Free The Last Time I Saw Paris by Lynn Sheene

blanket, she waved at the greenery peeking out as though it were a gift made just for them.
    He flicked his eyes over her then back to the street. A long moment then he nodded, jerking his head toward the door. Claire stole a glance behind her as she climbed the limestone stairs. The soldiers across the street were stuffing the man into the backseat of the car.
    Her legs went weak as she entered the lobby. She gripped the cart and forced herself to examine the hotel’s interior as she pulled herself together. Swags of golden silk hung from windows. Intricate rugs nearly covered the oak parquet floor. Silk upholstered chairs clustered around a glowing marble fireplace. Not bad, but the German officers gathered by the fire ruined the ambience.
    “Madame?” A voice, consternation evident in the tone.
    Claire forced a smile. “ Bonjour , Monsieur Leluc.”
    A small man with large glasses peered over the front desk. Leluc’s face was owlish, with wide-open eyes and a surprised expression that never quite went away. He was manager of the hotel, a distinguished position before the war. The precariousness of his position looked to be wearing on him. “The front entrance, Madame?” He shook his head and scurried toward a long hallway. “Come with me, please.”
    Claire peeled off her scarf as she followed him down the corridor. Hôtel Emeraude was balmy compared to most buildings in the city. The German officer residents made sure Leluc had plenty of coal to keep their little pink asses warm. She tried not to notice the men she saw through open doors, bent over desks or staring out at her, cigarettes smoldering in their hands.
    Leluc turned into a cramped room at the corridor’s end. He squeezed past boxes overflowing with papers and behind a large desk wedged into a corner. The room’s one small window was covered with fabric and newspaper to keep out the cold.
    “Yes.” He glanced about his new office, answering Claire’s unspoken question. “But I am lucky.” He sat back in his chair and nodded toward her cart. “Madame Palain sait se débrouiller.” She gets things done. A high compliment. “I don’t know how you have anything in your shop. No one else does.”
    Claire just smiled as she eased wrapped bundles from the cart and set them on his desk one by one. Georges once explained Débrioullard . Le system D. It meant, he told her, to manage the system. And Madame Palain did. For the starved in the occupied zone, every spare patch of dirt was used for raising vegetables, for scratching out any kind of food at all. Flowers couldn’t be eaten. But the petite florist made phone calls, wrote letters. And the flowers came.
    “The service you offer is a reminder of civilization in these dark days. You do not see and hear what I do in this place.”
    Claire unwrapped the arrangements as he spoke, each a study of a few cheery blooms adorned with dried flowers, shining polished twigs and ribbons. All showcased a different color: pink, white, crimson and gold. “ Voilà. What do you think, Monsieur?”
    His eyes brightened and a small smile skittered across his face. He hurried around the desk to inspect each one, his face inches from the blooms. “Ah, exquisite. Very elegant.” He straightened; momentary pleasure animated his pudgy cheeks. “Madame Palain has outdone herself. Such liveliness, such joy. I will need a dozen more.”
    Claire smiled with pride.
    He caught her expression. “Was it you? Did you make these?”
    Warmth crept up her neck. These were the first important arrangements Claire created alone. Her own design. She nodded.
    “You have a talent, Madame. A real talent. To create beauty to share in times such as this. It is a gift.”
    The thing of it was—the damned thing—Claire knew he was right. She’d realized it her first week at La Vie en Fleurs. It wasn’t just that each flower’s beauty was amplified in her compositions; it wasn’t only that architectural forms built themselves under