Page 3 of After Paris
Chapter Three
Ruby
Tuesday, July 1, 2025
7:00 a.m.
I was packed, ready to go, and anxious.
For all my talk of bravery and “please don’t worry about me,” I was nervous. It had been years since I’d driven more than twenty miles. And now, just before the July Fourth weekend, I planned to drive through the Hampton Roads Bridge–Tunnel, likely clogged with vacation and commuter traffic, and then up I-95. The sooner I left, the better chance I’d have of making it to Northern Virginia before noon.
I pushed down hard on my travel bag and leaned into it as I zipped it closed. I’d be gone for over a week, but choosing what to wear was more difficult than I’d imagined. Was I going to select business attire, Paris chic, southern casual, or something more formal? I was interviewing the daughter of a dressmaker who’d outfitted one of the most beautiful actresses in Paris during the height of World War II and the German occupation. As I’d packed, I couldn’t choose the appropriate style, so I didn’t. Better to be ready for any scenario that might arise.
I hefted the suitcase, grunting under the weight, and set it hard on the floor. Pulling up the handle, I allowed the wheels to do the work.
My front doorbell rang. I glanced at my slim gold wristwatch as I hurried to the door. I wasn’t shocked to find Eric standing on my doorstep.
“I’m fine,” I said.
“I know. I’m helping you load your suitcase, which weighs three tons.”
That teased a smile. “Two tons. And thanks. I wasn’t excited about dragging it down the stairs.”
Eric hoisted the bag. “Bricks, bars of gold, rocks?”
“Chiffons, jeans, silks, and, of course, shoes.”
“You always look nice,” he said.
“Thanks.”
Today, I’d chosen white capri pants and a lightweight beige safari top. I had on my favorite Dior scarf, wedge sandals, hoop earrings, and a collection of gold beaded bracelets. My cross-body purse was a vintage Saint Laurent I’d found in a Paris thrift shop. A wide-brimmed hat rested by my front door. Of course I wouldn’t meet Madame Bernard in this outfit. But no reason to miss out on any chance to dress well.
Eric walked me to my MINI Cooper and loaded my suitcase in the trunk with an exaggerated grunt. “When you get to your hotel, have someone lift this for you.”
“Will do.”
He met me at the driver’s side door and hugged me. “Call me if you need help.”
“I will. I promise.” I settled behind the wheel and started the engine. I rolled down the window. “Don’t worry.”
He shoved his hands in his pockets. “I’ll do my best.”
“Take Susan out.”
“Will do.”
I pulled out of the spot and wound through the parking lot toward the main road that would take me to I-64 West. I made good time for about ten minutes. Then traffic stopped closer to the Hampton Roads Bridge–Tunnel. I took the chance to set up one of Cécile’s movies, which I’d downloaded to my phone.
I’d seen all her movies at least three times, but Secrets in the Shadows was by far my favorite. It was a murder mystery set in wartime Paris and centered around a woman accused of murdering her older husband. Cécile played Francoise, the sultry accused. Actor Louis Lambert played Guy LeRoy, the private detective who was a cynical World War I veteran.
There was nothing remarkable about the story. But each of the actors brought an intensity to their parts that was gripping even after eighty years. But when Henri Archambeau wanted to cast the sultry Cécile in this role, film producers, directors, and movie reviewers questioned his choice. No one believed the star of four romantic comedies would have the acting chops to pull it off.
But Cécile had proved them all wrong. Reviewers after the war would later link her intense performance to how Paris had reacted to the Germans tightening the noose around the city. If she had not disappeared, she would have been a worldwide star.
In the movie, Guy believes Francoise is guilty, but he needs her money to pay off his gambling debts, so he takes her case. As Guy digs into her story, he grows closer to Francoise. Her demeanor is impossible to ignore, and he falls for her. But, when Guy discovers proof that Francoise is the killer, he must choose between hiding the truth or turning her over to the police. In the end, Guy takes justice into his own hands.
Funded by the German occupiers, the film upheld the values of duty and honor despite personal cost. Symbolism was in every frame of the movie. Francoise represented wanton France bent on ruining German values. Guy epitomized the hardworking German soldier mesmerized by the Parisiennes who dyed their hair, painted their nails, and wore makeup.
I’d watched this film so many times I could picture the scenes as the audio played while I drove. Francoise’s smoky voice evoked images of her walking into Guy’s office, tears spilling down her cheeks as she slid off her coat. Nearly naked in a sheath, she insisted she loved him. The viewer almost believed the two would have their happily ever after. The sensuality, pain, and loss embedded in the scene always held my full attention.
Rumor had it that Cécile and Louis were having an affair at the time of the filming, so their relationship had bled onto the screen. Others said their affaire was propaganda designed to boost ticket sales. If they weren’t an item, their talents were underrated.
I’d analyzed the movie too much. But Francoise had spoken to me as I’d lain in hospital beds hooked up to IVs. She, like me, found herself trapped in a world not of her choosing.
After four hours and two replays of the movie, I approached Northern Virginia and entered the Beltway encircling the DC metro area. I sat straighter and gripped the wheel a little tighter. My phone’s Maps app interrupted the Secrets in the Shadows finale and directed me toward Old Town Alexandria and the narrowing streets of the historic city.
I’d booked a hotel room in Old Town Alexandria on Union Street in the heart of the historic district. I parked in the hotel’s underground lot and hefted my suitcase out of the trunk.
Good Lord, what had I packed?
Dragging the suitcase, I made my way to the lobby. When I reached the front desk, I was more tired than expected.
I squared my shoulders and smiled at the young woman dressed in a burgundy jacket bearing a gold name tag that read Joanie .
“Ruby Nevins. I have a reservation.”
When I first arrived in Paris, I was overwhelmed by the city. But in a few weeks, the ancient buildings and winding streets and I had become good friends. By the end of that first month, Paris had felt like home. But I was healthy and believed I was indestructible like all early twentysomethings.
Now I understood how fragile life was. A few cancer cells could topple any life. Cancer had derailed mine, and though I was in remission, the chances were that it would get me one day.
However, that day wasn’t today.
I smiled at Joanie as I handed over my credit card, filled in the information about my car, and took my key. I rode the elevator to the fifth floor and walked to room 512. When I swiped the key and the lock didn’t open, I rested my head against the door.
“We’re not doing this,” I muttered at the key. “You’re going to let me into my room.” I swiped the card again, and this time, the green light appeared, and the lock popped open. I dragged my suitcase into the room and let the door slam behind me.
I moved toward the window, overlooking the meandering waters of the Potomac River.
Several sailboats glided on the water, and pedestrians walked along the winding path. Blue skies, white puffy clouds, and a gentle breeze teased the treetops on the Virginia side of the river.
I kicked off my shoes near a small round table flanked by two chairs.
Tugging off my earrings, I slid off my capris and let them fall to the floor. I hung them up, unbuttoned my blouse, and laid it on the double bed closest to the door. I opened my suitcase, hung up my clothes, and changed into an oversize T-shirt and gym shorts.
A sigh slipped over my lips as I pulled back the coverlet of the bed closest to the window and slid under the sheets. I’d just opened my phone, ready to watch the finale of Secrets in the Shadows , when it pinged with another text message from Scott.
Scott: Not sure if my last message went through. I’m in DC this week for work. Before I fly back to Paris, I’d like to drive down to Norfolk to see you.
I let my head fall against the headboard and then texted: Why the interest now?
Scott: Do I need a reason?
I could’ve written a long paragraph summarizing how little I thought of him and his newfound desire to see me. If he’d been honest from the beginning and said my illness was too much, I might have been more forgiving. But he’d sworn up and down that we were in the fight together. We’d made embryos. And then he’d left and hadn’t responded to any of my messages.
But I didn’t have the energy to fight with him now, and I didn’t want to waste time.
My near-death experience had sharpened my capacity to cut through bullshit and protect myself. I’m out of town. Another time.
I then texted a smiling selfie to Eric and Jeff, assuring them I’d arrived in one piece, and I put my phone on “do not disturb.”
All that mattered now was this article.