Seen and Not Heard (Maggie Bennett 4)

Claire ignored the shaft of guilt that spiked through her. “Why?”

“Coffee ice cream.”

She felt her shoulders relax. “There’s that,” she agreed.

“I’ll do the honors,” Tom said. “And then we can sit down over there on that bench and you can tell me what you’ve been doing since Sunday.”

She eyed him warily. “All right. Anything for coffee ice cream.”

“And you can tell me who that man was. Your husband?” Beneath the banter there was a thread of emotion, and Claire knew she hadn’t imagined the anger.

“Not my husband,” she said. “And if you want the story of my life you’ll have to get me two scoops.”

He looked down at her for a long, silent moment. He was very tall, Claire thought. She wasn’t usually attracted to tall men. No, cancel that thought, she ordered herself on a note of panic. She wasn’t attracted to Tom, either. He was just a compatriot, a stranger she could talk to, nothing more. She had no room for anyone but Marc. Marc made sure of that.

“Two scoops,” he agreed, and she knew suddenly that he wanted to kiss her. She should run. He didn’t want to offer her friendship. He wanted to give her something more, something she couldn’t accept. She watched him go, watched his broad shoulders, long back, the way his scruffy brown hair brushed the collar of his rough fisherman’s sweater. With a sigh she moved over to the park bench, sat down, and waited.

At four o’clock Yvon Alpert looked out the sixth-floor window of the ministry. The sky was a roiling, blackish gray, the sun had disappeared entirely, and wind was whipping through the bare trees. He looked down at his hands, square, strong hands that were now curved into fists.

Looking up again, he saw that the first fat drops had splattered against the windows, and the black hole in his heart expanded and grew until it devoured everything inside him.

He reached forward and picked up the phone, dialing from memory. “Jeanne,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically husky. “I have to cancel tonight. Something’s come up.” He listened mindlessly to her whining chatter for a moment. “No, it’s something I have to do,” he said. “I have to go see my grandmother.” He replaced the receiver very quietly, pushed back from his desk, and headed for the door.

No one said a word, no one tried to stop him. Yvon Alpert had worked there for seven years; he was a good, conscientious, unimaginative man. The perfect bureaucrat. If he was walking out of the office in the middle of the day he must certainly have the best of all reasons.

Jeanne stared at the phone for a long, uneasy moment. Yvon hadn’t sounded like himself. He’d had moments like this recently, moments that unnerved her and made her wonder if she was right to plan a life with a man who’d seemed so dependable but was now becoming prey to moods. There was something wrong. He’d sounded different, as if he were lying to her, and Yvon never lied.

Then she realized what was wrong. Yvon had no grandmother. He’d grown up in an orphanage, and then with foster parents who’d been more businesslike than affectionate. His mother’s mother had died not long after placing Yvon in the Marie-le-Croix orphanage.

She called him back immediately, but Yvon had already left, though no one knew where he’d gone or how long he’d be away. Slamming down the phone, she did her best to squash down the sense of foreboding that washed over her. Jeanne’s grandmother had been a Gypsy, and she had the sight, or so she told people. And all her senses were warning her of very grave trouble.

She too walked out of her office without excuses. She reached the street and ran through the heavy rain to her car, holding her breath as her heart hammered inside her. She would drive straight to Yvon’s apartment and wait for him. Sooner or later he’d come back and explain to her what was going on.

But she knew, deep in her heart of hearts, that it was going to be later. Too late. Driving through the rain, she thought of the little house in the suburbs, the wedding dress her mother was making for her. She knew she would never wear it, that no one would ever wear it. It would turn yellow in a trunk in her mother’s attic, and when Jeanne did marry she’d wear a white suit, ignoring the existence of the lace-trimmed dress. And as she drove through the downpour, she cried.

CHAPTER 7

It was getting darker. Claire scarcely noticed the deepening shadows as she sat with Tom on the narrow park bench. The ice cream vendor had packed up and left long ago; the few old people who had lingered despite the warnings had long since disappeared. They were alone in a cozy little world, the two of them caught up in discoveries and shared memories of separate lives, only dimly aware of the growing storm. Claire looked up, suddenly uneasy. The cloudy sky had darkened to an ominous black, the bare tree limbs trembled and shook like angry spiders’ legs, and last winter’s dead leaves scuttled up the pebbled pathways. A first, fat drop of rain splatted down on Claire’s upturned face, and she shivered.

Tom shifted, his long legs stretched out in front of him. “Just my luck,” he muttered gloomily. “You finally show up and it starts to rain. We’ve had almost six days of perfect weather and I’ve spent those six days on a park bench hoping you’d show up. Now when you do, it rains.”

“You’ve been here every day?” Claire didn’t know whether to be flattered or worried.

Tom shrugged, smiling ruefully. “What can I say? It’s Paris in the spring, and I’m an incurable romantic.”

&nbs

p; “And I’m engaged.” The rain was coming down in earnest now. Claire pulled her sweater up around her ears and stood up. “I should be getting back.”

He rose, towering over her, and his large hand caught her arm. “Don’t go yet. Let me buy you a cup of coffee, a glass of wine, anything. Take pity on a poor lonely fellow American.”

She looked up at him. She knew she shouldn’t. If she wanted to keep safe in her own little cocoon, shut away from pain and hurting, she would turn right around and head back to the apartment, shut and lock the doors, and count the days until Marc returned.

Even two days ago she would have done exactly that. But the sun had been out too long, Marc had been gone too long, and Claire was finally sick of cowering. “Okay,” she said softly, inevitably. And putting her chilled hand in his large, capable one, she raced through the steady downpour, out of the small, sad park.

His hands were sweating. His palms were damp, and as he tried to dry them on his trousers they left wet streaks. It didn’t matter, though—he was already soaked with rain. The marks of nervous sweat would scarcely be noticeable.

Yvon wondered what time it was. He didn’t bother to check the elegant gold watch Jeanne had given him, even though its presence on his wrist was like a second skin. He stood there in the doorway, huddled out of the rain, waiting.