Read Online Capturing Paris by Katharine Davis - Free Book Online Page B

lamp by her chair. The light fell across the fine old maple drop-front desk that had belonged to her mother. A photograph of her mother sat on top of the desk, along with a bud vase that she kept filled with seasonal blooms. It contained a sprig of holly, shiny dark green leaves and red berries. She studied the wide grin, the smooth forehead and straight nose, her mother’s spirited expression that, along with the tilt of her head, said, “I dare you.”
    Annie sat down, picked up her notebook, and began to write. She jotted down words and phrases that helped to summon the still-imaginary place, God House. It already existed in her mind. A house where you would come alive—what had Daphne said? Annie didn’t want to be an actress, like her mother, but she would be a poet. She gripped her pen more tightly and watched as the words spilled across the page.

FIVE
    Le Bureau
    â€œ Perhaps you’d like to look at the photographs while we wait for François. I expect him soon.”
    Paul Valmont was younger than Annie expected. In the cool morning light she could detect flecks of gray in his dark hair, but he was not the aging widower who had occupied her imagination since his phone call. Daphne was right. He was good-looking, but in the French way, with strong features, deeply set eyes, and angles defining his face. His lips were full, capable of dangling the ubiquitous cigarette. He stood behind an elegant antique desk that looked nothing like the sleek modern furniture in the outer office where she had arrived. Loose papers, stacks of manuscripts, and books covered every inch of the surface, and a fountain pen lay in the crease of an open volume. Black ink markings still appeared wet on the page.
    He reached for a well-worn leather portfolio that leaned against the side of his desk. “Let’s go over to the table by the window. The light is better. I’m afraid that my desk is never clear.”
    â€œIt’s a beautiful desk,” she said, noticing the carved legs and delicate inlaid wood along the edge.
    â€œThe desk of my father. The business belonged to him as well.” He gestured to the wall of books. “My family has been in the book business for generations.” The shelves on the wall behind him were filled with old leather books, finely tooled gold lettering glimmering on the spines. The shelves within reach of Valmont’s desk chair overflowed with more modern volumes in colorful jackets, along with paperback editions squeezed horizontally into every available space.
    Valmont pushed aside several manuscripts on the narrow table to make room for the portfolio. Annie stood beside him while he unfastened the worn black ribbon that held the two sides together and revealed a stack of black-and-white photographs separated by sheer creamy vellum sheets. His wide, pale hands shook slightly as he drew back the first page.
    Annie looked down at the picture of an old woman, a cloth coat pulled tightly across her rounded back, sitting on a bench in what looked like the Luxembourg Gardens. Her swollen ankles were crossed, and her feet were barely contained in worn, unfashionable shoes. The light, soft and ethereal, was dreamlike. The photographer had captured her either in the first moments of dawn or at dusk. More likely dawn, as there was a freshness, a tenderness to the scene that implied the start of something. The photograph of this woman, alone on the bench, the row of trees behind her, and in the background a glimpse of an ornate marble statue from a more glorious era, infused Annie with a terrible feeling of loss.
    â€œWhat do you think?” Valmont asked her.
    â€œLovely, sad … no, that’s too simple.” Her voice came out in a whisper. She tried to pull herself back together. “It’s an extraordinary photograph,” she said in a more normal voice.
    He nodded, turned it over, and lifted another vellum sheet. The next photograph depicted three