“How sad for your father … and you,” Nora sympathized.
“Pierre is actually very nice when you’re alone with him. He has always been very sweet ... and funny ... with me. Well, most of the time. He’s just not great in social situations. It’s as if he’s unhappy about being alone or something. We can’t figure it out,” Chloe said, shrugging her shoulders.
Olivier agreed. “Yes, deep down he is a nice man, good-hearted, but can’t let go of being furious with Angelique.”
“An unfortunate name, under the circumstances,” Nora commented.
Oli and Chloe snorted.
“You will get to see him soon. He went out early this morning to deliver something to a friend,” Olivier said. “He texted to say he’s coming to take a look at our artwork this afternoon. So, you can come to the studio with us if you like.”
In spite of their comments about Pierre’s demeanor, Nora looked forward to meeting him again. It would feel like the first time. He owned a small art gallery in Nice, and she always thought he sounded interesting the few times the kids had mentioned him.
“Perhaps he’ll be in a better mood when we’re all together at the family farm for the holidays. Crabby and Provence are two words that just don’t go together,” Nora said.
Chloe shrugged. “Let’s hope. Right now, he wants to make certain his van is the right size to drive the art down to Nice in January. We’re amazed he came here in advance, because he always says he hates Paris.”
“Yes, but it seems he is concerned whether everything will fit,” said Olivier. “It makes sense for him to see what he will have to load in. We hadn’t really given it much thought.”
Nora said, “Well, I would love to go to the studio with you this afternoon. I’m meeting Marie-Louise soon. Yvette is going to text me when they’ve finished lunch. I think I’ll be there for about two hours. Does that timing work?”
“Pretty sure it will be fine. We’ll confirm with you later, okay?” said Chloe.
* * *
Nora’s session with Marie-Louise ended abruptly after a particularly emotional outpouring which lasted for more than an hour. Nora called out to Yvette, and they gently helped her to bed.
“Don’t worry, chérie. I’m all right,” Marie-Louise told Nora. “Just … tired in my heart. I’m grateful I could finally speak about that story—it mattered more than I realized.”
Nora felt equally drained as she and Atticus made their way back to the apartment. The day had turned chillier, and the sky a pale, indifferent gray. A heaviness pressed against her chest—the weight of all those young lives, fractured and bruised during the Occupation. It was almost too much to carry. The sadness didn’t just settle over her, it seeped in, quiet and relentless, like the cold creeping through her coat.
She stopped in at the little flower shop, Les Fleurs de mon Coeur, knowing it would lift her spirits, if anything could. Nora dropped by every few days to choose fresh blooms. Not because she needed them, but because the charm of the shop and the ever-changing selections were impossible to resist. Fresh flowers had been a constant in her life ever since Jeremy had given her a china vase the day they married. She continued to fill it weekly.
Garlands of cedar and fir framed the outside of the door, and were threaded with dried orange slices, cinnamon sticks, and tiny brass bells that chimed softly whenever the door swung open.
Inside, the air was a comforting mix of warmth and wood smoke from an old iron stove in the corner and the heady fragrances from the seasonal blooms that filled every corner of the tiny space. Buckets of amaryllis, freesia, holly, and cream-colored winter roses stood in quiet rows under soft lighting.
Wrapped in a woolen shawl, Claire, the young owner, greeted Nora like an old friend after Nora said bonjour. “Bienvenue! Baf! Il fait froid aujourd’hui!” They always conversed in French, and Claire answered all of Nora’s language questions about flowers.
Nora shivered and agreed it was definitely cold. They chatted about the weather for a minute and Nora complimented her on the flower selection. Claire explained she had been to the flower market at the crack of dawn and had gotten first selection of her favorites. She praised Nora on her choice of three stunning white amaryllis stems.
“I had no idea amaryllis stems could be found as cut flowers. I only knew them as potted plants that fill our shops at home at Christmas. My mother would purchase one very year and we would all wait excitedly for it to bloom … hopefully by Christmas Day. I love them individually like this!”
After Nora paid for her choices, Claire carefully wrapped them in waxed paper and tied the parcel with a green velvet bow. She tucked in a small bouquet of pink freesia. “This will give you the fragrance the amaryllis will not,” she said with a smile, refusing Nora’s insistence on paying for it.
She reminded Nora there would be vin chaud simmering on the stove starting the next day, and Nora assured her she wouldn’t miss it.
Atticus calmly accepted his treat from Claire, and Nora resumed their walk home with a lighter spring in her step.
She texted Chloe to say she would be ready anytime to go to the studio with them.
ChapterEighteen
Just after four p.m.,Olivier drove the short distance to Rue des Martyrs with Chloe and Nora. The street was noticeably less congested with pedestrians than their street, Rue Lepic.
“I didn’t realize your studio was so close,” Nora said. “What is this area called?”
“This is South Pigalle,” Olivier said. “Or, as the cool folks call it now, SoPi. You cannot imagine how many artists’ studios there are behind the facades of these ancient buildings, although some have been taken over by galleries. In the time of van Gogh, Degas and friends, it was a creative hotspot known as La Nouvelles Athènes. I’ve got a few good books about those days, if you want to borrow them.”
