Chapter 4
Dust flurried as Claire opened David’s office door and switched on the light.
She closed her eyes against the image of him lying on the carpet that haunted her every sleepless night for the past year, three months and ten days.
She opened the window, letting in cool, damp air, and flipped open the laptop.
As the computer bleeped warnings about updates, she mindlessly clicked the little install boxes.
On the bookshelf stood a framed photo so covered in dust, the image appeared as a shadow.
She wiped her fingers across the glass and uncovered the photo of Marti and her hugging each other before the Eiffel Tower.
They’d backpacked around Europe the summer they’d graduated.
David had taken the photo the day Claire met him.
The heat of that afternoon washed over her.
Claire and Marti stood drooping in an August heatwave outside Au Printemps’s window. They drooled over the mannequins sporting the height of fall fashion.
Marti swiped at the sweat running down her face. “Look at that beautiful plaid wool suit. And the cuffs and patch pockets are suede. It’s magnifique! Could you make that for me?”
“I could, but we couldn’t afford the wool, never mind the suede.” Claire peered closer. “The tailoring is impeccable. That’s hand-stitching along the lapels and those are hand-sewn buttonholes. You’d never see that in the States.”
After catching a glimpse of their reflections, Claire pressed her sweaty forehead against the glass. “We look like a couple of beached mermaids, only that’s not sea water dripping down our necks.”
Marti laughed. “Now we know why every French woman flees Paris in August. How can the poor clerks stand working in there? There’s not enough air conditioning in the world to cool that place.”
A boisterous swarm of teens—who else but Americans would wear Spice Girls T-shirts, cut-off jeans, and platform sneakers in the city of fashion—entered the store.
“How do those tourists stand it?” Claire slid the pink gingham triangle scarf from her head and wiped it across her face.
Okay it wasn’t Parisian style, but it was retro and smaller to pack than a floppy-brimmed sun hat.
She had sewn triangle scarves for all the girls in her class at the convent because every one of them was in love with ’60s fashion, and, with her scarves, they always had something handy to put on their heads for mass.
Marti took her elbow and pointed. “Let’s find a café with a view of the Eiffel Tower and drink our weight in la citronnade. It’s one of the things I can pronounce.”
They headed west along the Seine. Ducking under an awning, weaving through crowded tables, and storing their backpacks under the tiny round table, they collapsed onto the rattan chairs.
Marti examined the woven wicker of her chair.
“I want a pair of these and a marble topped bistro table in my kitchen. Such a classic design.”
“And it will always remind you of Paris.” Claire plucked up le Menu and fanned herself. Hopefully your kitchen will be cooler.”
“There’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you.”
“You’ve met someone.”
They both laughed so loudly other diners scowled.
“I think I’m a bit punchy from the heat, you too?” Claire asked.
“Seriously. I’m not going to look for an interior design job when we get back to New York.”
Claire stopped fanning herself and stared at her dearest friend in the world. They’d been roommates since their first day at college. Would they no longer live together? “Okay…you’re not joining the circus are you?”
“I want to be a doctor.”
“That is a circus.” Claire dropped the menu. “How’re you going to do that?”
“I applied to NYU for a master’s pre-med program because I need to take a bunch of chemistry and biology courses. That’s the first step.” Marti gazed at something behind Claire, then looked back.
“But you love interior design. You love color and fabrics and wallpaper, and furnishings—” Claire patted the arms of her chair.
“I do. It’s fun, but it’s not fulfilling. I want to help people. I can decorate my own home and my parents’ and yours. I don’t know, maybe I can help people redesign their health.”
“Wow. That’s a huge shift. Why didn’t you tell me?” Claire battled the feeling of being left out with her happiness for Marti’s decision.
“The idea gnawed at me throughout our last year, but I figured I’d focus on finishing my undergrad degree and at least have that under my belt.”
“Maybe we should order Champagne. When do you hear back from NYU?”
“I was accepted!”
“How could you not tell me? Congratulations!” Claire slapped the table. “How did you keep that a secret? We’re definitely ordering Champagne.”
The waiter, tall, bored, not sweating somehow, stood holding a round tray at shoulder height. “Oui?”
“Let’s save the Champagne for tonight, okay?” Marti asked.
Claire nodded and Marti ordered two lemonades. “Let’s pray for ice. I told the waiter, ‘avec la glace,’ but I don’t know if I asked for ice or ice cream.”
“Either will be cold.” Claire squeezed Marti’s hand. “I’m so happy for you. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want to jinx it. I applied for a scholarship and a student loan. While you were still snoozing this morning, I called my folks, and they told me I got both.”
“Lots of Champagne tonight. How are your parents taking it?”
She ran her fingers through her damp red curls. “They’re thrilled. But even after the scholarship, they’re not happy about the tuition, and they don’t want me to take out a loan, but I can if I need to. I’ll have to get a parttime job.”
Claire leaned toward her. “We’re still going to be roommates, right?”
“You know I can’t live without you.”
She relaxed against her chairback. “At least we have reasonable rent, and they can’t raise it much thanks to rent stabilization. You could get a weekend job with a designer.”
Cutting her eyes to a neighboring table, Marti lowered her voice. “Don’t look now, but I think you have an admirer. He’s alone and can’t pry his eyes off you. Just behind you, to your left, madras plaid shirt.”
“Madras? That’s as retro as my gingham. At least we have something in common.
” Claire nonchalantly turned her head and caught a glimpse of a strikingly handsome man.
She faced Marti and mouthed, Wow! Wrapping the pink triangle around her unwashed hair and tying it at the back of her neck, she prayed the room they got that night would have a shower, even if it was down the hall. “I hope my deodorant’s working.”
“I don’t think he’ll notice.”
The waiter placed a small dish of olives and two glasses of lemonade on the table. One ice cube bobbed in each drink.
“Ice—the size of a Chicklet—but it’s ice.” Marti scooped up her glass and rolled it against her cheek. “I’m thinking of our literature class and how Dante’s Inferno has taken on new meaning. I think I could write a better essay about Hell after surviving this sauna.”
Claire laughed. “Do you think we should head north or maybe to the coast for the sea breezes? Back to England for the rain? Maybe the madras guy has a recommendation?”
“I think I should find the ladies’ room.” Marti got up, nodded to the admirer, like she was in cahoots with him, and walked inside the café.
Claire popped an olive in her mouth. What was Marti up to? Claire dreaded returning to New York, but where else would she find a design job? Her mother had left her enough money for college, but she needed to make her own living now.
She rested her elbows on the table and chose another olive. Something hit the table, causing it to skid away from her. A large hand grabbed it, dragging it back, but it tilted and the glasses toppled. A wave of lemonade splashed across the table and dripped onto her skirt. She gasped.
“Je m’excuse! Désolé.” A male voice boomed. “Désolé.” A man grabbed a napkin from a nearby table, spewing French as he mopped up the liquid. More French tumbled from him as he mopped and grimaced.
He was the madras-wearing admirer. Had he spilled the drinks on purpose?
The lemonade was more sticky than cool, and it was congealing in the heat. She ripped off her triangle scarf and sopped up the liquid before it drenched her backpack. Her skirt was the last clean thing she had.
“Je m’excuse. Désolé!” He continued spouting French like a whale clearing its blowhole.
She suspected the admirer was asking forgiveness, but his words floated over her. “I…I don’t speak French.” The word for sorry she knew. She’d used it enough. “Désolée.”
“Ah, you are American.” His brown eyes danced with mischief as he smiled at her.
“Me too. I was trying to protect my camera, I lost the lens cap, and instead of catching it, I bumped your table, and as I tried to right it, I tipped it, and spilled your drinks and really made a mess of things, didn’t I?
I’ve ruined your beautiful skirt. You’re so fashionably dressed—I thought you were a Parisian.
I’ll pay to have it cleaned. Please forgive me. ”
“It’s okay. Not a big deal.”
“I’m sure a skirt like that is very expensive. I insist.”
“Really, I sewed this skirt myself. It didn’t cost that much, and I can handwash it.” She wrung out the triangle scarf. “In this heat it will dry in seconds.”
“You’re a very talented designer and a good sport. Still, I’m so sorry. Let me order two more drinks. Is that lemonade? Or do you wish a Kir Royale?”
Her mouth opened and closed but words stuck in her throat as her heart thumped. She was so attracted to his muscled arms, she couldn’t get her brain or her mouth to work.
He dragged an empty chair toward her table. “May I join you?” Without waiting for her reply, he slid his chair over next to hers, called the waiter and, from what she could figure out, ordered two more lemonades. She hoped he was paying.
Despite the stickiness, the liquid drying on her skin was at least cooling. Or was her skin heating up from the man’s closeness and evaporating the liquid?