Crossing on the Paris Read Free Page B

Woman Lost When Camouflaged by Liner!”
    At that moment, a sandy-haired photographer appeared out of the crowd a few yards in front of her.
    â€œ Souriez! ” he cried with an explicatory grin, as his flash went off.
    The background of the photograph was not the liner itself (thank heaven for small blessings!) but the crowd behind. Looking around, Constance saw the sudden flash had also startled the two womennearest her: a petite, young woman with bright copper hair stopped a few paces in front, while to the side stood an impossibly thin elderly woman firmly wrapped in a long, plum-colored coat. They each paused a moment to blink, then continued toward the ship. Wondering where that photograph might land, she glanced over at the two women, who also appeared to be traveling on their own.
    Suddenly, there was a swell in the crowd and she lost sight of them both. It seemed the last crew members were trying to get to their posts before the passengers boarded. From officers in smart uniforms on down to the barmen and bellhops, they all rushed past her. She’d heard the crew on the Paris numbered nearly a thousand, and the passengers—from the top hats and monocles traveling in the elegant cabins at the top, to the tattered emigrants under the waterline—were twice as many.
    Before boarding, she stopped to take in the great ship looming ahead. Its length took up the entire pier and, with three brilliant red funnels towering above the highest decks, it dwarfed all the other boats in the harbor. Constance thought the liner must be as long as the Eiffel Tower was tall, but it was massive, solid. She supposed she ought to feel lucky to be a part of the Paris launch, its first tour of the famous French Line: Le Havre, Southampton, New York. Though, really, she was in no mood for celebrations.
    She was jostled by a man on the fringe of the crowd. At the foot of the second-class ramp, impatient travelers were trying to get on, as those going up inevitably paused to take in the view. He turned to her, as if to scold her for stopping at such an inopportune place, but when he looked into her face—beautiful, by all accounts—his expression changed.
    â€œ Excusez-moi, mademoiselle, ” he said, drawing closer to her with a leer.
    Not unused to such smiles, Constance nodded crisply in return, then walked straight into the throng to access the second-class decks. After several minutes of being far too close to strangers thanshe would have liked—the feel of their outer garments, their limbs, their breath upon her—she made her way up the ramps and to the rails nearest her cabin.
    Everyone on deck was crying out enthusiastically—Americans returning home or Europeans on holiday, young couples on a first voyage, affluent Jewish emigrants off to New York—all throwing colored streamers and waving their hats. She looked down onto the dock and easily spotted Faith and Michel below. How could you miss them?
    Like all the other well-wishers on the dock, they were now smiling at her (what cheek!); with one arm wrapped around the other’s waist, they were cheerfully waving up at the second tier. Constance waved back brusquely, but she soon tired of looking back at them. During her two-week visit, she had been a third wheel, a mere witness to their affection.
    In their company, she constantly found herself comparing their giddy happiness to her relationship with George. Although she didn’t understand their French conversations, she envied the frank admiration she saw in Michel’s face when he looked at Faith, the undercurrent of passion in their voices. She knew that Faith found her relationship with George dull, flawed, unacceptable.
    Tired of looking down on their self-satisfied faces—Faith clutching Michel and grinning—she was ready to leave the festive crowd on deck, find her accommodations, and get to sea. Nervous as she was about going home empty-handed, Constance was happy to