The Last Time I Saw Paris Read Online Free PDF

chest. She woke the next morning to the shrieking of gulls, chilled from the sea mist.
    A train passed her going north. Soldiers hung out of windows and leaned over the railings between cars. War, a cold voice whispered. She found the main road and pointed her face toward the rising sun. Bayonne, the sign read. What choice was there? She began to walk.
    At midday Claire rested on a low brick wall along the roadside, in the shadows of a line of elms. Her feet were raw from hours of walking, her stomach queasy from nerves and hunger. She watched a string of heavily loaded cars rumble past her toward the coast as she rubbed her cramping calves. She frowned at the new scuff along a grey heel. Sighing, she slipped the shoes into her hatbox. Skin grows back, but she didn’t know when she’d get another pair of custom crocodile pumps.
    She limped back onto the road and pointed her bare toes east, her eyes on the dirty pavement at her feet. She heard a curse and glanced up to see a man lumbering straight at her on a sagging bicycle. He cursed as the handlebar clipped the hatbox in her hand and the bike wobbled. The large suitcase strapped behind the bike seat hit her square in the stomach and knocked her off balance. Her luggage flying, Claire fell hard and rolled across the asphalt into the flow of traffic. Her eyes shut and her body tensed at the squeal of tires.
    She sneezed. Her eyes opened to see dust wafting around a tire vibrating inches from her face. She sat up and peered over the hood of a green convertible. A man in a rumpled blue suit clenched the steering wheel, his face white. The woman sitting next to him stared, her eyes wide. He leapt from the car. A torrent of words Claire couldn’t understand; the concern in his voice was clear. He pulled her to her feet and retrieved her bags and sable, dusting them off with shaking hands. The woman joined him. She phrased a question, speaking slowly, her soft face worried.
    Claire’s straining ears caught a single word. “Paris?” Her heart leapt. “Yes!”
    “Bon.” The man set her luggage into the backseat of the car, wedging them in between their large bags.
    “Pardon?” Claire warily eyed the distance between her and her bags.
    “You may join us to Paris. Our apology for le petit accident ,” the woman said, her gaze on Claire’s scraped legs. “I am Adele Oberon. This is my husband, Martin.”
    “Oh. Well, then. I am Claire Harris. And thank you.”
    Accepting Martin’s guiding hand, Claire wedged her body into the small cushioned backseat in the slight gap between the luggage and the door. Her sore muscles relaxed as the little car accelerated on the rolling asphalt road. With one hand firmly securing her hat in the gusty backseat breeze, she let out a deep breath.
    Adele turned back to Claire. “Américaine?” Her forehead wrinkled at Claire’s nod. “Not a good time to find Paris, vraiment ?”
    “Well,” Claire said. “A good time to find an old friend.”
    Adele’s bright eyes were mystified. “But you know about the fighting, no?”
    Claire’s mouth dried up. “What do you mean?”
    “The Germans have broken through. In Belgium, in Holland, in Luxembourg. In the Ardennes in France. They push south toward Paris.”
    Claire bit back a curse. Damned Laurent and everyone claimed the Nazis couldn’t get past the French army. Not with the British backing them up. It was silly to try. That’s why this was called La drôle de guerre . The phony war.
    “But what about the French army?” Claire said.
    It took a moment for Adele to muster an answer. “Our soldiers are wounded, prisoners, scattered to the winds.” The woman pulled a photo from her purse. A father, mother and son grinned in front of a beach umbrella. She pointed at the boy and broke into rapid-fire French.
    Claire heard the warmth in Adele’s voice, saw her eyes mist over. The woman in the photo had a deep brunette bob, not Adele’s salt-and-pepper bun, but the same wide, dark