At the Edge of Summer by Jessica Brockmole Read Free Book Online Page B

because of Clare Ross. The urbane Bauer with his tailored Berlin suits, with his straw hats and his Horsman rackets, with his casual change tossed down on baccarat tables or in the laps of showgirls, he didn’t belong at Mille Mots. Maman, in her aesthetic dresses and reform corsets, Papa in his knickerbockers and painting smocks. The château’s crumbling walls, leaking roof, moth-eaten curtains, halls lined with terrifying paintings and nude sculptures. The maids in their brightly colored uniforms that Maman had designed, “because happiness is more dignified than black.” Marthe in her crowded kitchen, birdcages hanging between the dented pots. Papa’s lunchtime potage, Maman’s English tea, both of them feeding the dogs under the dining table. Papa’s habit of cheerfully coming down to breakfast in absolutely nothing but a dressing gown. Among all of that, Bauer wouldn’t belong.
    “You’re right.” I pushed back my chair and picked up my plate. “If I never invite you, I never have to share.”
    He nodded approvingly. “You are a sly weasel, Crépet.”
    “See you tomorrow?” I reached across the table for a handshake, but he yanked his hand away and offered an obscene gesture instead. He lit a Murad cigarette and disappeared in the after-supper crowd.
    Tucked deep in my satchel, I had to forget about the little letter until after my shift in the café. I simpered and scraped, I balanced trays and poured wine, I washed each table a dozen times over. I did three sketches of a young trio visiting from England and they rattled down far too many francs for the souvenirs. I didn’t complain. After the café closed, Gaspard let me sit and study, sharing the light, while he finished hanging up the washed glasses, ready for tomorrow. After he hung the last, he pulled a squat bottle of cognac from a hollow spot behind the bar. He poured a finger out and toasted the thin air. Once I asked him what he celebrated. He tugged at his beard and said, “Another day, conquered. Isn’t that something to celebrate?”
    I waited until I was back at Uncle Théophile’s apartment, shut in my narrow bedroom with the desk lamp on, to take out Mademoiselle Ross’s letter again.
    I don’t believe you that it is as dreary as you say. You’re in Paris, after all.
Paris it was, but not the city I’d fallen in love with years ago. Between classes, study, tennis, and the evening jobs that helped to pay for all of that, I had no spare time. I didn’t have time to sit in the Jardin du Luxembourg. I couldn’t roam the museums on rainy days—the Louvre, with its brass air registers and Rembrandts, the Petit Palais, the Musée de l’Armée, the exquisite little Musée d’Ennery. Sometimes on the weekends I stayed in the city I’d trek up to the nineteenth arrondissement, to Parc des Buttes Chaumont, green and rippling with waterfalls. But I usually didn’t see much of Paris outside of the gray stone and leaning buildings of the Latin Quarter.
    I wrapped myself in a sweater—Uncle Théophile kept the apartment as cold as November—and smoothed a sheet of paper on the desk.
Dear Mademoiselle,
    If I were you, I wouldn’t envy the life of the university student. Indeed I am in Paris, but I’m not dining at the Ritz. I can’t afford more than beans for supper, washed down with the vilest of wine. I don’t ride omnibuses when my feet work perfectly well. I don’t go to the opera when I have the collective complaining of the three who share my turne.
    And I don’t have much more freedom than I did at Mille Mots. I’m living with my uncle, you see. His name is Théophile, a dour, hairless gent who teaches Greek at the Lycée Montaigne. He’s Papa’s second oldest brother, but even Papa can’t stand to be in the same room as him for longer than four minutes. He has an overfondness for boiled eggs and for telling me what to do. I’d begged Maman to let me stay instead with Uncle Jules, who keeps an actress as a mistress and