The Room on Rue Amélie(2)

“I’ll see her again soon.” Her voice is so faint I can hardly hear her as she adds, “On the other side. Don’t you think I will?”

“Don’t go yet,” I say. “Please.” And as she drifts back to sleep, I sink down into the chair beside her and begin to cry. I don’t know how I’ll live without her. The truth is, since the day I met her, it’s all been for her. My whole life. My whole existence. I don’t know how I’ll say good-bye.





CHAPTER TWO


December 1938

The first time Ruby Henderson saw Marcel Benoit, she knew her life was about to change.

When she wandered into Café Claude on the west side of Central Park on a damp and frigid Thursday afternoon, she’d merely been trying to get warm. It was three days before Christmas, and she still wasn’t accustomed to the Northeast’s icy winters. The penetrating chill wasn’t helping with her homesickness either. She hadn’t been able to afford a ticket back to Southern California for the school break, but perhaps seeing her parents would have made the loneliness worse anyhow. Besides, it had been Ruby herself who had insisted, nearly four years earlier, that leaving her small desert town to study in Manhattan was a good idea. I’m in search of a big life, she had announced with all the confidence she could muster. And I won’t find it in the middle of nowhere.

But now, surrounded by mothers holding the hands of cheerful children in thick coats, and with Christmas carols and the smell of roasting chestnuts in the air, she found herself wishing that she wasn’t so alone. As a few snowflakes began to drift from the graying sky, she looked away from the window, sighed, and turned back to Fitzgerald’s The Beautiful and Damned. She could always find comfort in a good book.

She had just taken a sip of her black coffee when the café door opened, letting in both a great gust of wind and a man in a black woolen coat. He removed his hat, revealing a thick shock of dark hair and chiseled features that reminded her a bit of Cary Grant. Ruby’s breath caught in her throat as she stared at him. There was something about him, something mysterious and magnetic, that made it impossible to look away.

The man’s gaze landed on her, and he smiled, a slow, perfect smile. He made his way, limping slightly, to the table directly opposite hers and sat down, removing his overcoat to reveal a perfectly cut navy suit. “Well, hello,” he said, as if they were sharing a table, as if he’d come there just to meet her. She thought she detected the hint of an accent. He was young, no more than four or five years older than she.

“Hello.” She was trying to sound casual, as if this sort of thing happened to her all the time, but she feared her burning cheeks were giving her away.

“I’m Marcel Benoit.” The way he was looking at her made her feel as if they were the only two people on earth.

“Ruby Henderson.”

“Are you waiting for someone?” Yes, he definitely had an accent, refined and exotic. British, maybe? No, that wasn’t it.

Ruby took a deep breath and said the bravest thing she’d ever said to a man. It was, after all, Christmastime, and she had nothing to lose. “I think perhaps I was waiting for you.”

His smile spread slowly, like syrup. “Well, in that case, may I join you?”

Ruby nodded and he stood, grabbing his coat and hat and taking the seat opposite hers. He smelled like pipe tobacco, sweet and spicy, and up close, she could see two tiny freckles just under his right eye. His eyebrows were thick and dark, and his nose and cheekbones looked as if they’d been cut from marble.

“I was just cursing my luck at being stranded so far from home during the holidays,” he said, holding her gaze. “But now, I think, perhaps it is not so bad.”

“Where are you from?”

“Paris.”

But of course he was. She recognized the accent now, the way he carried himself, the way he was dressed. He was far too stylish to be from anywhere else.

“You’re reading Fitzgerald, I see,” he added. “He is a great fan of my city.”

“Oh, so am I. Not that I’ve ever been. I’ve always dreamed of it, though. All of my favorite writers spent time there, you see. Hemingway. Gertrude Stein. Fitzgerald, of course. What I wouldn’t have given to be a part of their Saturday salons!” She felt suddenly silly; she hadn’t intended to sound so young, so na?ve.

But he didn’t seem to notice. “Ah yes, on the rue de Fleurus. I know it well. My father was a patron of Matisse.”

“Henri Matisse? The painter?”

“Yes. He and my father knew each other before the Great War. In fact, he brought my father to Madame Stein’s salon a few times.”

“Is your father an artist?”

“Just an art dealer, I’m afraid. He died a few years ago.”

“I’m very sorry.” A heavy silence settled over them, and Ruby was glad when the waitress interrupted to ask Marcel if there was something he would like. He ordered a cup of black coffee and asked Ruby if she’d like to split a slice of apple pie. As the waitress walked away, Ruby wondered how they had advanced so quickly to the intimacy of sharing a dessert. Not that she minded.

“What are you doing here in New York?” she asked him.

He studied her for a moment. “I thought I was here for business. But now I realize I might be here for another reason entirely.”