It was easier to dawdle in the lobby. The flowers needed to be placed perfectly, one on the front desk, the other over the mantel in the seating area. Then there was flirting with the concierge, Brun. Shaped like a loaf of bread, thin hair parted on the side and swiped across a wide forehead. He wasn’t so much to look at, but each man who passed called him by name.
Leaning over the desk, her face inches from his; she toyed with the chalice, rubbing a nonexistent smudge. “Who is Comte de Vogüé?”
A scowl flashed across Brun’s face. “Important.” He paused, staring down at the desk and squaring a stack of papers as if he stopped himself from saying more.
“What do you mean?” Claire said, covering the irritation with honey.
A long car rolled up to the Place Vendôme entrance. Bellmen on each side opened the lobby doors wide. Three couples strolled in, one after another.
“The guests. I must go.” Brun scurried around the desk.
Claire swung to face them. She thought of her report.
Flirted with Comte de Vogüé, an important, perhaps dangerous and strangely charming man.
She pictured Odette bent over the note, a room of agents waiting with baited breath. She laughed to herself.
A Nazi officer came first, built like a Panzer tank with a wide neck bulging over the top of his uniform. A woman in a heavy mink was pinned to his side.
It was Sylvie. Claire froze. The officer’s roving gaze flicked over Claire. She slid around the desk, bending down behind the flowers as his eyes followed her. He lit a cigarette as Sylvie spoke into his ear and adjusted her mink. They walked by; he glanced over at Claire. She turned her head, pretending to read the papers on the desk.
“Gerolf, I want to go in,” Sylvie whined, her voice like a razor scraping over tender flesh.
The warmth Claire felt now coalesced into a cold lump in her stomach.
That
was who the party was for. Not for aristocrats and their stylish mistresses. Not self-made socialites on the run from the States. All this cultured beauty was for Nazi officers and collaborators. People like Sylvie.
It was past time to go. Claire ducked her head as she walked from the lobby. Running her hand down the molding of the long hallway as she walked, her eyes grazed the marble floor under her feet. You will see better days, she promised. She wasn’t sure if she was talking to the Ritz or Paris or herself.
Claire stepped out the double doors onto rue Cambon and welcomed the bite of the cold night air. Bison was long gone. Wrapping her coat tight around her, she scurried down the dark, empty sidewalk, plotting her course east then south, toward the shop.
The Ritz exuded the glamour Claire sought when she boarded the Yankee Clipper. Her timing was plain bad luck. But, damn, tonight she ached for this fallen city.
She shook her head to stop the thoughts. Her feet picked up speed as she cut onto the avenue that ran east, just out of sight of the Seine. Life was hard enough without worrying about the other guy. Without thinking about the big picture. She knew better.
S
he wrote and rewrote her report the next morning. In the end, the note was short and sweet. Sylvie and the officer, the Comte, the guards stationed by the door. Signed Evelyn. She addressed the envelope for Danielle and dropped it in the dentist’s box on her way to the Ritz. After she helped Bison reload the truck, she celebrated a day of rare sunshine with a stroll along the river.
The Seine was unlike any other river Claire had ever seen. Like every bit of nature she’d seen in Paris, it had been so molded by human hands it became a civilized thing, more formal than any structure, a living monument to the elemental. With her coat bundled tight against the cold, Claire skirted patches of snow along the brick quai and gazed up at the Eiffel Tower, looming over the boats that chugged down the Seine.
Her day stretched before her like a promise. As long as she could keep warm, she would work upstream along the quai, passing the tower then the Grand and Petit Palais. At Place de la Concorde, she would leave the river and cut through jardin des Tuileries. She was contemplating the splurge of a hot drink along the way when a man stepped out from the shadows of the pont d’léna and caught her stride.
“Grey.” Claire said it like an unpleasant but unavoidable fact.
“Claire.” His gaze rested on her a moment before he turned to scan the riverbank.
“Where’s Laurent?” Claire said.
“I am your contact. Not him.”
“That’s a shame.”
Grey closed his mouth on a reply.
They both were quiet as they looked up at the line of soldiers in front of the Eiffel Tower, their gazes on the banner draped across the tower’s façade,
Deutschland Siegt an Allen Fronten
. Germany victorious on all fronts. They walked steadily until they passed the tower and the last guards.
Claire looked up to find Grey staring at her, forehead wrinkled in thought.
“What? Don’t tell me a woman shouldn’t be walking alone with all these soldiers about.” She’d already heard that exact warning from Madame twice this morning.
A grin tugged at his lips. “I wouldn’t dream of telling you not to do anything.”
“Really?”
“You are too obstinate. You would do it just to be difficult.” His slate eyes flashed.
Claire laughed outright, delighting in the smile that lit his rugged face. Surprisingly handsome, she decided, in a firm British way.
His smile faded. “I miss this.” With the tilt of his head, he motioned to the city around him. “I miss walks through Paris.”
Grey was a romantic? Impossible. Her face must have shown her wonder.
“Bloody hell. Why do you look so surprised? That is what Paris is for.
Flânerie.
”
“What does that mean?”
“
Flâner.
To amble. To enjoy. The pleasure in noticing all the details one wouldn’t see scurrying about.”
“My God, how French.” Claire smiled like a child.
“Nous flânons.”
She rolled it around her tongue. His eyes met hers. Struck by the depth of his gaze before he looked away, she was glad for the air cooling the flush on her cheeks.
They lapsed into a comfortable silence, both taking pleasure in the rare sun, the river, the stonework, the quiet company. They strolled past the pont des Invalides and stared over the rows of treetops to the arching ironwork and glass of the Grand Palais.
Shrill whistles turned their attention to the pont Alexandre III, ahead. German soldiers had a man pinned against the bridge’s railing over the center of the Seine. The man jerked free and flipped over the side, his arms flailing as he fell. A splash as he landed and thrashed feebly.
Soldiers charged off the bridge toward them as the man drifted past Claire’s feet. Grey pulled her from the river’s edge and pressed her backward against the far brick quai wall. He embraced her, his face tilted forward against hers in the appearance of a kiss, his back against the water. Her heart hammered, her hands gripped his broad shoulders.
“Don’t watch them. Look at me now, Claire.”
She fell into his fierce gaze. His dark eyes swallowed her, flecks of blue swam in the slate depths. Soldiers thundered by, jackboots ringing on the bricks. From the edge of her vision, she watched one man pause and finger his pistol as he examined Grey’s back. A shout near the river, and he turned and jogged away.
The soldiers gestured and cursed at the man struggling in the current’s center. Shots rang out. Splashes erupted around him. He jerked and was still.
“He’s dead,” Claire breathed. The suddenness of it stunned her.
Grey slipped his arm around her waist. “Come on.” He hurried them back the direction they had come.
She sank into his side, sick from what she’d seen, grateful for the strength that kept her upright. Out of sight of the bridge, he sat her on a bench facing the river.
He slid next to her and leaned close. “You alright?”
Claire glanced down and realized she was clenching his hand. She let go and gave him a small smile. “I’m fine.”
He stared at the water. “Tell me about the Comte de Vogüé. Describe him.”
“I don’t know much. I honestly don’t. Late thirties, dark hair, impeccably dressed.” She paused. She wasn’t going to say charming. Not now. “Who is he, Grey?”
“I don’t know. Not yet. But he is important, you were right about that.”
“And dangerous?”
“Likely.”
“You didn’t ask me about Sylvie. Or the Nazi she was with.” Claire’s mind was working, desperate to move past the shots, past Grey’s eyes. “You are using her.”
“She doesn’t know what Laurent does, what we do, against the Occupation. Her Nazi Kapitän requisitions SS equipment and supplies. She boasts more than she should to Laurent.”
“Pillow talk?” Claire said.
The barest of a grim smile. “She has no idea what a patriot she really is.”
Claire shivered. There was no
flâner
in Paris, not these days. She looked back at the Seine. It churned slowly along as it had for centuries. “I need to get back to the shop.”
B
ison was wrong—nothing returned to normal. Although winter gave way to spring, which stretched into summer, there were no parties dripping with flowers, no large deliveries to be made. Just a little trip to Hôtel George V or Hôtel Emeraude or another nearby place to drop off a bouquet in the lobby, maybe flirt a bit. The goal was to keep going, to keep La Vie en Fleurs alive.
For Claire, even under the Occupation, Paris was like a university that summer. There were bouquets of zinnias, nasturtiums, marigolds, poppies, sweet peas and roses to create. Oh, the roses. Clusters of all colors, shapes and petals, but her favorite were the curvaceous shell-pink “Pierre de Ronsard” roses. She bundled them in a silver vase on her dresser, next to the photo of the garden.
From Odette, Claire learned the Nazis had one hell of a dress code. Each group had different caps. The collar patch signified rank and branch, whether Waffen-SS, Kriegsmarine or Luftwaffe. Shoulder straps showed rank, sometimes the unit and specialist. Then there were chevrons, badges, arm shields. The Waffen-SS, Luftwaffe, Heer and Kriegsmarine had different styles of eagles. Even the cuffs had to be examined; the smallest insignia could reveal the presence of an elite unit or special command.
Claire dutifully reported the uniforms she saw at each hotel in notes dropped at the dentist. More and more, her reports were interesting enough for Grey to meet her on her walks about the city. A few questions about her report, who she saw, if they were coming or going or staying put. How he knew where to find her, she never understood.
Still, as the days of summer stretched languidly, Claire found herself wearing her best dress, arranging her hat just so and listening for his footsteps behind her. A curt nod when he stepped in stride at her side, a short word about the day or the location, but his slate eyes glinted warmly.
They spoke of flowers and parks as they walked, shoulders touching, along the Champs-Elysées, traced their way through tombs at Cimetière de Montmartre, and meandered through the fountains and greenery of the jardin des Tuileries. They did their best to stay away from the roving patrols of feldgrau and the units of goose-stepping young fascists of the
Garde Français
. They did what the rest of the Parisians did: felt the sun’s warmth on their skin, shared a lingering glance, savored another’s soft touch through thin summer fabric. And tried to remember how it felt to be alive.
Chapter 6
THE WARNING
52, rue du Colisée, Paris. August 16, 1941.
C
laire fell asleep with Madame’s art book again. A painting of Venus, the goddess sat half-naked on a low seat in front of a temple, primped by the Graces for Adonis’ seduction. Two Graces styled her hair; a third brought a net sewn with pearls. A cherub held her mirror while another fastened her sandal.
She dreamed the painting in flowers. The Fantin-Latour rose, with its soft blush pink petals, portrayed Venus herself. Trailing green Queue-de-Renard amaranthus were her robes. A gossamer web of pearls draped over the entire arrangement, displayed against a blue wall. The flowers replaced the Parisian artwork carted off to Berlin or hidden in dark corners. She woke smiling.
At Madame Palain’s instruction, Claire pushed pails of asters and dahlias, all that remained, into one corner of the back room. On hands and knees, first a bucket of sudsy water and a brush, then rubbing with a soft cloth, Claire spent the morning polishing the stone floor. The floor shined. And Claire ached. Yesterday it was the walls. Tomorrow, she imagined Madame would want the countertops polished. By next week, if things didn’t change, she would be out on the street cobbles with a toothbrush in hand.
Business had dried up. No celebrations for the parents, no little posies to lighten up a room. As the summer heat drained into fall, all the customers remaining were the occasional German soldier buying for his Parisian girl. Madame did not approve and charged them outrageously. What did they care? They printed up more Occupation money.
Claire was lining up the flower tins against the wall when the phone rang. She ran to the counter, Madame close behind. Claire forced herself to wait for the end of the second ring before she picked up.
“Allô?”
Claire said. Not bored exactly, not rude. Just a touch inconvenienced by a call interrupting a very busy day. She examined her worn nails.
“Madame Badeau?”
Claire paused. “Yes.”
“Of the flower shop?”
“Yes. You have an order?”
“I am calling for Comte Jean-Luc de Vogüé.”
Claire swallowed. “The Comte?”
Madame frowned and reached for the phone.
“The Comte met you at the Ritz. It was on New Year’s Eve. He found your flowers quite captivating that night.”