Fifty Words for Rain(88)

Until the person beside her sprang up, saying that he was a doctor, and please could she move to let him through?

Then, as she stood, as the sapphire blue eyes of the pianist met hers, she knew that her plan was ashes scattered to the wind.

And she ran.

She had a head start, but he was faster. And she was in heels.

She made it out of the hall, made it out of the front doors, managed to tumble down the stairs and onto the wet cobblestones. She went down, hard, but managed to scramble back up and into a nearby cab. Mercifully, it had been right there, dropping off an elderly couple.

If it hadn’t been, he would have caught her.

She could see his face in the rearview mirror, calling out the name that had once been hers.

Nori!

She had no answer for him.

She had no answers for herself.



* * *





You fool. You never should have gone.

Nori looked at her reflection in her teacup. The tea was good here. That was one of the things she liked about this little room that she rented from a kindly French widow.

The other thing she liked was the privacy.

She knew she wouldn’t be found, but it didn’t matter. She couldn’t stay here. The bubble had been popped.

For the past seven years, she had moved from place to place, never staying anywhere for too long. Vienna first, then Rome, then Malta. She’d spent a few months in Switzerland before coming to Paris. She’d been here close to a year now.

Chasing ghosts.

So many people she’d lost had loved this city of lights.

She’d hoped coming here would bring her some peace. Maybe she’d even feel compelled to stay, to build a fledgling life here.

At first, she hadn’t wanted to settle anywhere. She’d been content to go to the most beautiful cities in Europe, sit in the warm sunlight, and listen to the street musicians play.

It’s what he would have done on his days off.

She had become like a migratory bird, flocking from one place to another, never any thought but what to eat, where to sleep, and where to fly next.

But now she was tired. Very, very tired. And at twenty-three, she was a girl no longer.

He would have expected more from her.

Nori pushed her teacup aside. Thoughts like these were dangerous. She’d had to take special care over the years not to fall too deeply down that rabbit hole. She’d never make it out.

Time for a walk.

She wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and descended the narrow spiral staircase. As she always did, she stopped to pet her landlady’s one-eyed orange tabby cat before walking out the door.

She liked cats. As far as she could tell, they made better companions than most people. Marriage, children . . . those weren’t for people like her, nor was she suited to either of them. But she’d like to have a cat one day.

It was a picturesque day. Not too hot, not too cold. The sun was half hidden behind creamy clouds, and there was a breeze that carried the scent of the baker’s bread from down the street.

Nori walked along the road, expertly avoiding the reckless bicycle drivers, until she came to a small bridge overlooking the Seine.

She wondered if her mother had walked here.

Perhaps Seiko had looked out at this water and watched the bold pigeons swoop in to steal the pastries from the hands of unsuspecting children. Perhaps she’d listened to the whirring sound the ferries made as they passed below.

Probably not.

Nori tightened her shawl. She had two dozen of these, in every color. She’d knitted them over the years to keep her hands busy and to occupy the sleepless nights. She’d also become halfway decent at a random assortment of things—gardening, jam making, upholstery, painting. She was always in the market for new hobbies.

Anything to quiet the voice in her head that whispered your fault over and over again.

But now she had enough shawls. She had enough shawls, and scarves, and quilts, and sweaters. She’d had enough rented rooms and cottages. She wanted something else now, but that was a dangerous thing.

There was no question of returning to Japan. There was no question of a joyous homecoming, because there was no such thing as home.

She’d been a ship blown from its mooring since the day he died.

A kingfisher swooped down from a branch beside her, pulling her back to where she stood.

It was probably time to leave. She had better pack. She could not delude herself into thinking that Will would have the grace to pretend he hadn’t seen her. He’d tell everyone who cared, which was exactly . . . one person.

It hit her like a bolt of thunder from this clear sky.

There was no somewhere for her. But maybe there was a someone.

Nori had never allowed herself to entertain this notion. Ayame had written a letter to London, a lifetime ago, but that had been the last of it.

Alice would be in her mid-twenties now, probably married, probably in the place she’d been born to. Maybe she’d forgotten. Or maybe she hadn’t forgotten and Nori was the last person she wanted to see.

Maybe it was too late. It was almost certainly too late.

But as Nori lay in bed that night, the embers would not flicker out.

She felt it burning in her belly, spreading out to her fingertips, to the crown of her head, to the soles of her feet.

She remembered this feeling.

Wild. Fickle. Treacherous.