The Paris Library(64)

When I proffered the purple gladiolas, the professor beamed. She chose a pitcher from the sideboard and arranged the flowers.

I pointed to the vase. “Why didn’t you use that one?”

“I’ve never put anything in it.”

“Why not?”

“The first time my third husband invited me to his parents’, it was for an interminable Sunday lunch. I needed a break and stepped from the room.”

“I can understand that.”

“When I returned, his mother was criticizing me: ‘She’s cold. Too intellectual. So old she’s barren.’ Before he could reply, I told them I was leaving. The next day, he came by my office with that vase. When he said it reminded him of me, I replied, ‘Cold, hard, and empty?’?”

“What did he reply?”

“That it was a work of beauty. Full of life, yet able to hold so much. Perfect all by itself.”

I could see why she’d married him.

“How are things at the Library?” she asked.

I heard the questions she did not ask. Do they know that Jews can no longer teach, and that I lost my job? Do they care?

“M. de Nerciat and Mr. Pryce-Jones will stop by this afternoon,” I said.

She perked up. “Together? They made up?”

Indeed. Last week, sick of the standoff, the Frenchman had asked Miss Reeder to mediate.

“The Directress is formidable,” Mr. Pryce-Jones had told me. “We were no match for her.”

“When she puts her foot down,” M. de Nerciat added, “the entire Library shakes.”

Once again, the reading room resonated with their debates: “The US will enter the war!”

“Americans are isolationists. They’ll stay out of it.”

How I’d missed their bickering!

“I’m glad you made up,” I told M. de Nerciat, who stopped by my desk to say bonjour.

“Well, I had to put myself ‘in his shoes.’?”

I smiled at the idiom, since we French would say “in his skin.”

“Was it hard to take the first step?” I asked.

“It would have been harder to lose a friend.”



* * *




IN THE REFERENCE room, a queue of subscribers formed, and I answered queries ranging from “How do I make hominy?” to “Will you tell the woman over there to quit talking so loudly?” When Paul approached, next in line, he had a question, too. “Can you get away for lunch?”

My gaze shifted to the children’s room. Paul and I could be together. Bitsi had said so, and her blessing meant more than any priest’s.

Near Parc Monceau, a posh neighborhood known for its embassies, Paul guided me into a majestic limestone building.

“Where are you taking me?” I asked as we ascended the marble staircase.

He grinned. “You’ll see.”

On the second floor, he unlocked the door to an apartment even grander than Margaret’s. Cinched velvet drapes set off tall windows. In the sunlight, the prisms of the chandelier sparkled.

“Who lives here?” I whispered in awe.

“Probably a wealthy businessman who fled to the Free Zone.”

“How’d you get the keys?”

“A buddy’s in the same situation as us. He meets his girl here.”

An apartment of romantic assignations!

Paul nuzzled my neck. “I love you,” he said. “I’d do anything for you, anything at all.”

I wanted this more than anything, but I was scared. Scared that this would change everything, scared there would be pain, scared making love would tie us together forever, scared that it wouldn’t.

“It’s my first time, too,” he said.

Looking into my eyes, he waited for my answer.

I caressed his cheek. “I want to.”

His fingers trembled as he unbuttoned my dress. How divine to bare my body. How divine to see his without worrying about Maman bursting in. He caressed my tired silk stockings. “Que tu es belle,” he said, and drew me onto the divan.

I brought my legs up, and he slid in slowly. At first it hurt, but gazing at Paul, I was glad it was him. When he moved inside me, my hips rose to meet his. For once, my mind stopped analyzing every little thing.

Afterward, nestled against his body, I wondered why books skip over this part. It had felt perfect, and more than that—right. Being with Paul felt dreamy and important and right.

When he stirred, I lifted my head and looked about. I wondered where the hallway would take us. Naked, I bounded over the sunbeams warming the parquet. Paul followed. The first door led to a den with a gilded desk. Rémy would have loved the collection of ornate fountain pens that we found inside the top drawer.

“Why didn’t they take their treasures?” I asked.

“When war broke out, people left in a panic.”

I didn’t want to remember those terrible days. I pulled Paul from the room, leaving all questions behind. The door on the left led to a pink boudoir, where we climbed onto the four-poster bed. We bounced tentatively, one foot to the next, before we began to jump. Up and down, we giggled like children. Paul stopped first, suddenly serious. I loved the way he regarded me, with such admiration in his eyes.

Breathless, I flopped onto the bed and dove under the duvet, knowing he’d follow me into the downy heaven. His legs entwined with mine, and he whispered, “We’re home” into the tangled cloud of my hair.