The Girl in the Green Dress

By Elmer Williams, Sr

The Girl in the Green dress is a climactic story of compassion, sacrifice, loyalty, and intrigue, signified by an enduring long distance strand of love between two people. Jeff, an American writer in Paris, seeking a guide during his initial visit to Paris, is introduced to Renee, a young lady practically born into serfdom, who, with the help of an aging father, moves to Paris where she educates herself to the point of sophistication in the art and political realm of one of the most fascinating cities in the world. Spurned in a previous relationship by the playboy son of a wealthy participant in the central produce market, Renee traveled weekly there with her father, all the way from the south of France so that her father could seek out a living for his wife and daughter. With a little help from friends, Renee is able find a place to stay, a job, and the beginning of a decent education over and above what her father was able to provide. By the time Jeff’s leave of absence is over from his newspaper job in Illinois, the two have become very fond of each other and the distance apart actually expands their love for one another. However, the planned visit to Illinois by Renee fails to materialize because of her mother’s death and soon after, her father becomes ill. Days, weeks, and months go by, but Renee’s loyalty to her father leaves them both wondering if there is any hope. The patter between the two and their two friends is clever and refreshing and with the delightful descriptions of Parisian history, the story is a delicacy for the romantic at heart and food for the mind of the astute. The passion and suspense will tear at your heartstrings.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Elmer Williams, Sr
• Release date: Dec 12, 2013
• ISBN: 9781310062711

Elmer Williams, Sr

Elmer Williams always had a knack for writing, but it wasn't until he began work on his first novel, The Girl in the Green Dress, that he really became serious with his talents. The idea for his first novel developed over a period of thirty-four years- years which were also filled with avid involvement in organizations and the task of raising eight children. In addition to writing, Elmer enjoys music, travel, and public speaking. He has always been an active volunteer and member of his Ohio community and now resides near Cincinnati, Ohio with his wife and family.

Book preview

THE GIRL IN THE GREEN DRESS

A Romantic Novel

By

ELMER A WILLIAMS

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2013 by Elmer A. Williams

All Rights Reserved.

Art Work by Mason Harding

Chapter 1

ARRIVAL

Jeff Wilkens lay sprawled across, what had been only a few hours before, a meticulously made bed. Its lustrous, light blue spread had been stretched over pristine linens which wrought forth the sweet, sad essence of lilac. He lay tossing, drifting in and out from a state of subliminal awareness to one of complete unconsciousness. From time to time he would awaken with a start, overwhelmed by a feeling of all-encompassing excitement and the frightening realization that he could very easily fall into a deep slumber and totally miss his first opportunity for a day of adventure in Paris. It was on such an occasion that he found himself gazing at the ceiling, allowing his eyes to follow the hairline cracks that zigzagged their way across the aged and seemingly fragile plaster. Occasionally one of the cracks would intercept the wall, reaching downward until it would disappear behind the cast-iron radiator or the ornately carved baseboard that extended around the perimeter of the room. Jeff lay there reflecting on the events of the previous day, hopelessly fighting off the feeling of exhaustion. He had departed from Chicago at four P.M. two nights before. Extensive delays in New York and London had added to the frustration and weariness commonly associated with jet-lag.

As he lay awake, Jeff found himself trying to recall the excitement of seeing London for the first time, reliving the invigorating power-surge of the French Caravelle when it took off from Heath Field. It was an exciting moment as the powerful plane seemed to zoom almost vertically through the dense fog, pinning him back in his seat as they emerged suddenly and unexpectedly into a bright, clear, moonlit sky over the English Channel. For some reason, the sensation kept escaping his conscious memory as he hopelessly, tried to fight off the dregs of exhaustion. He had intended to catch a few winks on the last leg of his journey, but, unfortunately, he found himself seated next to one of President De Gaulle’s dissident constituents who, was bent upon solving all of his country’s political problems during the time it took to fly from London to Paris. By the time their plane sat down at Orly Field, it was already nearly two A.M., and Jeff sensed that his companion was just getting wound up. It’s ironic, thought Jeff. This young man is a part of the very government he seeks to criticize. He is a trusted government employee. That same government had given him a leave of absence and helped with his tuition in order that he might attend Brown University in the States just so he could complete his Master’s degree in administration. It seemed to Jeff to smack of biting the hand that feeds you, but who was he to judge?

As boring as it had seemed, Jeff had feigned interest as best he could while the young man, who by name was Jean Pierre, rambled away about the inequities and inefficiencies of Mr. De Gaulle and the French political system. He would reveal, now and then in minute detail, confidential inside information which he claimed might land him in a lot of trouble if bantered about. Jeff had apparently faked a good audience because, upon their arrival at Orly Field, Jean Pierre had offered to give him a lift into Paris in his high performance sports car. First, however, he had to extricate the car from the long term parking lot, no easy task since Jean Pierre had forgotten where he had parked it some three or four months before. The high performance sports car turned out to be an antiquated MG with a slightly leaky roof, a musty smell and limited room for luggage, which may not have been a problem had Paris not been the beneficiary at that very moment of one of the heaviest downpours in history. Undaunted, Jean Pierre had pulled one of his shirts from his luggage and wiped away at the soggy, leather seats as he calmly braved the torrents. After considerable grinding of the starter and constant pumping of the accelerator, the two men were finally on their way.

Stories of French drivers and their penchant for racing are legion. Whether from boredom, frustration or disenchantment, something transforms a Frenchman at the wheel of a car into a pseudo member of the Grand Prix elite, intent upon redeeming himself at every vestige of a stop-and-go situation. The scenario is always the same: sly glances are exchanged, engines rev until they seem ready to explode, and then, as though someone has dropped a starting flag, tires squeal, gears grind and drive trains strain as each driver tries to gain the hoped-for advantage.

The excitement of the ride at breakneck speed over nearly twelve miles of the Avenue d’Itale had one redeeming quality in that it had distracted their attention from the cold and dreary environment. However, the excitement rapidly waned as they pulled up at 45 Boulevard Raspail before the front door of the Lutetia Hotel just as a sudden deluge dumped great quantities of water on and into the interior of the car. Fortunately for Jeff, an alert bellhop rescued him from further abuse with the aid of a huge umbrella. After thanking each other profusely for whatever favors they had exchanged, the two travelers parted company, and Jean Pierre roared off into the late night traffic amid the torrential downpour.

Jeff had made reservations for a one-month stay. As he entered the lobby, he could see that the time-worn Lutetia was exquisitely antiquated. Still, he couldn’t help but notice that during her years of service, her maintenance had obviously been entrusted to someone who really cared. Even in his weary state of mind, Jeff took note as he checked in of the polished brass appointments, the well-scrubbed floors, the gleaming wood finishes, and the tastefully chosen drapes and upholstered furnishings, all of which had the appearance of loving and caring attention. Jeff wondered if it had not at some point in time been much like New York’s Waldorf Astoria. The vintage architecture, the fresco ceilings in the main lobby, the huge crystal renaissance chandeliers, and the delicate appointments all gave one a sense of elegance and grand propriety. It was a feeling that perhaps kings and other nobility had been hosteled here as a fulfillment of history. She had been billed as the Grand Dame of the Left Bank and rated first class. She appeared at first glance to live up to her reputation. Even the grandiose way in which the guests were greeted lent an air of gentility that was beyond comparison to anything Jeff had previously experienced. It was one of the busiest lobbies he had ever seen, particularly for the time of day, and members of the staff seemed to be in abundant supply with offers of assistance.

Before retiring, Jeff had stood for a while staring out the neatly curtained window of his room, the pupils of his eyes working overtime as they made minor adjustments between the incessant flashes of lightning and the lesser bright lights of the street signs that flickered and festooned the scene below.

So this is Paris, he had mused, reflecting on the many people he knew, who at one point or another had expressed the desire to be in his place on this particular occasion or, for that matter, in this place on any occasion. As he stood mesmerized by the fury of the storm, he reflected upon recent events of his life and what he was doing here. He began by questioning his mission, wondering if he would glean from his visit the necessary experience, the development of his characters and the setting that he needed to fulfill his lifelong dream. Could he put all the pieces together in a style that would enable his readers to see what he saw and feel what he felt in such a way that they would evolve into the characters themselves and become a part of the story? He had read books himself in which he felt like he was right there in the center of the activity. Books he could not refrain from picking up during every leisure moment, books he hoped would never end. He was determined to write in such a manner that his readers would be compelled to turn the next page. It was a big challenge for a young writer, for he had neither the money nor the time to fritter away on wasted experiments. For a brief moment he was a little frightened. Then stepping back and squaring his shoulders, he determined he would make it happen.

Jeff had grown up on a farm in the southern part of Illinois, the son of German-Welsh parentage. It was that combination of heredity which produced strong-willed, stubborn and resolute offspring who were unflinching in their determination. From his Welsh father he had learned there was nothing he could not do, given the will and courage to tackle a problem. From his mother he had learned there was no room for ambivalence. Like most people of similar lineage, he had learned if there was a job to do, it could and would be done.

Jeff’s parents had worked diligently throughout their lives, marrying at age eighteen with ten dollars and a Model T Ford between them. They managed to weather the Great Depression, raising six youngsters even while they built an estate for their future. From the time they were able to walk, everyone in the family did his share, pulling weeds, hoeing corn, washing dishes, dusting and cleaning, regardless of gender. For them it was not drudgery, it was a way of life. It was, in those days, part of being a good, responsible citizen. Long days spent in the fields pitching hay, shocking wheat, husking corn; parents and children striving together, working side by side, was a phenomenon that brought about; a closeness, a camaraderie, a singleness of purpose within every member of the family. It was this and a devout belief in an almighty God instilled in each of them by their parents that gave meaning and purpose to the lives of the children and the lives around them. All of this, they believed, was what had helped to build a great and prosperous nation.

Jeff had paid his dues. He had worked hard and long, both at home and at outside jobs when the opportunity arose; working part-time during the winter months at a factory twenty miles away, at other times driving a cab, sawing boards and driving nails, or anything else that would help him attain his goal. He was not afraid of work, no matter how hard or dirty; in fact he thrived upon anything in which he could see results or evidence of achievement. If his father put him to work digging holes for fence posts, he was never satisfied with just digging holes. Instead, he would see how many he could dig in a given length of time. He would see how much wood he could cut or how many acres he could plow, always competing against himself or his previous record.

Jeff could not remember when he had not wanted to become a writer. That desire became, over the years, the one driving force behind everything he did. As far back as he could remember, he had spent every idle moment with his nose stuck in a book, reading everything he could find in the way of good literature. He was captivated by history, historical novels, and stories of the old West. He had learned, very early, the difference between good and poor writing and had determined that when he wrote, he would do it right or not at all. He had used some of the money he earned to go to a two-year college where he majored in English, a subject he knew he must master in order to become a successful writer. After graduating from college, Jeff had written a number of essays and short stories as well as articles for magazines and in-house journals. He was presently employed by a Gary, Indiana, newspaper, writing sports stories and feature articles.

Jeff knew his limitations; that he needed to expand his horizons geographically as well as academically in order to reach the level of writing ability he wished to accomplish. He also needed a variety of experiences to give him confidence and that comfortable well-rounded feeling. He knew, from the rejection slips he had received from publishers that he still had a ways to go before he could count on an income that would be adequate enough to enable him to settle down and comfortably support a family. He was approaching thirty, and what he really needed was a blockbuster, a best-seller, at least something that would propel him upward into a higher income bracket. If Jeff knew his limitations, he also knew his talent and the tremendous urge to use it to the best of his ability. He had been working for years on an idea for a novel, carrying the plot and characters around in his mind and on three-by-five cards, researching material and sites and interviewing people. He had written it over and over again until he finally decided he had the makings of The Big One. He had sent the first two chapters and an outline to a number of publishers. Finally, after many peeks into the mailbox he received a reply. As he stood gazing out the hotel window he unconsciously pulled the well-worn letter from his pocket:

Dear Mr. Wilkens,

I read with interest, the manuscript you sent me, and I must confess, it whet my appetite. I like the way you express your ideas.

You write with great lucidity, and I think you have the potential for a viable novel.

Please keep in touch and send more chapters as they develop. If you continue at the level of expertise with which you have started, we may be able to discuss the possibilities when you are a bit further along.

Sincerely,

George Populis, Editor-in-chief

Jeff became more ecstatic every time he read the letter. Now the task at hand was to authenticate the setting and develop the rest of the characters, something he knew he could not get from just reading books. He had to be there, to sense the atmosphere and the environment, to mingle with the people and to feel the vibrations. As he reflected upon that opportunity and the anticipation of his adventure, the falling rain and flashing lights were temporarily erased from his conscious observation. A loud clap of thunder jolted him back into reality and the realization that it was nearly 4:30 A.M. He crawled between the sheets, knowing he must get some rest or his fast-approaching first day in Paris would be a complete waste. Within minutes Jeff had fallen into a disturbed pattern of sleep that caused him to awaken again and again at the slightest sound. About the time he finally settled down into restful slumber he was awakened again by the sound of running water emanating from the bathroom. Jeff sprang from his bed, wondering if he had forgotten to lock the door. Or perhaps he had the wrong room or someone else had a key. Surely the maid wasn’t making up the rooms already. All these possibilities flashed through his mind as he fumbled for the light switch, expecting to see someone preparing to take a bath. A cold chill ran down his spine as he peeked into the bathroom only to find the bathtub filling up with dirty