The Last Time I Saw Paris Read Free Page B

downstairs. Emptied of guests and staff hired for the night, the house was dark and still. She crept into the shadowed kitchen, padding toward the door.
    “Mrs. Stone.”
    The voice stopped her in her tracks. Davis leaned against the counter, a glass of scotch in his hand. He took in the red traveling suit, hat and sable, the hatbox and leather-bound train case clenched in her hands.
    “Best of luck to you, Claire.”
    Claire grinned and let out a breath. “Thank you. Same to you, Davis.”

LaGuardia Airport Marine Terminal, New York. May 9, 1940.
    S unrise gilded the East River as Claire descended from the airport terminal onto the metal gangway. The docked Yankee Clipper floated like an immense metal seabird at the end of the passage below. Bullet-shaped engines rumbled from beneath the massive wingspan. Whirling propellers buffeted the line of passengers advancing into the airship’s belly. Claire welcomed the cool bite of the prop’s wash against her face.
    A young officer stepped up to her side, his white Clipper uniform glinting in the morning light. “She’s something to see, isn’t she?” He meant the Clipper, but his eyes were on Claire and her suit, cut to show an hourglass figure.
    She offered him a smile but her thoughts focused on the throbbing in her chest. It had been so long since she felt this mix of freedom and—no, not regret. Never that. Today the scents were a cocktail of gasoline and the river’s briny flotsam. Not choking dust or death’s cloying musk.
    “Ready to fly over the ocean?” Pride resonated in his voice.
    She made a last searching look back at the early morning crowd inside the round terminal building. Russell didn’t know she’d gone. Not yet. Her smile brightened as she slipped her arm through the officer’s and adjusted the sable that threatened to blow off her shoulders. “You have no idea how ready I am, flyboy.”
    “Yes, ma’am.” A blush darkened his tan as he reached for the hatbox at her feet.
    Claire gripped the silver handle of her train case and sauntered down the gangway. Her gloved hand slid along the Clipper’s cool metal hide. Inside, she chose an empty seat next to the window and set her case on the floor beneath her feet. A breathy kiss brushed the officer’s cheek as she retrieved her hatbox and then settled into silk cushions.
    The plane was occupied mostly with State Department types. Dark wool suits, long coats, briefcases tucked discreetly beneath their seats. Except for a few military officers in dress uniforms, they were a sea of charcoal. She could feel their stares as she shrugged off her sable. She was used to the looks, but today, the only woman on board, it felt like a bull’s-eye was painted on her back.
    She adjusted her hat and smoothed the skirt against her legs. Andrew, darling Andrew, shook his head this morning when he met her in front of the marine terminal with her papers, but the red Schiaparelli suit was the most conservative thing she owned.
    As close to a friend as she’d met in New York, Andrew and Claire made good sport of the city’s nightlife the first year after she left Bernard. She taught the buttoned-up college boy the finer points of speakeasies. He spoke five languages and taught her one. Upper-crust American English. When she phoned him last night after seven years, he refused to help at first. The risk is too great, he told her. The risk to you, you mean, she replied. Then she wondered aloud what the State Department’s Chief of Protocol ambassador would say to the kinks his son-in-law enjoyed in bed. The ones his wife didn’t have the stomach for. The phone line went quiet for a moment then Andrew came up with a plan.
    He met her at sunrise and handed her a thick envelope. Your ticket, a passport validated for Europe by the State Department, and Portuguese and French tourist visas, he said, made out to Claire Harris. But, you realize that after you land in Lisbon, you are on your own. This is not an official