The Last Time I Saw Paris Read Free

desk faced the door.
    “Your husband must be quite a scholar,” von Richter said as Claire shut the door behind them, bottle of scotch and three glasses in her hand.
    “So it seems.” Claire waved Merkel and von Richter into chairs as she poured. She sat on the arm of von Richter’s chair, curving against his side. “Alby, darling, tell me about Paris.”
     
     
    T he bottle was empty and the last revelers were being poured into waiting cars when Russell materialized. Von Richter clumsily disentangled Claire from his lap. Merkel swayed as he stood. Russell appeared not to notice and apologized for the delay. Claire bid the men good night and blew von Richter a kiss as she closed the door behind her. With that performance, those Germans should buy Russell’s steel at top dollar. Not that the success would pay for Russell’s mercy. But it would give her more time.
     
     
    T he upper floor was quiet; gold-leaf sconces radiated ovals of light through the hallway. Claire shut her bedroom door and slumped onto a velvet stool facing her mirrored vanity. She frowned at her pale reflection and smoothed the dark honey curl over her right brow. A fresh coat of lipstick was drawn over her full lips and mascara combed onto thick lashes, but her deep blue eyes were hard as images careened through her mind.
    She was sixteen when she met Bernard R. Morris. That was how he introduced himself as he stood on her porch in a pressed shirt and tie, his hair slicked back with pomade. She stepped out to get a better look; no one had come to their Oklahoma farm in so long.
    Clara May, as she was called then, had been up for days, soothing Mama’s gaunt face with a wet cloth, washing her wasted body, cooking anything she could scrounge up into a broth in hopes Mama would eat. Clara begged her to accept even a sip of water, but her mother’s cracked mouth stayed closed. Tired, so tired, was all Mama would say. Tired of living, Clara thought she meant, or what passed for living on that dried-up land. And so Mama starved and withered in Clara’s weary arms while Pa and her brothers worked the farm, only coming inside at night to sleep and be fed.
    Seeing another soul that morning made Clara come alive. Bernard was clean-shaven with a thin moustache and smelled like warm wood. He looked her up and down and stepped close. Selling Bibles all the way from New York City.
    Three days later the musty scent of death settled over the dusty farmhouse, and Mama’s rough-hewn casket was laid out across the worn table in the middle of the room. Her brothers, Hank and Willy, stood heads down, their meaty hands folded in front of them. Pa seethed silently behind Clara’s shoulder. To him, Mama’s death was a personal insult, just like the drought. Clara stepped forward and fingered the jagged edge of the coffin rim, breathing in the sharp tang of freshly cut pine.
    She felt Pa’s hard gaze digging into her back. “If you can’t stand here like a proper daughter and honor your Ma, Clara May, you get back in that kitchen.”
    There was no need for Clara to look inside the casket. She’d dressed Mama in that sky-blue dress she favored, combed her thin hair into a bun, tucked a faded yellow flower into her top buttonhole. Though Clara felt a piece had been torn from inside her, from her aching stomach to her burning eyes, she knew there wasn’t even any need to cry. Her mother wasn’t really in there anymore. Mama had escaped Pa’s temper and the farm the only way she could.
    A burst of heat burned away the pain in Clara’s heart. There had to be more to look forward to than dying. She needed more.
    It had only been two long steps to the screen door. Three short miles to town and Mrs. Johnson’s boardinghouse, where that handsome Bible salesman was loading up to head back to New York City. Clara left town that night in the front seat of a Studebaker with Bernard’s hand on her knee.
     
     
    T he sting of the long-buried pain pulled Claire back to