All the Flowers in Paris Read online

  In May, I watched in horror as a family of six across the square—with a little boy and three girls, one a primary school classmate of Cosi’s—were forced from their apartment in a violent raid. I rushed Cosi to Papa’s study and turned on the radio so she would be spared the scene of porcelain dishes, glassware, and family heirlooms shattering in splintered pieces onto the cobblestone streets below. My heart surged with every hysterical scream from the mother, who was losing everything she held dear, and then, something I will never be able to erase from my mind: a young German soldier, no more than nineteen, ripping a teddy bear from her little boy’s grasp. In knickers and a tweed cap, he was a child I’d seen at the market with his mother occasionally. I always made a point of playing peekaboo with him, loving the way he would hide his little face behind his teddy bear, just like Cosi did at that age.

  I heard from one of our customers who lives on the top floor of that very building that the father was sent by train to a work camp far from here, the type described in the smuggled foreign newspapers circulated by the city’s boldest members of the Resistance. The mother and children were believed to be taken to the Jewish ghetto across town, which we’ve all heard is teeming with filth and disease. She had kind eyes, the mother. My heart aches to think of her now. Will she see her husband again? Could I, or anyone else, have done something?

  Evil has seeped into Paris like a cancer. And while there is strength in carrying on—sending your children to school in the morning, humming a tune on your bicycle, baking your bread, playing your piano, making your flower arrangements, being home by curfew—it also feels false when lives are being ripped apart right before our very eyes. Is it fair to carry on when others don’t have that same right?

  I don’t have any answers, nor the means to make any real difference. That day in May, I’d suggested to Papa that we might try to shelter a family at risk. He’d dismissed my idea, but not for lack of compassion. “I won’t risk your safety or Cosi’s,” he’d said. He was right, I suppose. And yet, my heart never stopped aching for that family across the square, and the thousands of others just like them.

  “Luc will think you look beautiful tonight,” Cosi says, peering in from the doorway. She has a big grin on her face, oblivious to the worries that play out like a dark novel in my mind. She leaps onto the bed, rumpling the velvet coverlet I’d smoothed just a moment ago. By the time I return home tonight, she’ll be fast asleep in my bed, clutching her well-worn teddy bear, Monsieur Dubois (she gave the bear the distinguished name herself at the age of three), in a mangled torrent of sheets and covers. A wild sleeper like her father, my Cosi.

  Cosi adores Luc, and Luc is crazy about her, too. I knew him long before Pierre, which is strange to think about. In fact, we were schoolchildren together. Kind and quiet, he wasn’t like the other boys, who would chase and tease my girlfriends and me in the schoolyard, pulling our braids until we screamed. Luc was different. The winter I sprained my ankle, he offered to carry my book bag to and from school. I didn’t accept, of course, knowing I’d be ridiculed by my best friend, Suzette, who was anti-boy at that moment, but I always wished I’d had the courage to accept his offer.

  He’d been away from Paris for university and then worked in London before returning two years ago. He came to the flower shop with a pastry for Cosi and a dinner invitation for me. With his soft smile and gentle demeanor, he was still the same Luc of my childhood, but the years had molded him into a man who made my heart flutter.

  So we had dinner that night, and the following week, and the one after that. We continue to see each other, and I love my weekly dates with Luc. The only son of Madame Jeanty, the owner of Bistro Jeanty, he avoided the family business and became a high-ranking member of the French police. I feel safe in his presence and enjoy our conversations about everything from childhood memories to the dismal state of France. Like me, Luc cares deeply about those suffering in our city, and we talk endlessly about ways we might make a difference. And while my feelings for him are real, and always have been, I sometimes don’t know quite what to make of them. After all, where can this courtship possibly lead? I love my life with Cosi and Papa and have no interest in disrupting our home because I, selfishly, have fallen in love again. And Luc certainly wants to start a family of his own. Can I give him that? And even so, would it be fair to him when he might have a less complicated life with some other woman, a woman who could make him happier than I could?

  I suppose that’s why I’ve kept my feelings at bay for so long and steered our conversations away from matters of the heart. “Did you see that Madame Toulouse has painted her door green? The absurdity!”

  Luc remains a mystery to me. He has more patience than the moon, and I feel that he cares about me deeply, even if he hasn’t said it explicitly. Sometimes our eyes meet across the table, or on an evening walk, and I wonder if he’s thinking what I am: that I could wander the streets of Paris, the world for that matter, for the rest of my life and never find a better home for my heart. If he feels the way I do, he doesn’t say it. Perhaps we’re each waiting for the other to pull back the curtains that shroud our hearts. In any case, each week I put on a pretty dress, a little red lipstick, and we have dinner.

  I sigh, taking a final glance at myself in the mirror. I study my gaunt cheeks and these new fine lines around my eyes and wonder what Luc sees in me. I am thirty-two years old, not a young woman anymore. I will be forty in the blink of an eye. Surely, with his good looks and position in the community—not to mention his family name—he could be courting any woman he liked.

  “Do you think Luc will bring me a chocolate?” Cosi asks expectantly.

  The answer is always yes, and when the doorbell rings five minutes later, he arrives looking handsome and well groomed and, as usual, holding two squares of fine dark chocolate wrapped in gold foil. “One for you,” he says to Cosi, on cue. “And one for Monsieur Dubois.”

  She hugs him, which is always followed by my warning for her to brush her teeth and be in bed by half past seven. Papa nods at Luc from his chair by the fire, and then we leave and find our usual candlelit table waiting for us at Jeanty. While the world itself is drowning in uncertainty, I have come to find comfort in the certainty of this.

  “Is that a new dress?” Luc asks as we sit down at the restaurant.

  “No,” I say, smiling. “I just haven’t worn it in a while.”

  I notice his mother, Madame Jeanty, at a far table, entertaining some very fancy ladies in very fancy hats. If she sees me, she doesn’t let on. It’s no surprise that she doesn’t approve of Luc’s interest in me. I knew she’d long imagined her only son, heir to the family’s substantial wealth, marrying a woman from a proper upper-class family rather than wasting his time with the widowed daughter of a simple florist, with an eight-year-old in tow.

  An exceptional eight-year-old, I would argue. I hear Cosi’s voice in my ear just then. “I’m almost nine!” She’s been saying that since the week after her eighth birthday, of course. And indeed so. Born with an old soul in the very best way, my little girl is almost-nine going on twenty-three.

  When I bring her to Bistro Jeanty on the first Sunday of every month, which is our tradition, she first locates Nic, our part-time delivery boy, who also helps in the kitchen and behind the bar at Jeanty. She’ll wave at him shyly before walking over to the miniature compartment in the wall Luc told her about. Painted on its door is a French nursery rhyme and a whimsical little scene featuring animals and a hot-air balloon. As a boy, Luc had kept his most treasured toys inside its door. Upon discovering it, Cosi was instantly smitten. Knowing this fact, Luc, with the help of Nic, leaves little surprises for her—and, of course, Monsieur Dubois—to find: sometimes a spool of red satin ribbon for her doll’s hair, other times a perfect orange from the market, or a peppermint stick. Whatever object he places inside, Cosi delights in it, even if Madame Jeanty does not.

  Luc
is a devoted son indeed, but one thing is certain: he has no interest in his mother’s uppity aspirations, nor does he ever hide or apologize for his affection for Cosi and me.

  “Céline?” he says when I don’t respond. “Is everything all right?”

  I look up and force a smile.

  “You seem lost in thought tonight.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I suppose I’m just a bit tired. It’s been a…busy week, that’s all.”

  “Well, tired or not,” he says, “you’re a vision tonight.”

  “Thank you,” I reply, shyly deflecting my gaze.

  A waiter approaches, and he and Luc exchange pleasantries before Luc examines the menu with great focus, the way he always does, then orders us the same bottle of Bordeaux, the finest on the menu.

  “Very nice choice,” the waiter says. He’s new and apparently doesn’t know that Luc is the son of Madame Jeanty. “And good timing, as that vintage won’t be on the menu for much longer.”

  “Oh, is that so?” Luc asks.

  “Indeed,” the waiter replies. “I know for certain that there are no more than four cases left.”

  Luc’s eyes flash. I recall him saying just a few weeks ago that his mother, a good friend of the winemaker’s, had ordered enough of this particular wine we so enjoyed to last until at least Christmas, which was saying a lot for wartime.

  Luc shakes his head. “Are you sure about that?”

  The waiter nods, then leans in. “Madame Jeanty sold most of the lot to a German officer the other day,” he says in a hushed voice. “Wine for his party.”

  Luc frowns, casting a glance at his mother’s table as the waiter refills our water glasses. Luc has long worried about her associations with the Germans. At first he accepted it as business preservation, which was understandable to some degree. But he’d been disheartened to learn about regular customers being displaced from their tables to please groups of rowdy German soldiers, who were also given the best cuts of meat even when they frequently “forgot” to pay their bills. But now Luc’s fears have heightened, especially since learning yesterday that his mother had attended a costume party alongside the city’s highest-ranking members of the Third Reich.

  “Thank you for bringing this to my attention,” Luc says to the waiter. “I’ll be sure to have a word with my mother about that. We can’t give all of our finest wines to the Germans.” He smiles. “What would we drink then?”

  The waiter takes a step back and dabs his handkerchief to his forehead nervously. “Forgive me, monsieur,” he says. “I…I had no idea you were Madame Jeanty’s son.”

  “Please,” Luc says graciously. “Think nothing of it. I’m glad you told me.” He winks. “And I won’t tell her it was you.”

  “Oh, thank you, monsieur,” the man says. “Thank you ever so much. It’s just that…my wife is expecting our third child, and I need this job.”

  “And you shall keep it,” Luc says with a kind confidence that makes my heart stir. “Now, see if you can go find us that bottle of wine before it vanishes.”

  Madame Jeanty’s table is too close to ours for us to risk discussing the matter further, so we do our best to settle back into our usual rhythm, but tonight feels different somehow. When I stare into Luc’s eyes a bit longer than normal, he’s nervous in a way he usually isn’t. He drops his butter knife not once but twice and knocks a glass of water over with his left elbow.

  “Céline,” he finally says, “I…I need to talk to you about something very important.”

  I nod cautiously and take a long sip of my wine. In the dim light, I can’t quite read his expression. Is he in trouble? Sick? In some kind of danger?

  “Céline, I have to leave Paris soon, for training with…the police force, in the south. I’ll be gone a month, maybe more.”

  “Oh, is that all?” I say, smiling. “You had me worried that it was something more…serious.”

  Luc doesn’t share my sense of relief. His face is solemn, focused. “Paris is getting more dangerous by the day,” he continues, his voice hushed. “Just last week, the captain of my department was ousted from his position. They took him away. His wife and children haven’t heard from him since. Today, his replacement arrived, handpicked by the Germans.”

  “Wait,” I say, fear creeping in, “that’s not what’s happening to you, is it? They’re not taking you to—”

  “No, no,” he says. “I mean, yes, traveling anywhere in the country right now comes with its own dangers, but that’s not what I’m getting at. I’m not worried about me. I’m worried about you and Cosi here on your own.”

  “But I have Papa,” I say cheerfully. “We’ll be fine.”

  “Yes, but maybe not. What if something happens? What if they find out that—”

  “Luc, you mustn’t speak of that, here or anywhere,” I say, my cheeks burning. Luc always said that in restaurants, the walls have ears. I’ve begun to wonder if they do. I look to the table to our right and gauge whether the couple beside us is eavesdropping; I’m relieved to see that they appear to be engaged in a heated argument.

  “I’m sorry,” he continues. “I can’t help but worry about your safety. I want the best for you. I want…” He reaches his hand out to me, and I let him take it.

  There are so many things I want to say, but in this moment, I can only utter his name. “Luc.” Tears sting my eyes.

  “Céline,” he whispers, squeezing my hand tighter, just as a blast of cold air filters into the restaurant from the open doorway. I glance over my left shoulder and notice the group of German officers who have just arrived, a half dozen at least. Their dark gray overcoats make the restaurant seem that much darker.

  Before I turn back to Luc, one of the officers, the largest in the group, catches my eye, and the hair on the back of my neck stands on end. It’s him—the man who came into the shop.

  Before I can explain to Luc, the officer approaches our table. Luc stands, the way French police officers do out of strained respect for the Germans. “Good evening, monsieur,” he says. “I’m sorry, have we met?”

  The officer smirks. “No, but I’ve met your lady here,” he says, staring at me like a very fine steak that has just been wheeled before him on a dome-covered plate.

  Luc glances at me, then back at the officer, confused.

  “Oh yes, hello again,” I say as calmly and politely as I can. “Luc, I waited on this gentleman at the shop the other day.”

  “You most certainly did,” the officer says, grinning. He reaches for Luc’s half-drunk wine on the table. “Mind if I have a taste?”

  He takes Luc’s silence as permission to take a sip.

  “Very nice,” he says, setting down the glass. “I picked up a truckload of this very vintage from your mother recently.” He gazes around the bistro, with its trademark deep-red walls and polished brass trim. “She runs a fine establishment here. One of the best in Paris.”

  “She does,” Luc says, his voice steady and without emotion.

  “Well,” the officer says, stepping back and switching expressions like only the very best actor can. Frightening one moment, he now seems somehow jovial. “I shall leave you to your charming dinner date.” He looks at me for a long moment before turning back to Luc. “You are a very lucky man.”

  Luc nods, face solemn.

  The officer extends his hand. “Kurt Reinhardt,” he says.

  “Luc Jeanty.”

  “Yes, I already knew that,” the officer says in a way that sends a shiver through me.

  We remain completely silent as the officer and his colleagues stop at Madame Jeanty’s table. We can’t make out their conversation, but her expression is as animated as it would be if Groucho Marx and a bevy of other Hollywood elite had come to dine.

  When they leave a few minutes later, it’s as if the entire restaurant, including the
very walls, let out a collective sigh.

  “That wasn’t good,” Luc says.

  Although the encounter has left a bad taste in my mouth, I don’t want Luc to worry any more than he already is.

  “Let’s try not to let it ruin our night,” I say. “So what—an officer recognized me from the flower shop. They do all the time.”

  “No,” Luc says. “That one is different.”

  “Sure,” I continue. “His ego is as big as the Eiffel Tower, but—”

  “No,” he adds. “I saw him beating an elderly woman in the ninth arrondissement last week.” He lowers his head.

  I swallow hard. “Are you sure it was him?”

  He nods. “I’m certain. After he took off, I drove the woman to the nearest clinic. Broken collarbone, likely. Bruised from head to toe.”

  I shake my head. “Why did he…”

  “Brutalize her?” Luc sighs. “Because she looked at him the wrong way? Because the color of her dress didn’t please him? I don’t know. What I do know is these men believe everything and everyone is theirs for the taking.” His eyes narrow as he looks deeply into mine. “Which is why I’m worried about you. And that German officer?” He shakes his head. “You do not want him paying you any sort of attention.”

  I nod. “What should I do?”

  “You’re going to have to keep a low profile, now more than ever,” Luc continues. “Stay in as often as possible. Maybe have your father handle the flower shop for the next few months, or at the very least, never be there alone.”

  “But that’s impossible,” I say, shaking my head. “Papa can’t manage on his own, with his arthritis and—”

  “He can manage,” Luc says.

  I shiver, blinking back tears so no one detects the fear that grips me like a thorny vine.