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

Marla holds out her phone. “It says we’re only eleven minutes from the hotel. After being cooped up on that train, I could use some exercise. Want to walk?”

“Sure, I’m up for it.”

Before we set out this morning, we called the French law office and were happy to reach Monsieur Levesque’s assistant. We arranged to meet him at his office at 4:30. It’s 3:00 now, which gives us plenty of time to get to the hotel, check in, and make our way to his office in Montparnasse.

Plus, walking will allow us to see Paris. I’m surprised at how my heart leaps at the opportunity, as if it’s breaking free from the cell in which I’d caged my hopes that the apartment would be viable.

I turn in a slow circle, taking in everything: the honking horns of cars and motorcycles on the bustling rue de Dunkerque, shouts and laughs of pedestrians as they pass by on the wide sidewalks, the six-story Haussmann-style buildings that line the street across from the train station.

There’s an open window on the second floor of one of the proud stone structures. I can see the silhouette of someone passing in front of it. People live in those apartments nestled atop the shops and red-canopied cafés.

I wonder who they are and how they got there. Will that be me someday? Will I be the one in the apartment and someone else will be standing on the street looking up, wondering how I got there? The thought of living in Paris leaves me breathless. But I’m still cautious. I don’t want to get too carried away in case this turns out to be a big nothing.

I force myself to look away and my gaze lands on a small house in front of the Gare du Nord that appears to be tilting or melting into the sidewalk.

“What in the world is that?”

Marla follows my gaze and immediately starts walking toward the structure.

A brass sign stuck in the pavement next to the melting building says it’s a sculpture created by an Argentine artist named Leandro Erlich.

It’s called the Maison Fond.

I was right—it’s supposed to look as if it’s melting into the pavement. That’s exactly the point. It was created for the United Nations 2015 Climate Change Conference as a reminder that global warming has a profound effect on the earth and the lives of future generations.

It also hits me on a more personal level, like an omen of what could be in store for us with the apartment. I hope this trip doesn’t melt down into one giant disaster.

Gripping the handle of my suitcase, I turn to Marla. “What are we getting ourselves into?”

Marla fiddles with her phone. “What do you mean?”

“I wonder what the apartment will be like after all these years.”

“I guess we’ll find out soon,” she murmurs, but her attention is trained on her phone. “Okay, well… My battery is low. We’d better get a move on and get to the hotel.”

Wheeling our bags, Marla and I shoulder our way through the crowds coming and going from the Gare du Nord.

All I can think about is the fact that we’ve inherited an apartment in Paris. I’m smiling like an idiot.

Even when a burly man plows between Marla and me, shoulder checking me before I can get out of his way, I don’t care.

We round a corner from the rue de Dunkerque to boulevard de Rochechouart and in a few scant steps, I spy a thin slice of Sacré-Cœur perched high atop the hill in Montmartre. What I can see of its white dome glistens against the brilliant blue sky like a perfectly formed meringue. It takes my breath away.

I grab Marla’s arm. “Look.” I nod in the direction of the basilica.

Marla and I stop and stare reverently.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” she says. “Maybe we can go there before we leave?”

I nod. “Have you ever been to Paris?”

“I have.” She smiles, but there’s a faraway look in her eyes as we resume walking. “A long time ago.”

“Good memories?” I’m sensing this might elicit a glimpse into my mother’s past, the side of her that I know nothing about except through Gram and Granny Ivy’s hushed, disapproving whispers.

Does her dreamy look have something to do with my father? There’s so much about Marla’s life that’s a mystery; it could be anything.

“Yeah, it does bring back good memories,” she says. “I was seventeen and I’d run away to follow my favorite band on the road.”

“The Squelching Wellies,” I fill in. It’s my attempt at solidarity.

She slants a surprised glance at me. “Yeah. The Wellies. I caught up with them in London. Paris was the next stop on the tour.”

My heart leaps. She was seventeen when she got pregnant, eighteen when she had me. I need to play it cool so I don’t scare her off the topic. I decide to keep it conversational and not act too eager. It’s easy to do since we’re walking side by side, trailing our luggage behind us and dodging other pedestrians.

“How did that work?” I ask.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you were so young. Did Gram come with you to Europe for the tour?”

She snorts. “You’re kidding, right?”

“No, I’m curious—that’s all. Gram was so protective—”

“She was protective of you, Hannah. As far as she was concerned, if I wanted to squander the money I’d saved following a punk band for the summer, that was my business and good riddance.”

“So that’s what you did?”

“Mmmm…” She stops in the middle of the sidewalk and looks at her phone again. “We need to go left… somewhere. Wait… No, that’s not right. Yeah, this is the way. We need to keep following this road.”

It’s a busy street, more congested than the rue de Dunkerque. This road has four lanes of traffic separated by a wide tree-lined median in the middle. We pass a crêperie with wooden tables and chairs out front. There are several shoe shops with carts of athletic footwear outside. There are hotels,