“It’s forty degrees out. Where I grew up, that barely warrants an overcoat. Don’t worry about me.”
The taxi took them north to the rue de Rivoli, then steadily westward along rain-slicked pavements. The moon hung low and full, its light a gleaming silver net flung wide over the empty streets and shuttered fa?ades of a still-slumbering city.
As they drew closer to Les Halles, the streets grew busier and brighter, with long lines of heavy-laden carts stretching along the rue St.-Denis and the rue du Pont Neuf. They turned north again, and Sam leaned forward to speak with the driver. A few minutes later, the taxi pulled to a stop in the shadow of an imposing Gothic church.
“We’re just north of the market,” Sam said, helping her out of the car. “But I think we should have something to eat before you get started. Hungry?”
She was about to say she wasn’t, but then she smelled some freshly baked bread and her stomach grumbled loudly in response. She nodded, hoping he hadn’t heard.
“Let’s go. Just up this street.” He slung her satchel over his shoulder, and then, as if it were something he’d done a thousand times before, he took her hand in his. They’d walked arm in arm before, usually when returning home after dinner, but this felt far more intimate, the touch of a sweetheart, not merely a friend. His hand was so much larger than hers, and the warmth of his touch, though she could feel it but dimly through their gloves, was both comforting and exciting. If only they had farther to go.
She stole a sidelong glance, not wanting him to catch her staring. He was so different from other men. It wasn’t just his coloring, though his auburn hair and fair, freckled skin were uncommon enough. And it wasn’t his height, for her brother and former fiancé were tall men, too.
It had to be his manner, his wonderful American directness. He was honest, but not to such a degree that he ever injured her feelings, or those of anyone else. He was plainspoken, with none of the verbal affectations so common among the men of her social circle back home. And he was kind, the sort of man given to practical good deeds that meant so much more than bouquets of hothouse flowers or festoons of sickly-sweet compliments.
They walked north on the rue Montorgueil, past a bakery, shuttered but lit within, and the source of the fresh bread that had awoken her hunger; past slumbering draft horses, still harnessed to their carts, awaiting the long walk home; and past a dozen or more narrow-fronted restaurants, all full to bursting with blue-smocked farmers, weary porters, and stall holders just beginning their day.
The restaurant Sam chose had no sign and was even smaller and humbler than Chez Rosalie, but it, too, was full of men and women bent over steaming bowls of soup.
“They only serve one thing here, onion soup, but it’s really good,” Sam explained. “Go sit down—there are two places at the end of that table—and I’ll get the soup.”
He was back in no time, carrying two large bowls and spoons and nothing else.
“Aren’t you going to have something to drink?” she asked. “The men at the next table have mugs of beer.”
“No. Would only make me sleepy. I’ll have a coffee later. Do you want anything? A glass of wine?”
She shook her head. “This is all I need.”
The soup was simple, nothing but onions and broth and at the bottom of the bowl, she soon discovered, a piece of dark country bread. It was the single most delicious meal she’d ever had. In no time at all, she was staring into her empty bowl and wishing she had an extra piece of bread to soak up the last drops of remaining broth.
When she set down her spoon at last, Sam was watching her fondly. “Good?”
“Wonderful.”
“Are you ready to go? We can walk around for a while, give you an idea of what there is to see. Have you been here before?”
“No. étienne told me about the market, and a flower seller posed for us at school one day. I thought I might find interesting subjects here, that’s all.”
“You will,” he promised, “though I doubt you’ll find much in the way of flowers at this time of year.”
They walked south, past the church where the taxi had left them, stopping just across the street from the market buildings, which were far bigger and taller than she had expected, the delicate tracery of their iron and glass walls reminding her of the greenhouses at her father’s country estate.
“The halls on the right are for meat and tripe,” Sam said. “To the left are the halls for produce, cheese, and fish. It’s early still, so they’re just setting up. Why don’t we wander around outside?”