She had just taken a sip of her black coffee when the café door opened, letting in both a great gust of wind and a man in a black woolen coat. He removed his hat, revealing a thick shock of dark hair and chiseled features that reminded her a bit of Cary Grant. Ruby’s breath caught in her throat as she stared at him. There was something about him, something mysterious and magnetic, that made it impossible to look away.
The man’s gaze landed on her, and he smiled, a slow, perfect smile. He made his way, limping slightly, to the table directly opposite hers and sat down, removing his overcoat to reveal a perfectly cut navy suit. “Well, hello,” he said, as if they were sharing a table, as if he’d come there just to meet her. She thought she detected the hint of an accent. He was young, no more than four or five years older than she.
“Hello.” She was trying to sound casual, as if this sort of thing happened to her all the time, but she feared her burning cheeks were giving her away.
“I’m Marcel Benoit.” The way he was looking at her made her feel as if they were the only two people on earth.
“Ruby Henderson.”
“Are you waiting for someone?” Yes, he definitely had an accent, refined and exotic. British, maybe? No, that wasn’t it.
Ruby took a deep breath and said the bravest thing she’d ever said to a man. It was, after all, Christmastime, and she had nothing to lose. “I think perhaps I was waiting for you.”
His smile spread slowly, like syrup. “Well, in that case, may I join you?”
Ruby nodded and he stood, grabbing his coat and hat and taking the seat opposite hers. He smelled like pipe tobacco, sweet and spicy, and up close, she could see two tiny freckles just under his right eye. His eyebrows were thick and dark, and his nose and cheekbones looked as if they’d been cut from marble.
“I was just cursing my luck at being stranded so far from home during the holidays,” he said, holding her gaze. “But now, I think, perhaps it is not so bad.”
“Where are you from?”
“Paris.”
But of course he was. She recognized the accent now, the way he carried himself, the way he was dressed. He was far too stylish to be from anywhere else.
“You’re reading Fitzgerald, I see,” he added. “He is a great fan of my city.”
“Oh, so am I. Not that I’ve ever been. I’ve always dreamed of it, though. All of my favorite writers spent time there, you see. Hemingway. Gertrude Stein. Fitzgerald, of course. What I wouldn’t have given to be a part of their Saturday salons!” She felt suddenly silly; she hadn’t intended to sound so young, so na?ve.
But he didn’t seem to notice. “Ah yes, on the rue de Fleurus. I know it well. My father was a patron of Matisse.”
“Henri Matisse? The painter?”
“Yes. He and my father knew each other before the Great War. In fact, he brought my father to Madame Stein’s salon a few times.”
“Is your father an artist?”
“Just an art dealer, I’m afraid. He died a few years ago.”
“I’m very sorry.” A heavy silence settled over them, and Ruby was glad when the waitress interrupted to ask Marcel if there was something he would like. He ordered a cup of black coffee and asked Ruby if she’d like to split a slice of apple pie. As the waitress walked away, Ruby wondered how they had advanced so quickly to the intimacy of sharing a dessert. Not that she minded.
“What are you doing here in New York?” she asked him.
He studied her for a moment. “I thought I was here for business. But now I realize I might be here for another reason entirely.”
“And what is that?”
He leaned forward, locking eyes with her once again. “Perhaps to meet the woman of my dreams.”
THEY WERE MARRIED THAT JUNE in a ceremony at her family’s church in California, just after Ruby completed her degree, and by July, she was living in Paris. Marcel hadn’t mentioned, at first, that his spacious apartment on the rue Amélie, inherited from his parents, had a view of the tip of the Eiffel Tower, or that it was located in the same building as a tiny art gallery called La Ballerine, whose narrow windows were filled with a changing array of beautiful ballet-themed paintings and sculptures made by local artists. He hadn’t told her about the half-blind and entirely deaf Madame Lefèvre, who served rather inefficiently as the building’s concierge, or about the way one could hear church bells echoing through the streets on Sunday mornings, a concerto of beautiful sounds. But these were the details that brought her new world alive.
Her parents hadn’t wanted her to go, but Ruby had already made up her mind. She loved Marcel, and she would make a life with him. That life would be in Paris, at least for now, and though she would miss her parents terribly, she was eager for an adventure, something to stretch the boundaries of the small world she’d known.
“It’s not the size of your world I’m worried about,” her father had said, his face gray, when she told him this a few days before the wedding. “Europe is a powder keg, my dear. I was there for the Great War. The Continent has a short fuse, and all it takes is someone to light it. Hitler, it seems, is holding a match.”
Ruby had shaken her head. After all, she read The New York Times; she understood the politics of Europe. “No, Father. Germany has been appeased. Now that they’ve received the Sudetenland—”
Her father had cut her off. “It won’t be enough.”
She was sure he was being overly cautious. “Don’t worry, Father. I’ll come back to visit very soon.”
He had looked at her for a long time before nodding. “God willing.”
And now Ruby was here, proving her point by living a life of gaiety in the city she’d always dreamed of. She and Marcel drank champagne at the finest cafés, attended the finest parties, wore the finest fashions. His job as an art dealer for the company his father had founded was lucrative and placed them in Paris’s most elite circles. Admittedly, Ruby wasn’t using her education degree, but she was confident she was doing something better: she was soaking up life. When she became a teacher one day, she’d be a better one because of all she was experiencing. Or maybe she was meant to do something else, something extraordinary, here in France. The future was wide open.
Paris certainly didn’t feel like a city on the cusp of war, the way her father had warned, but as the months passed, there was a growing sense that Germany was only playing possum. It made Ruby increasingly uneasy. Could there be some truth to her father’s words after all?
“We are fine,” Marcel said firmly each time Ruby broached the subject. “You should not spend so much time worrying.” He refused to discuss politics with her, which bothered her. Hadn’t he known from the start that she was interested in world affairs? He had said once that it was one of the things he loved about her. But now he seemed to prefer taking her to grand parties and balls, where it had become her role to sparkle quietly on his arm. And though she enjoyed the revelry, she began to feel as if they were merely keeping up a fa?ade. Sometimes, it felt as if the whole city was doing the same.
“I think war is coming whether we want to admit it or not, Marcel,” she said as they made their way home late one waning August night from a ball at the H?tel Salé on the Right Bank. The elaborate fete had been thrown by an American heiress, and Ruby felt emboldened, having just spent the evening among fellow expatriates who had actually been interested in hearing her opinion. “We can’t just hide our heads in the sand anymore.”
“I would never put you in harm’s way, my darling.” Marcel didn’t look at her.
“But aren’t you concerned? A war would change everything. What if Hitler wants Paris as a feather in his cap?”
Their car pulled down the rue de Grenelle, bringing the shadow of the Eiffel Tower into view. “And what a lovely feather it would be,” Marcel murmured, gazing for a moment at the tower, a ghost against the moonlit sky. “But we won’t let that happen, my dear.”
“Who won’t let it happen? It seems the French government is doing nothing but acquiescing, and the army isn’t ready.” The car turned onto the rue Amélie and drew to a stop.