Aubrielle's Call (6 page)

CHAPTER 8

John held his sea chest beneath his arm. The flowers in one hand and his bag in the other. He admired the dark-haired beauty.

My love!

She was young, but certainly no child.

In his heart, John made a solemn vow, one he made each time his eyes first rested on his soul mate’s new face.

I will love and protect you all the days of your life.

The flower vendor barely glanced at him as she pocketed his coins. She kept her chin tucked, and her eyes downcast while she unblocked the pony cart and led it away.

John clenched his teeth and took a slow breath as she vanished into the fog. He shoved the bouquet of flowers into the trash receptacle, and with renewed determination, he pursued her into the cloud bank.

I don’t even know her name.

Far enough behind to remain hidden by the fog, but near enough to reach her should a need arise, John kept pace with the young woman. He could do nothing else. From the end of an alley, he watched as she closed the gate behind her cart. As soon as she climbed the stairs to her house and disappeared inside, John circled the block. She lived on a winding street of vendors, above a millinery shop. He passed the busy
boulangerie
next door, and the smell of fresh bread followed him around the corner.

On the street of shops behind her house, he found what he wanted—a sign in the butcher shop window.
Appartement à louer.
Inside the store, John spoke to the owner about the apartment rental.

From the third-floor living room window, John’s view was of the back of the bakery. Next door to the
boulangerie
, Agaria’s covered flower cart stood beside the small stable.

“There is a box to receive mail at the bottom of the stairwell.” The butcher walked through the living area and stopped in the kitchen. “The furniture comes with the apartment unless you have your own.”

“I don’t.” John inspected the bedroom and water closet. “I’ll take it.”

“For how long,
monsieur
?” the butcher inquired.

“Indefinitely,
mon ami
. I have business in town.”

“That is good for us both, no?” The butcher stopped outside the door. “There are two keys in the kitchen drawer. You may pay your rent on the first.”

* * *

Aubrielle turned off the light in her father’s room and softly closed his door. She made her weary way down the dark hall to her room and stood at the window overlooking the back gate. Papa grew worse each day, one moment anxious and the next angry, unable to follow a simple conversation. At times, he believed Aubrielle to be her mother. They could not afford a physician, and even if they could, there was no cure for Mad Hatter’s disease.

Tomorrow she would sell the last of her flowers. Truthfully, she intended to give them away if there were no buyers. No doubt Henri would attempt to persuade her to continue to sell his wares, but she would be firm. Mrs. Moroney’s offer to let her sell baked goods appealed to her. What she didn’t sell could be put in the day-old bin in the store. No more dying flowers to throw away.

Across the alleyway, a light came on in an upstairs room and caught her attention. The familiar outline of a tall man stood framed in the light.

Aubrielle gasped and drew back from the window even though he couldn’t see her in the darkened room.
She pulled the curtain closed and peeked around the edge.

The tall shadow paced away from the window, only to return a moment later.

Unwilling to turn on her light, she undressed in the dark and crawled between the sheets.

Had the tall man followed her?

She rolled over and stared at the closed curtains.

I must be imagining things.

She would keep a look out for the man tomorrow, and if she saw him, she would report him to the
préfecture de police.
Although she tried, she couldn’t remember the details of his face.

The next morning, she left the house just after
Tante
Mae arrived with a basket of croissants. Folded into a napkin, the flaky pastry Mae had given her warmed Aubrielle’s pocket as she crossed the bridge and walked along the river with a lighter heart. Yesterday’s fears had evaporated like the fog. She didn’t care that her flowers had wilted a bit more overnight. She would give them away if she had to. Today would be the last day she and Éclair would sell dying flowers in the park.

After Éclair had his feedbag, Aubrielle pulled the pastry from her pocket, broke off a small piece and popped it in her mouth. As usual, the park was empty except for the vendors and a few residents enjoying the bright morning.
The man she had glimpsed in the third-floor window last night
remained a mystery, his large form nowhere to be found. At noon, she handed out small bouquets of flowers to soldiers and homemakers cutting through the park.

She took her time in the afternoon, walking the half-circle paths that meandered to the edge of the park, beneath the colorful autumn trees before returning to the avenue. Aubrielle and Éclair waited for two cars to pass, then crossed the roadway and continued in the direction of the
École Militaire.
There would certainly be more soldiers near the military school to present with flowers.

With her cart nearly empty, she turned Éclair north, along another arching path, toward the exit to the park and home.

“Aubrielle!” Out of breath, Henri jogged up to her cart and graced her with his most flirtatious smile. “I didn’t know to look this far from the tower. I couldn’t find you.” He gestured to her depleted flower display. “You’ve had a good day?”

“
Non
. I gave them away.” She took Éclair’s lead and scratched the mane between his ears. “I’ve decided not to sell flowers anymore, Henri. I’m sorry.”

“What do you mean?” Henri paced away, then turned back as he pushed his shock of blond hair back from his face. “You cannot quit. If I do not sell the remaining stock, I will lose my broker position.” He inhaled deeply, rested his hands on his hips and softened his voice. “Aubrielle, the petals of these lilies are so exquisite, their fragrance so rare, that their scent will make you cry. I promise you, people will fight to have a bouquet from your cart.”

“Who will fight, Henri?” She shook her head. “There is no one here. Besides, I have no means to buy your exquisite greenhouse flowers.”

“You don’t understand how important this is for me.” Henri gripped her arm. “My uncle—”

“
Arrêtez
, Henri.” Aubrielle pulled away and put Éclair between them. “You have been my friend, but this behavior must stop.
”

Henri’s jaw clenched as he glared at Aubrielle. Without another word, he stalked away around the curved walkway.

Aubrielle glanced around. Henri’s words and actions were out of character. Threatening.

Is there no police nearby
?

She had come a third of the way around the long arching walkway. The path had become too narrow to turn Éclair and the cart around. The bright day and the colorful leaves overhead no longer lifted her spirits.

What if Henri refuses to leave me alone?

Just past the apex of the arch, she spotted the croissant vendor. He rested on the curb beside his pushcart rubbing his leg.

“Are you all right,
monsieur?”
Aubrielle left Éclair and hurried to the injured man.

“
Oui. Oui
. It is just the
petit chien
.” The man looked up at Aubrielle and shook his head. “My employer insisted I bring his new puppy to the park with me today. Now he’s run away.” The seller massaged his right leg and grimaced. “I injured myself chasing him through the bushes.” He waved his other hand behind him.

Along the edge of the park grew thick rows of hedges lined by trees—intended to shield the park from the city, and give the illusion of an oasis amid the busy Parisian downtown. Narrow steps led up to the street, a small landing at each plateau.

“Oh no! Is he friendly?” Aubrielle hurried up to the first landing and bent to look beneath the hedge. The hedgerows were planted far enough apart to allow gardeners to walk between them. “Will he come to me?”

The vendor limped up the steps behind her. “He ran that way.” He pointed between the row of bushes.

“What is his name?” Aubrielle eased between the break in the handrail and took several steps along the hedgerow. She crouched down to peer beneath the bushes.

“Gullible.”

Aubrielle turned her head toward the vendor just as he shoved her to the ground.

The weight of his knee pressed her body into the soft loam. One hand gripped her face, covering her mouth while he pulled her head back at a painful angle. “I’ve watched you,
jolie fleur
, every day for months. Selling your blossoms. Smiling at soldiers.”

The tall bushes shielded her from both the park and the street. Mrs. Moroney’s warning flashed through her mind as the man’s nails scraped up her thigh beneath her coat.

“Shall we open the petals of your
fleur secrète
and touch your sweet dew,
ma chère
?”

She tried to bite his palm as she struggled to throw his weight from her back.

“Bitch.” He slammed her face into the ground. “I shall enjoy this.”

Dirt and twigs filled her mouth, and she screamed. Cold air chilled her skin as he held her head down with one hand and yanked up her skirt and coat with the other.

CHAPTER 9

From his bedroom window, John watched his new Agaria leave for the park. He slipped his arms into his overcoat as he hurried out the door, down the stairs, and into the street. Near the tower, he purchased a newspaper from a boy while keeping an eye on her cart.

She stopped where he had first seen her, along the edge of the central walkway, not far from the park entrance.

He chose a bench on the other side of the expansive concrete entrance from where she set up her cart and shook open the paper. He pretended to read the newsprint while he kept his attention on his love.

Although John could read and speak French like a native Parisian, he wasn’t sure about current French law. He’d been conscripted into military service before and had no intention of getting caught up in the war he knew was coming. To pose as a Brit, or continue as an American entrepreneur, like he had told the butcher, would gain him the advantage of citizenship abroad. He held no personal loyalty to any nation. He’d seen too many come and go. His only concern was the well-being of the lovely flower girl.

I must learn her name.

Foolish didn’t begin to describe the situation. Throughout their many first meetings, he had never encountered this problem. She wouldn’t look at him or speak to him. The only thing he could do was remain close enough to intercede on her behalf. Confident the Polish invasion was what had triggered the magic, he had time. Time to make her acquaintance. Time to convince her to love him again. Time to stalk her around the large Paris park.

When she unblocked her cart and led her pony south along the plaza, John rose and followed. He watched the dark-haired young woman as she handed out bouquets to passersby.

She’s giving away her flowers.

He saw the way she smiled and chatted with strangers.

Something has changed for her. Her heart has lifted.

She crossed the street that cut through the square and continued toward the war college on the far side of the
Champ-de-Mars
.

John used his long stride to get ahead of her. He took a seat beside a cadet on a park bench, shook his newspaper into place, and peered over the top as she came near the corner where he sat.

She paused in front of the college and gave away two small bouquets to young servicemen. After they had left, she turned the cart in the direction of the tower and led her pony up the long arching walkway that curved toward the edge of the park.

He folded his paper, prepared to follow when the blond-haired man she had spoken with yesterday rushed up the path and disappeared around the pony cart. John clenched his jaw and rose to his feet.

The cart stopped along the passage, but the curve in the walkway hid most of it behind by bright autumn foliage.

When the vehicle moved, John stepped around the bench to follow. Any moment, he would lose sight of the flower cart altogether.

A woman with one arm around a grocery bag pulled a child across his course.

The little boy stared upward at the red helium-filled balloon floating above his head.

“Allons, viens avec moi,
Tomas.”
The woman turned to tug the child’s hand, and several apples slipped from the top of her bag.

A bone-deep shiver crawled along John’s spine.

No!

The woman’s lips moved without sound.

John attempted to take a breath but the winter air caught in his throat. His heart pounded rapidly in his chest. Time wound to a standstill and the familiar high-pitched whine underscored the piercing pain that shot through John’s head.

Three apples hung suspended in their fall to the ground. Her tug had loosed the balloon from the little boy’s hand, and the string hung just beyond his pudgy fingertips.

A second call?

A small corner of the flower cart remained visible on the path, as the crushing pain in his head coalesced between his eyes.

He began to run as soon as the magic released time. The mother’s exclamation and the young boy’s cry fell behind him as he raced up the path. He reached the front of the cart and stopped. No one stood on the walkway except the pony. The urgent sting on his forehead pointed to the steps up to the street. When he ducked around the small horse, he caught sight of movement in the bushes.

Long bounds brought him to the landing on the steps. Two people struggled in the dirt between the hedgerows. Anger boiled from his chest in a primitive cry of rage. He hopped the handrail, grabbed the man on the ground by the hair and lifted him up and away from the woman.

From the corner of his eye, he saw her move on the ground. The pain on his forehead dispelled as his fist landed a solid blow to the man’s nose. With his second blow, the cartilage in the stranger’s nose dissolved. The third blow sent him into the bushes to collapse in an unmoving heap on the ground.

John clutched the man to finish him. Her whimper made him hesitate.

Leaves and dirt clung to her face and mixed with the blood that ran freely from her nose. She had backed against the bushes, both hands covering her mouth as if to smother her anguish. Her wide eyes captured him. Dark irises swam in tears, until the liquid spilled, scoring a trail through the grime on her cheek.

John’s heart surged with sympathy and sadness.

My Agaria.

He thrust the man into the dirt behind him, ignoring the curious people who gathered on the landing drawn by his savage cry.

He dropped to his haunches before the dark-haired flower girl, his hands on his knees.

She pushed her heels into the dirt, pressing herself further into the bushes.

“I won’t hurt you.” He kept his voice low and calm, although rage and terror clawed at his throat. “You know that.” He raised an eyebrow and smiled. “Somewhere inside, you know I’ll never hurt you.”

Her gaze found his, then flicked to the man who lay behind him in a heap.

“Don’t look at him,
ma chère
. He will never harm you again.” John held his hand out to her. “Look at me, instead.”

The shrill rattle of a whistle sounded nearby.

“The police are almost here.” John swallowed back the endearment on his tongue and in his heart. His words would only confuse and frighten her more. “You are safe. Let me help you stand.”

Ma bien-aimée.

Her terrified panting had slowed. She lowered her hands from her mouth and tipped her head to one side. Her lips trembled as she spoke. “He said he lost the puppy.”

“It was a ruse. A trick.” He wiggled the fingers of his open hand. “Come. I’ll take you home.” He could sense more people had gathered on the steps behind his back, yet he refused to look away from her eyes. “My name is John.”

“John,” she breathed. “John.” She reached for his hand, never taking her gaze from his. “I don’t… How do I? Do I know you, John?” Her scraped and torn hand touched his.

For the second time in the last few minutes, John’s breath caught in his throat. He swallowed and nodded as he took a firmer grip on her hand and helped her stand. “In a way.”

“
Reculez, s'il vous plaît.
” The commanding voice shouted beyond the crowd.

Her eyes widened as she peeked around John’s arm.

He pulled a handkerchief from his inside coat pocket and handed it to her. “Are you injured,
ma chère?
Should I ask the police to call a doctor?”

She wiped her forehead and nose. “No. I’m not injured.” She shook her head as her dark eyes filled with tears. “Thank you, John. I… He…” Her breath caught in a sob.

“You’re safe now.”
John put his arm around her heaving shoulders as she leaned into him. “No one will harm you, I promise.” He pushed his back into the bushes so she could see around him. “The police will want to speak with you. If they ask me your name…”

“Aubri—” She coughed and ducked her head. She wiped her face again. Her attention strayed to the crowd of curious faces. “Aubrielle Cohen.”

On the ground between them and the landing lay Aubrielle’s attacker. The merchant pushed himself to his hands and knees raising his hate-filled glare to Aubrielle.

When the vendor moved, Aubrielle gripped the lapels of John’s unbuttoned coat.

The officer broke through the crowd and stared at the merchant on the ground. Then his attention shifted to Aubrielle’s terrified grip on John’s jacket. With a toss of his chin, he spoke to John, “What happened
here?”

“The man,” John spoke in English, his words hoarse with pent-up emotion, “attacked this woman. When she cried out, I came to her aid.”

Aubrielle turned her face away from the staring crowd.

“Is she injured?”
The officer walked around
the assailant then knelt, jabbing a knee into the man’s back.

“No
.
Only frightened.” John ran his hand down her back, brushing twigs and leaves from her coat.

“Aubrielle?” The blond-haired man pushed to the front of the spectators.

Aubrielle stiffened in John’s arms. Her face remained away from the onlookers, pressed against his shirt.

“Remain here,” the officer instructed to John. “Officer Sarchet will require your names and a statement.” He handcuffed the man on the ground, gripped the vendor’s arm, and pulled him roughly to his feet. “This one comes with me.”

As soon as the officer pushed the attacker through the throng of people, Aubrielle’s blond friend pushed through the break in the rail, only to be shoved back by Officer Sarchet.

“Stay back,
s'il vous plaît
.” Officer Sarchet
blocked his path.

“But I know her.”

The officer withdrew a pad and pencil from his pocket, ignoring the man at his back, and addressed John, “Your names.”

“I’m John Larson.”

“
Un Américain
?
” Officer Sarchet made a note at John’s nod and looked to Aubrielle.
“
Et vous, mademoiselle
?

Aubrielle had turned her head when the officer spoke. Her head and her hand rested against John’s chest. “Aubrielle Cohen.”

Officer Sarchet took down their addresses and a brief statement of what happened in his notepad. “Is there someone we can contact to verify your information,
Monsieur
Larson?

“My attorney in the States is Monroe James.” John gave the officer the telephone number.

“Do you require a doctor?” Officer Sarchet asked Aubrielle as he closed his notepad.

Aubrielle shook her head. “
Non.
Merci
.”

“I’ll see she gets home.” John held Aubrielle’s elbow as she passed through the opening in the rail onto the landing.

Most of the crowd had disbursed, but Aubrielle’s gentleman friend remained. He reached to take Aubrielle’s arm as she stepped onto the walkway.

Aubrielle pulled back, leaning against John. “Henri, I’ve no wish to argue with you right now.”

“I must know if you are uninjured.” Henri’s survey lifted from Aubrielle’s face to John’s. “Who is your new friend?”

“I’m an old friend.” John gave Henri a hard smile. “I’ll make sure Aubrielle gets home safely.” John edged between Henri and Aubrielle and supported her as they descended to the arched walkway and her cart.

“I’ll stop by your house to check on you,” Henri called.