The Paris Time Capsule (15 page)

“I’d like to keep in touch with Sylvie,” Cat said.

“
I’m sure Maman would like to keep in touch with you.” He reached out and knocked on the door again.

Nothing.

Loic leaned against the wall.

The sun shone onto the cobblestones and the buildings either side of the narrow street looked as if they had not been touched for centuries.

“Nice day again,” Cat said.

“
Yep.”

“
So, it’ll be great when you get those extra vineyards … next door, I mean.”

“
And, you should set up your own photography studio, you know.”

“
Talking of that,” Cat pulled out her camera. “Do you mind if I take some shots of you?”

“
You can send them to Maman.”

“
Yes …”

He was a dream to photograph. So good looking, it was almost ridiculous. Cat took several shots, until he moved away from the wall.

“Thanks, I’ll send them on.”

“
She’ll like that.”

Cat bustled her camera back into her bag.

“Time to call it quits, then?” An odd expression passed across his face.

“
I really want to help Sylvie. I can’t think of any other way, though.”

Cat moved away from the old house. She took a few steps down the street. The sound of her boots clattering on the cobblestones was the only sound to break the wintery silence. It was as if all the buildings were asleep. It could only happen in the old world, Cat thought, this silence, this age-old feeling that, if you closed your eyes, you could be back in Medieval times.

“Cat, wait.”

She turned back to
Loic. He was close to Madame Leclair’s front door. An almighty rattle echoed through the silence, the sound of metal against old, heavy wood. Someone was at Madame’s front door.

Cat moved back slowly, not daring to hope. It was probably someone else, a younger relative. It couldn’t be her.

After what seemed like minutes, the door opened, inch by inch. And there stood the tiniest lady Cat had ever seen in her life. Indeed, if she had not had scruples, she would have pulled her camera out and started snapping straight away. The woman seemed enveloped by the height of the door. She wore a dark pink woolen suit, the skirt slightly flared, a black brooch pinned to her breast.

Cat felt that if she moved an inch, the tiny apparition in front of her would fade away and never return.

“Madame Leclair?” Loic asked.

The old lady, whose hair was pulled back in a haphazard sort of bun, looked up at
Loic and smiled. “Oui,” she said, holding out an ancient mahogany colored hand. “Oui.”

Madame Leclair insisted they come inside, waving away any explanations that
Loic tried to give as to whom they were. She led them through a low ceilinged entrance hall, and then to the right, into a little sitting room, with a faded pink sofa and a chair covered in miniature yellow flowers. A magazine lay open on a round wooden table next to the chair, and there was an old lamp next to this, its yellow light shining direct onto Madame Leclair’s puff of hair as she eased herself into it.

Cat glanced at her watch. Fifteen minutes of
Loic’s precious half hour were gone.

He launched into an explanation, leaning forward, gesturing with his hands.
Loic spoke a little more slowly than usual, Cat noticed, seemed to engage with the old lady sitting opposite him.

Madame Leclair sat back in her seat. Something passed across her face.
Loic was still.

“
How much did you say?” Cat asked, out of the side of her mouth.

“
Just that we’re trying to trace the route that my grandmother took from Paris to Provence during the war, that it is important family history.”

Cat nodded.

The old woman rested her hands on the side of her chair. Slowly she started to raise herself up to a standing position. Loic moved across the room to help her. She muttered something, almost under her breath. Then she held onto Loic’s arm, looked up at him, smiling, in spite of the fact that she was clearly in pain, and told him something detailed for a few moments.

“
Seems your Musee friend wasn’t so insane. Madame Leclair used to take people in during the war years. Her house was a safe house, during the resistance. She is a Pacifist. She took in many refugees from the Nazis. She can’t remember a Isabelle de Florian.”

Madame Leclair still had
Loic’s arm. She said something else.

“
She wants us to come into her office.”

Cat followed them, laboriously slow, down the narrow, dark hallway towards the back of the house. The walls were lined with black and white photographs.

“The people she took in?” Cat breathed to herself. She would have loved to stay a while, look at them properly. There was such a soft quality to the old black and white shots. In spite of everything, the people in them were smiling.

Madame Leclair and
Loic turned left almost at the end of the hallway. Cat followed them into a smaller room. Madame Josephine Leclair reached up, her hand turning on the old fashioned light switch with a precise, definite motion. Then she grinned at Loic. It was almost as if she was still entranced by the idea of electric light. What would happen to all of this, once Madame Leclair died? Would it be sold to a couple of Parisian holidaymakers? Turned into bed and breakfast accommodation? It was another treasure chest, an elusive glimpse into the past.

“
Her private records, Cat. She hid them in the cellar during the war years, but she kept them.” Loic leaned over a chipped wooden desk.

Madame Leclair opened the brown leather book in front of him, pointing her knotted finger determinedly at the top of a page.

“Your train,” she whispered. “You’ll have to leave now … unless …”

“
I was dreading catching it.”

Cat smiled at him and shook her head
. She could read the faded, sloped handwriting on the page. There were several entries for 1940, but no Isabelle de Florian at all. Cat read the list twice.

“
Isabelle should have been here in mid to late June,” Loic said, his eyes on the page. He rested his finger on an entry.

“
But that’s not -”

“
Look again,” Loic said, running his hand over hers.

Cat didn’t move her hand. Somehow, if she did, it would be acknowledging what he was doing, so she left it where it was.
“Sylvie-Marie Augustin,” she read. “3, Rue Charpentier, Sarlat.”

“
It’s in the Perigord region. Further north. On the way to Paris.”

“
It’s a long shot. The name.”

“
Read it again.”

“
Sylvie?”

“
Exactly.”

“
Really?”

Loic
pulled out his wallet, he tugged, gently, at the photo that Sylvie had given them of Isabelle, when she was a young girl.

“
Madame Leclair?” he asked, his voice gruff. He showed her the picture.

She took the old photo in her hands, pushed her delicate, plastic framed glasses further up her nose. She held the photograph up, stared at it a while.
“Oui,” she said, after a while. “Peut-etre, peut etre.” Perhaps.

Loic
took the photo back. He said something to Madame Leclair, held her hands in his own for a moment. The old woman reached up and kissed him on the cheek, let her hand linger there awhile. She turned to Cat.

“
She wants to kiss you too.”

Cat leaned down, to touch her own lips to the feathery skin of the woman who had
harbored refugees, who had helped, who still, in the face of war and of all the years she had endured, was kind, welcoming.

“
Thank you,” Cat said.

As they emerged out into the clear air,
Loic stuck his hands in his pockets.

“
Sarlat, Cat?”

“
I’m going.”

He grinned.
“Good. So am I.”

It was market day in Sarlat. The entire town was covered with stalls that wound around in front of its charming rustic buildings with their steep pitched roofs and brown shuttered windows. It was as if everyone in the entire town had put out a table. There were arrays of gorgeous food, a cheese van, fruit stalls, bursting with bright oranges, tangerines, vivid lemons. An entire stall was devoted to walnuts, and there were tables selling the Perigord’s famous foie gras.

Loic
seemed keen to show Cat around. On the train, he had pointed out famous castle ruins.

“
Come and see a proper French market, Cat.”

“
You have got to be joking.”

They had left their bags at the hotel.

Loic threw an arm around Cat’s shoulders. “It’s the weekend.”

“
You want me to step off the plane and go straight to my own engagement party?”

“
Cat, listen. You are going to tell your children that you came to France and never saw our markets?”

“
Yes,” Cat laughed.

“
No.”

Cat pulled out her phone.
“Rue Charpentier’s this way.”

“
You Americans,” Loic grinned at her.

“
And you French.”

“
Be French.”

Cat shook her head. She followed her map right in the direction of the street she was looking for.

It wasn’t far from the center, down some charming cobbled streets. Rows of honey colored houses lined Rue Charpentier. When they knocked on number three, there was no answer at all.

Cat waited several minutes,
Loic hovering behind her. The sound of the stallholders’ shouts resonated through the town.

“
Whoever lives here’s at the market,” Loic said. “You’re wasting your time, Cat.”

Cat knocked again.

This time, a head appeared from the house next door on the corner of the street. A woman with greying hair in a loose bun held the shutters open. She called something in French.

Loic
thanked her and moved closer to Cat.

“
What is it?”

“
The entire street, Cat, has gone to a wedding. That woman is babysitting her grandchildren while her own children are at the festivities. She has come down from Paris for the weekend to help out. They won’t be back until after midnight. We’ll have to come back tomorrow. I’m sorry, Cat.”

“
No, you’re not.”

“
No, I’m not,” he chuckled.

Cat bit back a smile. T
he market looked enchanting. Loic, she had to admit, was kind of enchanting himself. She was in France. Was spending a day at a French market really something she would regret not doing down the track? Her mind filled with thoughts of her grandmother, Virginia. Would she have strayed off the task for one day? Yes.

“
Everybody needs a break, Cat.”

They moved back out towards the
colorful stalls, where the people were smiling, chatting with their customers. Women held large woven baskets over their arms. It was winter, but the sun shone.

“
Okay,” she said. “Just this once.”

Loic
took her arm and stepped onto the cobbled street.

“
Just this once.”

By the end of the day,
she had taken hundreds of shots and perused the vintage stalls. They had spent an hour in a photographer’s gallery, drinking in his stunning black and white photographs, chatting with both he and Loic about the pros and cons of setting up a small business.

Loic stopped at a small bar. Cat put the packages that she had bought next to her on the black leather banquette, and took a sip of the wine Loic had ordered for them.

“
Any French woman would have demanded that I take her out for dinner by now,” Loic said, turning the stem of his glass, not looking at her.

“
Lucky I’m not French.”

“
Do you like France, Cat?”

Cat leaned forward in her seat.
“There’s something so … comforting about the rhythms of life here. And yet, there’s high standards, people don’t accept second best, in anything they do.”

Loic
chuckled.

“
Have you ever been to New York?”

“
Yes, once.” He looked as if he were thinking about something for a moment. “You haven’t eaten properly in France, yet. Come to one of the best restaurants in town tonight.”

Cat took the last sip of her wine. She couldn’t do that. Shouldn’t. How would she feel, if Christian were going out with some gorgeous woman for dinner tonight? Because, there was no denying that
Loic was stunning. And he was French. On the other hand, he knew she was engaged and he was focusing very much on showing her around as a tourist, nothing more.

“
Sure,” she said, sitting up. “Show me the food!”

Loic
raised a brow. He stood up and helped her on with her coat. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll show you the food.”

But as Cat applied makeup to her face, doing her eyes as she would if she were going out at home in New York, it was impossible to push away the voice inside her head that told her this was a date. She had, of course, the perfect
vintage dress for an evening at a French restaurant, and there was no doubt that the French women there tonight would be no slouches. If she wore it, it would only be for herself. Cat frowned at herself in the mirror. Who was she kidding? Any woman would revel in the way a handsome French man looked at her, and the fact that Loic was also no slouch didn’t help at all.

But she was not in danger of anything untoward. She trusted herself. Hurriedly, without thinking, she put on the dark green dress, left her long hair hanging loose, and put on a small gold necklace that she had bought for herself at one of the
market stalls. A spray of perfume. She looked appropriate, that was all. The French were discerning and she would at least not stick out terribly.

Cat looked at her watch. Ten minutes, until she had arranged to meet
Loic in the lobby. She picked up her phone. She hadn’t talked to Christian for a while, and the texts from the bridesmaids and Elise had waned off. The quiet had been odd, and slightly unnerving. And yet, they would surely be contacting her again on Monday.

Quickly, fingers dancing over the glass, Cat sent Christian a text, told him exactly what she was doing. Going out for dinner in Sarlat. With
Loic. He was showing her around. Hopefully everything would be all sorted in the next couple of days and she would come home. Cat sent the text, and shut her phone.

Christian would most likely go out to dinner too with his friends. Of course he would. Loic was a friend. That was all.

Loic
stood in the lobby. He looked devastating.

Cat walked down the hotel stairs.

“You look beautiful,” he said, giving her his arm.

“
Thank you.” Cat kept her eyes trained ahead. “It’s a … nice evening, for the time of year.” She closed her eyes. Stop it. Stop gabbling.

Loic
stayed quiet as they walked out of the hotel onto the streets, where there were plenty of people wandering up and down in the cold, clear air.

The restaurant was in an old house on a wider street than those they had strolled along during the day. This street looked like a boulevard and the restaurant was set in what had probably once been a beautiful old house. Now, it had been restored with sensitivity to its past. The elegant wall lights were still there, gilded mirrors on the walls, parquet floors gleaming and yet it was not at all cold inside. There was a sense of coziness, of conviviality, of light.

“
I wonder why your grandmother felt she had to change her name, that is if we are following the right lead,” Cat said. Their table was set against a window, overlooking the lamp lit street. People strolled past, wrapped in elegant coats and scarves.

“
Let’s not talk about Grand-mere, Cat.”

Cat looked across the table at him.
“Well … this place is amazing.”

“
Have you ever thought about taking a risk?”

“
Risk? What risk?”

Their first courses arrived. Cat took a bite of her foie gras with spiced sauce and
caramelized apples and almost swooned.

“
Well.” Loic leaned forward. “When I started my own business, my father thought I was mad.”

“
And look at you now.”

Loic
leaned forward. “But it’s not work. It gives me more than a … buzz. Why are you still working for someone else when you clearly hate it?”

He seemed so … earnest, that it was impossible to tell a lie.

“I do hate it,” she laughed.

“
So why not work for yourself, Cat?”

Cat shook her head.

“You can’t afford not to, if you hate your job.”

“
Can we talk about something else?”

The lamb arrived next, its herb sauce to die for.

“You must have fabulous food in New York.”

“
There’s something about this, though, it’s divine.”

Loic
stayed quiet.

“
Look.” Cat finished her main course, took a sip of wine. “I admire you for doing something on your own, but it’s not for me.”

“
People would line up for you to photograph them in France, we are a nation of posers,” Loic grinned.

“
It’s not that simple.”

“
Cat, my father worked for the French government all his life. It was just a job for him. Nothing more. Is that what you really want?”

Cat pushed back her chair a bit.
“My father worked hard too. He … was passionate about certain things. Had views that were strident. Didn’t approve of people like you, for one thing.”

But he was watching her, intent.

Cat waited for a moment. Did she really want to go on? But Loic was quiet, and, something inside her kicked in. She did want to talk.

“
It was straight after one of our … arguments, that he grabbed my mother, stormed off.  Half an hour later they were killed in a car accident. I don’t know … I guess I just don’t want to fight anymore.”

The waiter presented their desserts with a flourish. Cat forced herself to take a bite of her deliberately undercooked chocolate cake
. The taste was acrid.

“
Look,” Loic reached out across the table, caught her hand in his.

Cat didn’t move her hand.

“You can’t live an entire life just to please others. Especially those who are dead.”

“
You’ve got it wrong. My father would have hated … Christian, and his friends. God, if my father were alive, I hate to think what’d be happening. I’d be … cast out of his life! Cut off, probably!”

Loic
watched her. “So that’s it, then.”

Cat put her napkin down. What had she said?
“We should go, Loic.”

“
Don’t marry Christian. It’s not fair on either of you.”

“
Well, I disagree.”

He called for the bill, sat back in his chair. Didn’t say anything while they waited. When he had signed,
and they had put on their jackets, he held the door open for Cat and she shivered, as the cold night air hit them. Loic took off his coat, laid it over her shoulders. Cat took it. It seemed churlish not to accept.

But as they walked down the street, he caught at her hand, stopped her, just on the edge of a pool of light, shimmering from the elegant street lamp onto the pavement.

“Cat,” he said, gently lifting her chin with his thumb and forefinger. Then he bent down, his lips resting on hers with the lightest of touches.

Cat shook her head,
“No,” she whispered, but as his lips touched hers, her entire being shot into life.  For a few moments, she gave into it, kissed him back, her hands wanting to run up and through his hair, to hold him, just as he was holding her around her waist.

It took every last reserve that she had to step back.
“That’s unfair, Loic,” she said, but her voice was husked, almost sounding like something that she had never heard before. Like someone else’s voice.

Loic
was breathing hard. His eyes, intense, were on her. “Stay with me in France,” he said. “Start up your own studio here. Sell those beautiful photographs of yours, take commissions that interest you, Cat. Collaborate with people who write coffee table books. Whatever it takes, I’d support you.”

Cat forced herself to take another step back, couldn’t look into his eyes. It was clear what she would see there. If she looked, she would never turn away again.