Free Crossing on the Paris by Dana Gynther Page A

collar, “let’s go out and take a last look at old Albion.”
    On deck Vera looped the leash around the rail, though the dog had already made herself comfortable at her feet, and reached into her pockets for her gloves. It was decidedly chilly out now. Looking at the hills and sea ledges of the British island—was that village over there Bembridge or Ryde?—she couldn’t help but think of Charles.
    The last time she’d been on an ocean liner, he’d been with her; off on an American adventure, they’d crossed the Atlantic on the France. Side by side, they had watched the channel isle go by, perhaps at this very point on the deck. He told her about the childhood holidays he and his family had spent on the Isle of Wight after Queen Victoria had made it so fashionable. That evening, nearly a decade ago, as they passed the quaint villages tucked into bays, they’d discussed the possibility of renting a cottage there one summer. Vera sighed. So many things left undone.
    The ship was now maneuvering toward the mainland, up to port. She chuckled to herself, remembering the silly jokes they’d made about the Southampton rivers: the Test and the Itchen. How she wished Charles were with her now!
    Vera pulled up her collar with a frown, wondering how it had come to this. This entire decision of returning to America had been hastily made one rainy Parisian afternoon, while playing a game ofchance. Really, she had only wanted to shake Charles up a bit, to remind him that she would not be around forever. She’d felt his absence keenly this past year and wanted their friendship to retrieve its former glory, for him to revel in her company like he had before the cancer.
    Just as Vera had known those who fed off the unwell—people who enjoyed wielding power over the weak or those who relished the protagonism of the sickbed martyr—Charles was on the opposite end of this spectrum. He abhorred illness. He couldn’t bear Vera’s sunken face, her thin frame; he grieved to see her constant fatigue, her forgetfulness. When they were together these days, he could no longer pretend they were still in their prime. She had become a grim reminder of mortality—his own as well.
    Although she couldn’t stand the way he’d been looking at her (or, rather, how he avoided meeting her eye) since she’d become ill, she’d missed his provocative conversation, his generous laugh. Vera had not been alone this last year; every day friends had visited and she’d been invited to dozens of soirées. But those relationships could not compare to the camaraderie she’d always had with Charles.
    Looking out on the lights of Southampton, Vera shook her head softly. Why in the world was she on this boat? She couldn’t imagine enjoying her slack family ties and the brittle society of Manhattan. Paris was her real home. Was she really just trying to teach Charles a lesson? How strangely one behaves in the face of Death!
    Night had fallen abruptly and it was time to dress for dinner. She made a little clicking noise to rouse Bibi, then slowly made her way back to her cabin, thinking herself a perfect fool.

    On her eastern voyage across the Atlantic, Constance had discovered that in the absence of social obligations or family duties, errandsor chores, one was forced into a state of utter leisure. Besides relaxing on deck chairs, reading, dancing, and sports, on an ocean liner, adults found themselves playing parlor games and participating in silly contests. Without a doubt, however, the key events on board were meals: luncheons, teas, cocktails, snacks, and dinners. The French Line was renowned for its delicious food, and passengers, not to be outdone by the wonders on their plates, dressed up to eat, donning lace, velvet, flowers, and jewels.
    Since she was traveling alone, Constance had not reserved a table for the voyage but had left her evening diversion, her dining companions,