seduction, Grey’s posture became more erect, his expression more stern. Claire wondered how long until he climbed up on the table in self-defense. At least Claire wasn’t the only one suffering.
Laurent presided at the head of the table. A side Claire had never seen, a stuffy aristocrat, too much self-conscious congratulation mixed with a host’s graciousness. It almost bothered her more than the sudden appearance of a wife. But not quite.
They spoke of the weather, some inane story of a cousin’s yacht in Nice running aground last summer while the captain charted a course across the cousin’s wife. The couple, the story went, refused to be rescued from the listing boat for hours.
“Good. A captain must go down
in
his ship,” Jacques pronounced, raising his glass.
Chatting wasn’t easy. Every detail of life since last summer was imprisoned in the cold depths of the Occupation.
The mystery of how Laurent managed the feast was solved at the first pause in conversation. Business had doubled at Sylvie’s family’s factory, the cousin announced at Sylvie’s nudging. The coldest winter in years, competition shut down. It was sad of course, but Grandpa’s company must persevere through these difficult days. Nods of agreement and the conversation stalled. Grey’s eyes darkened and he busied himself forming a forkful of puffed pastry and baked chicken.
After a moment of whispering between Babette and Sylvie, Babette turned to Claire. “You’re an American. What is it you do that you haven’t been shipped back to your own country?”
The attention of the table swiveled to Claire. She swallowed hard at the food lodged in her throat. Without the right papers, she wasn’t legally able to work. Wasn’t able to do anything, for that matter. Madame Palain turned a blind eye.
Vous travaillez au noir
, meaning she worked under the table. With a room full of strangers and Sylvie gunning for her across the baguettes, Claire couldn’t risk answering and putting herself or Madame Palain in the German’s sights.
Grey looked up from his plate for the first time seemingly in hours. “She is what they refer to as a socialite in the United States. Apparently, Madame Harris is known to be particularly talented at important social activities.”
Claire didn’t know what to say. She wasn’t sure where he was going with this. He very may well be insulting her.
“What does a socialite do, exactly?” Grey grinned now; he appeared to be enjoying needling her.
Claire rewarded him with an honest smile. “Oh, I usually throw extravagant parties, shop for diamonds and seduce”—Claire glanced at Laurent—“pitiful, dim-witted men. A bit tiresome, really.”
A low laugh rolled over the table. Madame Bruel began a story about an American movie she had seen like that,
Hôtel Grand
. The cousin poured Claire more wine. Dessert was served, a runny cheese confection spooned onto crystal plates.
They laughed, drank and ate. Soon a feeling near warm camaraderie blanketed the table. The cousin—was it Burcet or Bertrand?—laid his hand on Claire’s thigh when he yet again refilled her glass. Jacques and Odette excused themselves to get home to little Gerard.
“Grandma will have had her fill of him by now.” Odette extended a warm smile to Claire as they left.
Monsieur and Madame Bruel also begged their leave; he was a lawyer and had an early case. The remaining group drifted from the table, the women to the chairs by the fire, the men near the window. The cousin eyed Claire before he took his place with Laurent and Grey, a thin pout on his face.
Claire turned to examine the painting over the fireplace. It had been brilliantly executed, tiny brushstrokes depicting two poor farm children gleaning the last stray bits of the harvested field.
“Très enchanteur,”
Claire murmured as she wondered why the hell Laurent hung such a depressing scene over his mantel.