Lost in Paris by Elizabeth Thompson (ebook smartphone .txt) 📕

I practically snort my tea.

“What?” I set down my cup and take a closer look at the certificate. Among French words that I don’t understand, I see the name Ivy Braithwaite.

“Mr. Sterling verified this?”

Marla nods and shows me a piece of paper I didn’t realize she was holding.

“He looked into it last week and said the French lawyer whose name is on that business card died twenty years ago. But Patrick got in touch with another lawyer from the same firm who will help us. His name is Emile Levesque.”

“So this is real?” I ask.

“It appears that way.”

“But wait—” I look at the deed again. “When did Granny Ivy come to the States?”

“I don’t know. Mom was born in Florida in December 1940.”

“Does that mean this place has been sitting vacant since before the war broke out? Or has someone been living there?”

I squint at Marla. She shrugs. “I don’t know, Hannah. I’d like to go to Paris and check it out and I’d like for you to come with me. That’s the big reason I’m here.”

I hear her, but I don’t answer her, because I still can’t quite wrap my mind around it.

“I don’t remember Granny Ivy or Gram mentioning an apartment in Paris. Wouldn’t one of them have told us about it? This just doesn’t make sense.”

“Patrick and the French lawyer say the title is still in her name, and as Gram was her next of kin, it went to her. As per Gram’s will, everything passes to us. Of course, he did mention that we have to pay a pretty hefty inheritance tax.”

Oh. Okay. Now I see where this is going. With Marla, it always comes down to money.

“So, you’re wanting us to sell the place?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” she says. “I mean, we haven’t even seen it yet. And it’s… Paris. You know?”

“Marla, I don’t have money to cover the taxes, if that’s why you’re here.”

Though, since we’ve jointly inherited the place, technically I’m only responsible for half.

She holds up her hand like a traffic cop. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. Eventually we’ll have to pay, but Patrick said we have time. Didn’t you say you’re on vacation soon?”

I mentioned that when we spoke last week. Why is it that she remembers only the things I want her to forget?

I don’t answer her. I sit stock-still, staring at the papers in front of me.

“Come to Paris with me, Hannah. It’ll be an adventure.”

“I don’t know.”

“Come on. Live a little. Think of it as a treasure hunt with a guaranteed prize. We have the deed right here. At the very least it’s a free place to stay. How can you say no?”

“What if someone is living in the apartment? We have no idea what we’re walking into.”

“That’s why I want you to come with me. I’m afraid to go by myself.”

I roll my eyes.

So much for adventure. She wants a bodyguard.

“Maybe we could ask the French lawyer to check it out for us,” I suggest.

“At a rate of three hundred euros an hour?”

“Well, it’s either that or you can walk into the situation blindly.”

“Or you can come to Paris with me.” Pleadingly, she clasps her hands together over her breastbone.

I close my eyes as I feel my quiet, cozy vacation slipping out of my grasp. I open them again, only to see Marla’s puppy dog gaze looking back at me.

And her shiner, which makes my heart hurt.

“We’re in this together, Hannah. We jointly inherited the place. I know this is sudden, but you kind of need to come with me.”

Excuse me?

“Unless you want to sign away your rights to the place and be done with it?” She smiles.

“Nice try, Marla. Look, I love the idea of spontaneously jetting off to France, but I can’t. It’s not practical. Not right now.”

She scoffs. “We don’t have to fly. Paris is practically in your backyard. Let’s take the Chunnel. I’ve always wanted to do that.”

She’s right. Paris is practically in my backyard. It takes less than two and a half hours to travel via train. I visited the city when I did my study abroad semester years ago, but I haven’t been back since, and I’ve never taken the Chunnel.

I glance down at the certificate or deed or whatever it is that Marla has presented along with her word that this apartment in Paris now belongs to us. I realize that’s all I have to go on at this point.

It’s New Year’s Eve. The law offices—of both Patrick Sterling and our French connection—will likely be closed tomorrow and possibly a few days thereafter.

“I want to wait until I can talk to Mr. Levesque before we go off half-cocked.”

I pick up the brass key. It’s ornate and looks more like a decoration than our all-access pass into the world of French real estate. Who knows—if someone has been squatting all these years, they’ve probably changed the locks.

“Wait a minute.” A possible snag stops me midthought. “What about property taxes or fees or whatever the French equivalent is? I wonder if Ivy paid them? If not, maybe the government foreclosed.”

“I’m glad you reminded me. Patrick asked the French lawyer about that. Hold on—let me get my purse. I had him write it down so that I’d get it exactly right.”

She pushes back from the island and clicks off into the living room on her high heels, returning a moment later with her bag, a quilted designer tote that looks about as authentic as her red Chanel sunglasses. I wonder if she bought them from the same corner vendor. She sits down, pulls out another envelope, and extracts a folded paper. I see it’s a piece of letterhead stationery with something typed on it.

Marla pulls out a pair of readers and carefully pushes them onto the bridge of her nose, wincing when they settle into place. The glasses draw attention to the bruise. I don’t want to look but I can’t help it.

Despite everything,