Crossing on the Paris Read Free Page A

around her fingers; she’d been both thrilled and regretful about this day since she’d received her assignment in the mail almost a month ago.
    Looking at her parents, she wondered whether, without her there, they would ever speak again.

    In the center of the dock, amid cries and laughter, neighing and clanging, bursts of accordion and fiddle, Constance Stone shookher sister’s hand formally, then gave Faith’s French boyfriend a brief nod.
    â€œGood-bye, then,” she said stiffly, taking a step toward the ship. Unable to contain herself, however, she immediately turned back to her sister.
    â€œYou know you should be boarding with me,” Constance said through her teeth, gesturing toward the enormous ship before them. “If you had any sense of duty whatsoever, any feeling of responsibility toward the family—”
    â€œFor years you’ve moaned about how lacking I am in notions of moral obligation,” Faith interrupted with a sly smile, stressing the last two words sarcastically. “I suppose you were right.”
    Constance stood opposite her little sister, shaking her head in disdain. Faith, still baby-faced at twenty-three, was dressed in flowing, bohemian scarves and skirts, long beads, and a bejeweled turban. She looked ridiculous, a veritable circus performer. Both her hands were loosely wrapped around the arm of her beau, Michel. He was some eight years older, dressed in dark worker’s clothes, though his boots were spattered in paint of every color.
    â€œIndeed!” Constance sniffed, turning again.
    â€œBon voyage!” Michel, unable to follow their conversation, smiled sweetly.
    â€œAdieu,” Constance said to them both, then walked away with no further hesitation.
    As she approached the ship, she heaved a sigh of relief. On the long train ride from Paris she had hardly said a word to Faith, much less Michel. After the tense atmosphere of the last few days, it was refreshing to be alone, to take respite from bitter words, curt replies, and silent glares.
    She had gone to Paris at her father’s bidding, to bring her sister home, with hopes that her reappearance would improve their mother’s condition. Faith’s refusal had made the entire expedition a waste of time. Constance thought of her own daughters, crying onthe platform as her New York–bound train pulled out of the station in Worcester, and of her husband’s utter vexation.
    She had gone against her husband’s wishes, and to what end? Faith had been unwilling to leave her new life in Paris. Whether her return would have helped their mother was beside the point.
    Walking toward the ship, Constance saw a few newspaper men up ahead. Reporters were craning their necks looking for a good story while photographers took pictures; there was a cameraman there as well, capturing the event for a newsreel. Just in case she were caught on camera, she quickly adjusted the big loopy tie at her neck, smoothed her skirt, and, breathing deeply, wiped the last traces of scowl from her face.
    She was wearing the same traveling suit she had purchased for the voyage east, to Europe, just a few weeks before. She’d felt so elegant when she’d tried it on: a long black skirt, a white silk blouse, a large red bow around the neck, all set off by an airy gray hat. But when George—by then resigned to the fact that she was traveling to Europe on her own, but still bitter—had seen it, he’d teased her.
    â€œOh, my dear!” he’d shouted. “How clever you are! You’ll match the ship! Look, black, white, funnel red, topped with a puff of smoke!”
    Constance, taken aback by her husband’s nasty tone, not to mention his rare burst of imagination, had tried to find something else, but it was too late. Now, walking toward the Paris, she hoped no one else would make that connection, especially those newspapermen. She could just see the caption: “Provincial