Chapter 7
Chapter 7
Clara’s POV
Leo's warning that Eleanor's investigators were closing in on the cottage forced me to leave with Hope and forty euros, choosing Paris where I could disappear into the crowds rather than endanger him further.
The apartment had six flights of stairs and no elevator. I counted each step, my legs shaking by the third floor. Hope whimpered against my chest in the carrier Leo had bought. The fabric smelled new and chemical. Everything here smelled wrong.
The door stuck. I had to lean my full weight against it before it opened into a space barely larger than the penthouse bathroom. One room. A kitchenette with a hotplate. A mattress on the floor. A window overlooking a courtyard full of broken furniture.
I set Hope down in the portable crib. She started crying immediately. The sound echoed off bare walls.
My phone buzzed. Leo.
"The landlord wants first month, last month, and deposit. I can cover it."
"No." My voice came out harder than I meant. "I'll figure it out."
"Clara, you just gave birth. You need to rest."
"I need to work."
Silence on the line. Then: "There's a café two blocks away. Le Petit something. They're looking for someone to work mornings. I told them you speak English."
"What kind of work?"
"Washing dishes. Taking out trash. Whatever they need."
I looked at Hope. At the empty cabinets. At my reflection in the grimy window. A woman I barely recognized.
"Send me the address."
---
The café owner was a woman in her sixties named Madame Lefevre. She looked at Hope in the carrier, then at me.
"You cannot bring the baby."
"I have nowhere to leave her."
"That is not my problem."
I stood there. Hope was asleep. My breasts ached. I'd pumped before leaving but I'd need to pump again in two hours. The stitches from the birth still pulled when I walked.
"Please," I said. "I'll work harder than anyone. I'll stay late. I just need this job."
Madame Lefevre studied me. "You are American."
"Yes."
"Why are you here?"
"I'm starting over."
Something shifted in her expression. "The baby stays in the back. In the storage room. If she cries, you deal with it immediately. If customers complain, you're done. Understood?"
"Yes."
"Seven euros an hour. You start tomorrow. Five in the morning."
---
The work was exactly what Leo had said. Washing dishes in water so hot it left my hands red and raw. Scrubbing floors. Taking out bags of garbage that leaked coffee grounds and spoiled milk. When Hope cried, I'd run to the storage room, nurse her standing up, then run back before Madame Lefevre could notice how long I'd been gone.
The other worker was a man named Ahmed. He was kind enough not to ask questions. Just showed me where things went and how Madame Lefevre liked the counters wiped.
On my third day, a customer complained that her coffee was cold. Madame Lefevre made me remake it. Then remake it again. Then told me I was too slow and docked my pay for the wasted beans.
I said nothing. Just nodded and went back to the dishes.
At the end of the week, Madame Lefevre handed me an envelope. I counted the bills in the bathroom. Two hundred and forty euros. Minus what she'd docked, minus what I owed for breaking a plate. Two hundred and ten.
Rent was eight hundred a month.
---
I called Leo. Hope was strapped to my chest, finally asleep after crying for an hour.
"I need to borrow money."
"How much?"
"Six hundred euros. For rent. I'll pay you back."
"Clara, you don't have to pay me back."
"Yes, I do."
He was quiet. Then: "I'll send it today."
"I'm surviving."
"Barely."
I hung up before he could say anything else.
---
The second week was worse. A woman came in with her daughter, maybe four years old. The girl pointed at Hope in the carrier and said something in French. The mother looked at me. Really looked. At my clothes that didn't fit right. At my unwashed hair. At Hope's carrier that was starting to fall apart.
She said something to Madame Lefevre. I didn't catch all of it. Just the word "inappropriate."
After they left, Madame Lefevre pulled me aside. "The baby cannot be visible. Customers don't want to see this."
"See what?"
"A woman with a baby working like this. It makes them uncomfortable."
I wanted to ask what exactly made them uncomfortable. That I existed? That I needed money? That I hadn't disappeared the way women like me were supposed to?
Instead, I moved Hope's carrier deeper into the storage room. Behind boxes of napkins and industrial-size containers of sugar. Where no one would have to see her.
---
On my fifteenth day, I dropped a tray of clean glasses. They shattered across the floor. The sound was like something breaking inside me.
Madame Lefevre didn't yell. Just looked at the mess. At me. At Hope crying in the back.
"Clean it up," she said. "Then go home. Don't come back tomorrow."
"Please. I need this job."
"You need help. That is different."
I knelt and started picking up glass. My hands were shaking so badly I cut myself on the first piece. Blood welled up, mixing with the water on the floor.
Ahmed appeared with a broom. "Go," he said quietly. "I'll finish."
I gathered Hope. Walked out into the morning cold. My hands were still bleeding. Hope was crying. I had thirty euros left. Rent was due in five days.
I sat on a bench in a small park. Watched people walk past. They all looked warm. Fed. Like they belonged somewhere.
My phone buzzed.
"There's a woman named Madame Dubois. She owns an antique textile shop in the Marais. She needs someone who can restore damaged pieces. I told her about you."
I stared at the message. Then at Hope.
---
The shop was on a narrow street that smelled like old paper and lavender. The sign said "Dubois Antiquités." Through the window, I could see shelves lined with fabric. Tapestries hanging from the walls. A woman with white hair examining something under a lamp.
I almost didn't go in. I looked down at myself. At the cheap coat. At the stains on my shirt. At Hope, who'd spit up on my shoulder.
But I thought about the thirty euros. About the eviction notice that would come. About the way Madame Lefevre had looked at me.
I pushed the door open.
The woman looked up. "We're closed."
"Someone told me you might need help. With restoration work."
"Who told you this?"
"My friend. But I studied textile conservation. At Columbia. I worked with eighteenth-century pieces. I can show you references."
Madame Dubois set down what she was holding. "You are American."
"Yes."
"And the baby?"
"She's mine."
"I can see that." She studied me. Not the way Madame Lefevre's customers had. Not with disgust or pity. With something else. "Show me your hands."
I held them out. Cut. Raw. Shaking.
"These are not the hands of someone who has been doing restoration work."
"No. I've been washing dishes."
"Why?"
"Because I needed money."
"And before the dishes?"
I thought about the penthouse. About Julian's closet full of suits that cost more than I'd made in a year. About the life I'd run from.
"Before, I made a mistake."
Madame Dubois was quiet. Then she walked to the back of the shop. Returned with a piece of embroidered silk. It was beautiful. It was also falling apart.
"This is from 1780. A woman made it for her wedding. It has been damaged by water and insects and time. Can you fix it?"
I took it carefully. Examined the stitching. The pattern. The places where the silk had rotted through.
"Yes. But it will take time. And I'd need proper tools."
"How much time?"
"Six weeks. Maybe eight."
"And how much would you charge?"
I thought about the rent. About formula and diapers. About the fact that I had nothing left to lose.
"Twelve hundred euros."
Madame Dubois raised an eyebrow. "That is very little for work of this skill level."
"It's what I need."
She looked at Hope. At me. At my bleeding hands.
"I will pay you fifteen hundred. Half now. Half when finished. You will work here in the shop. There is a small room in the back. You may bring the baby. But Clara." She said my name like she already knew it. "This is not charity. If the work is not excellent, I will not pay you the second half. Understood?"
I nodded. I couldn't speak.
She went to the register. Counted out bills. Pressed them into my hands.
"Go home. Rest. Come back Monday. We will discuss tools and timeline."
I walked out into the street. Looked at the money. Seven hundred and fifty euros. More than I'd made in two weeks at the café.
Hope made a small sound. Not crying. Just a sound.
I held her closer. Felt something shift in my chest. Not hope exactly. Not yet. But something like it.