Madame Girard was in the hallway buttoning up her coat. āIāll be out when you return. Bringing my sister fish, though I donāt know why,ā she grumbled. āIf she had the gout I do, she wouldnāt ask me to come out.ā She eyed the mask. āWhatās that? Did that woman bring it yesterday?ā
āThis?ā I touched the metal. Today it didnāt feel so cold. āItās a fresh start.ā
I went to Les Halles to find the things I remembered her eating, things that I could find at the end of winter, in a city still caught in food shortages. Grapes, dates, a basket of late brown medlars. A loaf of crusty ficelle bought at an exorbitant price. I tucked it into my coat. Chestnuts, of course, a pocketful. It took a while longer to find oranges in the middle of winter, but I found a vendor with small, bruised Spanish oranges.
The old flower seller was waiting on her corner. āFlowers for your sweetheart?ā
I dug into my pocket for my usual change and my usual line. In her basket were small bunches of wood violets, just like the ones that grew beneath the chestnut tree. So I smiled, the one half of my mouth matching the other on my mask. I smiled and said, āYes, I think I will.ā
She laughed, toothlessly. āI knew youād find one.ā
āShe found me.ā I took the flowers, the fragile stems damp.
The last thing I bought, from a narrow shop on the other side of the market, was a dozen soft ContĆ© pencils. Eight years before, Iād bought pencils for Clare. Iād wanted her to know then that someone believed in her.
Iād spent weeks watching her head bent in concentration as she made my mask. Her face had been serene, satisfied. And, when she looked at her drawings hanging on my wall, exultant. I didnāt want her to lose that the way my own maman had.
Last time, I hadnāt given Clare the pencils. It was that young girlās dress and that hopeful expression she wore when she ran up to me at Mille Mots. Then, I was afraid of letting her get too close. The shopkeeper wrapped the pencils in paper and I tucked them carefully at the bottom of my haversack. This time, I wouldnāt be afraid.
I wondered if Clare would still be in bed when I returned, wearing nothing but that brown sweater. I pictured her tangled in the blankets, smiling when she opened her eyes. Iād give her flowers. Iād kiss her one more time.
But I turned onto the Rue de Louvre. And I didnāt go home.
I thought Iād wake to a sleepy repetition of the night before, or at least to awkward yawns and blushes. I was already blushing before my eyes were open. I didnāt expect to wake to an empty apartment.
Maybe he was down the hall at the toilet or talking to the concierge. Maybe heād stepped out so that he wouldnāt disturb me with his pipe. Maybe heād gone in search of breakfast.
I stretched and waited. And waited. From the street below came the sounds of Paris waking up. Carts rattled, horses snorted, the rare engine from an automobile growled.
I stood and straightened the sweater. The window was cracked and the room chilly. My arms wrapped around my chest, I walked the length of it. I hadnāt even heard him get up. I tried to picture him soundlessly moving around the room, quietly pulling on his clothes. His blue shirt and tie were kicked to the corner, but his jacket and trousers were gone. I picked up the shirt, shook it out, folded it, found his drawer with a few others.
The room looked smaller, dingier than Iād thought yesterday. Was this really where Luc lived? On the desk heād left a small stack of paper and a fancy gold pen. That one little reminder of his chĆ¢teau life.
But that wasnāt all on the desk. Heād left a note, written in a morning-after haze. Youāre my happily ever after. I let the note fall back down to the desk and leaned against the chair. Happily ever after.
The night Iād gone with Finlay, Iād stopped myself before anything had happened that Iād regret. Iād remembered my plans. I didnāt need anything beyond a good friend. I didnāt need anyone to take care of, anyone to disappoint, anyone to make me disappoint myself. But last night, when I stepped into Lucās apartment and remembered that long-ago kiss, Iād stopped thinking. Plans, worries, expectations; I thought of nothing but how perfect it felt to be near him.
His note hinted at a promise I hadnāt made. My words, my kisses, my stepping into his apartment, his bed, his heartāmaybe I had made one without realizing it. Maybe I wanted to.
āNo,ā I said aloud. I pushed through the romantic haze of the night before. I could be pregnant right now, I realized. In that moment of impulse, I might have changed everything.
I lowered the basin of water to the floor and washed, squatting over it. My teeth chattered. No one had ever told me what to do the morning after. I hoped it was enough. I hoped it wasnāt too late. I scrubbed and worried and thought about how quickly plans could change. I poured the water out of the window onto the roof. The morning suddenly seemed too glaring bright.
I didnāt want that. Did I? With a house, a husband, a child, I couldnāt have anything else. The women at the School of Art left when they married. They left or they convinced themselves that art as a hobby, in between planning meals and arranging vases, was enough. I wanted more. I wanted everything I had now.
But I also wanted Luc.
The whole walk home, I tried to pretend that I was simply another Parisian taking the morning air. That I hadnāt just spent the night, alone, with a man. That I didnāt stand on the edge of my future, not knowing how many steps to take before I fell.
When I walked in, Grandfather was sitting hunched at his desk in his shirtsleeves, surrounded by balls of paper and empty teacups. The curtains were shut tight and the kerosene lamp was smoking. The way he turned, blinking, when I opened the doorāhe hadnāt even realized it was morning.
I waited for him to say something about me appearing well after breakfast, about my skirt wrinkled from a night on the floor, about my hair knotted and pinned without benefit of either mirror or brush.
He didnāt look me up and down, didnāt do more than scratch his nose and say, āIs it suppertime already?ā and āWhereās your scarf?ā
I went across the room, slipping off my coat, and kissed him on the forehead. āItās morning, Grandfather. When did you last eat?ā
āNoon.ā He yawned. āIs that right?ā
āThat was yesterday.ā Heād been using his left cuff as a pen wiper again. āChange your shirt, dear, and Iāll make you a cheese sandwich.ā
Though bread was still hard to come by, his baker friend kept us supplied. When he wandered out of the bedroom, it was in a sweater that the laundress had shrunk. The knobs of his wrists poked from the sleeves. He picked up a sandwich, looking faintly puzzled.
āWere you just arriving?ā he asked around a mouthful of cheese.
āNo, leaving. I have to be to work.ā
He nodded and chewed, but wasnāt satisfied. āBut then why are you humming? You havenāt hummed in years.ā
āI wasnāt humming.ā I gathered up the empty cups. āTea?ā
āIāll make it.ā He set down his sandwich. āYou think I canāt take care of myself?ā
I slipped into my room to change into a fresh blouse and skirt. āWhy else are you in Paris?ā I called through the door.
āPatricia Clare, you give yourself too much credit.ā
I pulled open the door. āClare.ā I brought my comb and hairpins out into the large room while he made tea. āI was only teasing.ā
āAnd see, thatās why I came to Paris.ā Between haphazard measuring of tea and water, he ate the rest of his sandwich. āBecause I enjoy your company.ā
āAnd my sandwiches.ā
He grinned. āMostly your company. Marie makes better sandwiches.ā
āMarie?ā
āThe baker. Youāve met her.ā
I shrugged and attacked the knots in my hair.
āYou take care of me, itās true, but you let me take care of you in between. Alice, she taught me that.ā
āGrandmother did?ā
āWe didnāt have much time together, but in the time we did have, it was a privilege to take care of her.ā He set down the spoon, scattering tea on the table. āI loved her so.ā