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

“Now, I imagine you would like to see the property, no?”

We unlock the ornate gate with our key. Monsieur Levesque steps back and motions for us to enter first.

“You checked the place out?” says Marla, after we enter the building. She hesitates in the hallway. “No one is living here, I hope. I don’t want to walk in on a bunch of squatters.”

Levesque smiles. “I beg your pardon, madame. We are not in possession of a key. We were not able to enter the apartment, but I took the liberty of activating the utilities so you will have heat, light, and water.”

Marla laughs her flirty laugh. “That was very nice of you, monsieur.”

She arches a coquettish brow and smiles at him. Monsieur Levesque smiles back and takes her suitcase, rolling it to the elevator, which we ride to the second floor. We walk down a short hallway and Levesque stops in front of a door.

“Voilà.” He gestures for me to do the honors.

I insert the brass key. My heart thuds as it turns the lock. I try to open the heavy wooden door, but it sticks.

“Allow me.” Monsieur Levesque leans into it until it gives way with a creak and a groan.

Right away, I’m engulfed by the smell—musty, moldy, old. Exactly what you’d imagine a place that has been closed up for decades would smell like. Marla and I pull our scarves over our noses and mouths and forge ahead.

I flip the light switch on the wall in the foyer, but nothing happens.

“I will see to it that my secretary has someone install fresh light bulbs for you as soon as possible,” says Monsieur Levesque.

“Thank you,” I say as I peer into the murky grayness.

As my eyes adjust, I take in the spectacle before me and forget about the smell completely. Highlighted by the slant of afternoon sunlight filtering in through a slit in the drapes, the place appears frozen in time. My heart hammers in my chest.

Batting my way through cobwebs, I walk over to one of the windows and pull back the heavy velvet curtains, stirring up a cloud of dust that makes me cough. It’s impossible to tell the color of the worn drapery, but the thin slices of early-evening light that stream in through the shutters on the tall, arched windows and bounce off a gilded mirror across the room suggest it might have once been burgundy or eggplant. I manage to secure the drape in place with a thick tasseled tieback that’s connected to the wall, even though part of the fringe disintegrates in my hand. Then I open the wooden shutter and turn around to behold a wonderland.

Underneath ash-like dust and gossamer cobwebs lie the remnants of someone’s life. There’s a Sleeping Beauty–like air to the place. Everything appears to be suspended in time, waiting for someone to return. A clock on the wall is stopped at 2:47. A coat hangs on the coatrack. A folded umbrella lists to the side in the patinated copper stand. Men’s shoes sit by the door.

Across the foyer, an ornate mirror is situated above a wooden table. Cobwebs so thick they look like gray cotton candy are caught in the scrolls and crevices.

“Madams, the place appears to be intact and uninhabited, oui?” says Levesque, who is hovering in the doorway, covering his mouth and nose with his gloved hand. “However, I fear it is not safe to breathe in the dust. I am happy to help you arrange a cleaning service to make the place hospitable.”

When neither Marla nor I answer him, he adds, “Had I a key, I would have had it cleaned before you arrived.”

The apartment isn’t very large. Beyond the foyer and the living room, there’s a bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen I can’t wait to explore.

“That is very nice of you, Monsieur Levesque,” I say. I hadn’t even considered the dust and the mess. I was more concerned about walking into a nest of trespassers. But, even though it’s filthy, I’m glad I got to see it just like this.

He nods. “If you don’t mind, I will wait for you in the hall.”

“Certainly,” I say. “We won’t be much longer.”

Despite its compact floor plan, the place has high ceilings decorated with ornate medallions and gorgeous crown molding.

They don’t make one-bedrooms like this anymore, I think to myself.

Even covered in dust and cobwebs, the place is magical. It’s fancier and more tasteful than I had imagined. Most important, after all these years, the place still has a soul.

I spy what looks like correspondence on a small writing desk by one of the windows and make my way toward it. The dust is making me tear up. I know Levesque is right—this probably isn’t healthy—but I can’t tear myself away. I have to find something before we leave—some piece of evidence that proves without a doubt that Ivy lived here.

What I thought was correspondence turns out to be unused stationery. Situated next to an old-fashioned ink pot and dipping pen, it is strewn over the surface of the desk as if someone would be back to tidy it up. There’s also an ornamental hair comb, a couple of books, and a pair of ladies’ gloves on the desk.

It strikes me that people spend a lifetime gathering and accumulating objects. In the end, the person leaves, but all the things that were once so important are left behind like detritus.

I lift the gloves off the table to reveal an outline of where they had been. Holding my breath, I drop my scarf from my face and rub my forefinger over the gray and brittle leather to reveal monogrammed letters: IB. Ivy Braithwaite? My heart kicks into high gear. I glance around, feeling guilty, like I’m at a museum and I’m messing with an exhibit I’m not supposed to touch.

Levesque is waiting outside the doorway, looking at his phone.

We probably should leave until we can get someone to help us get