Page 17 of After Paris

Chapter Seventeen

Ruby

Friday, July 4, 2025

5:00 p.m.

My heart raced as I stood on Madame Bernard’s front stoop. I was doing my best not to replay Scott’s request in my head. Each passing second, I grew angrier.

“Be positive. Be positive.” I drew in a breath. With an exhale, I shoved out the words, hoping the negativity would drift off into the universe. “My life is good. I’m moving on. Scott doesn’t matter.”

The door opened to Madame Bernard. She wore black cotton pants, a silk blouse, and flats. She’d styled her hair and makeup perfectly. She had to be close to eighty-five, yet she had a youthful energy I loved. I hoped I made it to eighty-five, though at this stage of my recovery I’d take whatever time I could eke out.

Here I was busting on Scott and ready to protect my future baby, when I didn’t even know if I had a future. I wasn’t willing to commit to a cat, but a potential child was on the table.

“I can see you have a great deal on your mind,” Madame Bernard said. “Not the article, I hope.”

“No, no. Working on this article has been a great experience. I can’t wait to get to the end of your mother’s and Otto’s diaries.”

She stepped aside and beckoned me to pass. “Otto.”

“A captain in the German army. His orders were to keep an eye on Cécile while she was contracted to Continental Films.”

“Ah, yes. My mother mentioned him several times. Hauptmann Wolfgang, or ‘the captain.’”

I noticed she’d opened a bottle of red wine and had set out two gleaming glasses. “I didn’t think to ask, but do you drink?”

“I do.”

“Excellent. I enjoy a glass every day. My treat to myself.” She motioned for me to sit across from her. “I opened the bottle an hour ago, so it’s had plenty of time to breathe.”

The label told me she was very serious about her wines. “I had friends in Paris who wouldn’t consider drinking a bottle if it hadn’t been opened and had a chance to breathe.”

“Wise friends,” she said.

She handed me a glass. I held it up and admired the way the soft evening light made the ruby hues sparkle. When I sipped, I wasn’t disappointed. This wine was as good as, if not better than, the wine Jeff had ordered last night.

“Did you know the Germans loved French wine?” Madame Bernard asked. “As soon as they invaded the country, they raided the vineyards and the cellars. So many bottles taken.”

“Some families hid their best bottles behind false brick walls or buried them deep in the ground.”

“So much destruction.” She sipped. “Where are you in the diary entries?”

“Late 1940. I’m reading Otto’s and your mother’s entries at the same time and creating a timeline of their lives during the war.”

“Experiencing the war through their eyes is excellent. What do you think about the captain?”

“An average guy who saw his station rise because of the war.”

“While so many fell, many did rise.”

I sensed something under the words but opted not to press. “Your mother made a dress for Cécile for a party at the German embassy.”

Her features softened. “That was the green silk dress.”

“Yes. Captain Wolfgang noted it and said every man in the room did as well. He also praised her dressmaker.”

Madame smiled with pride. “My mother was an artist.”

“Did your mother move in with Cécile?”

A slight smile teased her lips. “You’ll have to keep reading. It’s a dramatic story. I knew nothing of her past until I found her diary. I had so many questions, but she wasn’t alive to answer them.”

“She said nothing about Paris or the war?”

“You think like a modern woman accustomed to sharing thoughts and feelings. That generation wanted to forget the war.” Madame lifted her shoulder in a slight shrug as she sipped her wine. “Times were very tough. Working in film helped shield my mother somewhat. But no one in Paris during the early 1940s escaped difficulties.”

“She took great chances delivering identity papers.”

“Others were arrested or sent to concentration camps for less. But whatever pushed her never left. In high school, I had a friend who’d lost her mother. My mother insisted Kate come live with us. Kate stayed with us for three years.” She sipped her wine. “Kate was one of my best friends. She passed away two years ago.”

It appeared Madame Bernard had lost everyone, but I suspected she would not have appreciated my pity. “I’ve read several old articles about all the parties Cécile attended. She was as famous as the actress Arletty and the designer Coco Chanel. She was often photographed at the Ritz, the theaters, and the finest restaurants. She always wore Van Cleef & Arpels diamonds and pearls. When others were starving, she was living like a queen. Did she collaborate with the Germans?”

“Accusations like that are easy to make, but as always, the story is far more complicated than a quick headline. You must keep reading.”

“No clue or hint?”

Madame Bernard chuckled. “I cannot do justice to the events. You must experience them in my mother’s and Otto’s words.”

“Did Cécile ever consider other designers for her costumes and gowns?”

“No. Cécile trusted my mother, and trust was more important than a designer name. Despite Cécile’s youth, she was very focused and headstrong.”

“Your mother met Emile through Marc.”

“Marc had his fingers in many circles in Paris during the war. He continued running his boulangerie and forging papers until he passed in 1969.”

“And Emile?”

She sipped wine and then set the crystal glass on the table. “You must keep reading.”

I always peeked at the last page of a book before I committed. “How did your mother meet your father?”

“She’ll tell you.”

I laughed. Madame Bernard was enjoying herself, and my spirits and hers lifted.

“It’s important to walk in their shoes as they traveled their path and not jump ahead. You can’t appreciate the tension if you know the ending.”

“I know your mother escaped, but Cécile ...”

Again, the shrug and a caution to keep reading. “I found my mother’s oldest photo album.” From the secretary, she picked up a small leather-bound book and set it on the table between us. The spine creaked as she opened the faded red cover. Black-and-white photos were tacked onto dark-gray pages. The first image featured a tall, thin woman with sweeping blond hair that skimmed her jaw. Her expression showed hints of amusement as she gazed over her shoulder toward the Eiffel Tower in the background.

“I’ve seen this picture before. That’s Sylvia helping Cécile?”

“Yes. Quite handsome, don’t you think?”

“Yes.”

“Up close, no one would ever have confused them, but as you said, in the shadows, she could be her double.” She sipped her wine.

The neat handwriting at the bottom read “1942.”

“Don’t be fooled by their beauty. Together, they took great risks. The SS were all over Paris in 1942 and would have shot them on sight if they knew the truth.” She kissed her fingertips and pressed them to her mother’s face. “My father says he fell in love when he first saw her.”

I turned the page to an image of Sylvia with a young US serviceman. He had dark hair, a square jawline, and a small mustache. Judging by the uniform, he was an airman. “Where did they meet?”

“Keep reading.”

So frustrating. I wanted to skip to the end of the story and read the ending, but madame wasn’t giving anything away. “How long were they married?”

“Forty years. They were happy, and I couldn’t have asked for a better life.” Her tone turned melancholy. “Once you’ve finished the diary, ask me any questions you want.”

“I’ll keep reading, and I’ll call again. A friend of mine from the cancer ward is ill, and I need to see him tomorrow. I’ll be heading home Tuesday.”

She frowned. “When my daughter was ill, she had several lapses. And she beat all until the last.”

“My friend isn’t dramatic, and for him to call after a year means it’s serious.”

“You haven’t spoken in a year?”

“He was healthy and living his life. I understand he didn’t want to look back.”

She closed the scrapbook. “We ignore painful pasts for many reasons.”

Sylvia couldn’t revisit Paris. Jason couldn’t look back at cancer. And I was afraid of the future.

“Do not borrow trouble,” Madame Bernard said. When I looked up, she smiled. “My mother used to say that often. She said life gave us plenty of trouble, and we didn’t need to search out more. Still, when I was a teenager, I never met an argument I didn’t like.”

“I can’t believe that.”

She chuckled. “Believe it. I was a little difficult. My mother was patient with me but didn’t indulge my dramatics.”

“I was the teenager most likely to find a party or join friends for a road trip to New York. I felt as if I were running out of time. I guess I was right.”

“We’re all running out of time, Ruby. You’re squeezing the most out of what you have, and that’s all you can expect.”