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

“Whoa, slow down there.” Marla pauses, the final forkful of egg and potatoes hovering midair. “Nobody said anything about selling the place.”

“Well, we might have to,” I say.

“We haven’t even had a chance to really get in there and see what it’s all about,” she says before shoveling the food into her mouth.

“Fair enough,” he says. “You need not decide whether or not you want to sell the place now. The media will be interested in learning of the apartment’s existence whenever you are ready to release the news.”

“Of course, the press will be good publicity for Levesque, Racine, and Cerny?” I say.

“Absolument.” There’s a challenging glint in his eyes. “Do you mind?”

Marla and I look at each other.

“Perhaps we can negotiate a price break in the final legal fees,” I say.

Gabriel nods and his face slowly gives way to a smile. “I like a woman with a good business head.”

He leans back in his chair, taking the white coffee cup with him. His eyes linger on mine a bit too long. I can’t quite discern if it’s sexy or predatory… or just French. Whatever it is, it makes my stomach stir again.

June 1927

Paris, France

Dear Diary,

I didn’t get the job at Galeries Lafayette. The man in charge was very frank that my French was not strong enough to work with the public. They had no openings in tailoring.

I left the interview distraught, Helen’s defense of naked bodies ringing in my ears.

Is she right? Are bodies merely flesh and bones, and nothing sacred?

Before I returned to the apartment, I spent an eternity walking around, trying to sort out my options. I wandered past the Palais Garnier, the opera house where Helen is so desperate to perform someday with the ballet. Even though she is no stranger to rejection, she says she will not lose faith in realizing her dream.

I found myself back at the église de la Madeleine, the church with the fabulous Roman-looking façade that I had stumbled upon the other evening when I got lost. This time my intentions were more purposeful. I had come to pray, even though I am not Catholic. I felt drawn there the other day when I lost my way. This time, I went inside and got down on my knees amidst the gilded splendor. I figured God answers prayers no matter your religion. I asked him to send me a sign about what I should do next.

Then I returned to the Tuileries garden, where I watched children launch small boats in the pond and walked past groups of old men playing boules. My favorite area is dotted with ancient statues that have withstood the test and trials of time.

I paused in front of the Nymphe. She stood as naked and proud as the other sculptures, mostly of men wearing clothes. There was a dog at her bare feet and it made me think of the sweet little creature I met the last time I was there. The Nymphe’s head was bent as if she were gazing down at me, saying, I persevered. You can, too… if you’re strong enough.

Alas, she stood high upon her pedestal, carved of marble. I am but skin and bone. Breasts and bottom.

I feel like a lost kitten who has strayed away from her home, and Paris is the tomcat waiting to pounce. I’m not equipped to run with the strays, even though I’ve become one myself since leaving London.

As I stood there, I swore I heard the Nymphe whisper, “We are one and the same, you and I. You will be fine, but you must not be so proud.”

When I returned to the apartment at dusk, Luc’s friend Pierre Jean, the painter, was there. He offered me the job as his model.

I’d asked for a sign for what I should do next, though I’m hard-pressed to believe this one came from God.

Eleven

January 3, 2019—10:00 a.m.

Paris, France

After Gabriel picks up the check for breakfast—as predicted—his driver takes us back to the apartment.

On the way there, I watch the Paris morning unfold out the window like scenes from a rom-com. People walking dogs with leashes in one hand and to-go cups in the other. A woman running and pushing a baby jogger. An older man ambling along with a bulging mesh grocery bag on the crook of his elbow and a long baguette tucked under his arm.

When we arrive at the apartment, the photographer, a willowy blonde, is waiting for us outside of the gate. Two guys are helping her. One is arranging a lighting umbrella and the other is holding a couple of camera bodies at the ready.

It makes so much sense to professionally photograph the place. I can’t believe I hadn’t thought about it until now. Gabriel was right. Much more than a family heirloom, the apartment is a piece of history frozen in time that deserves to be documented. The realization makes my inner history nerd sing.

Until Gabriel leans in and kisses the blonde on both cheeks, French style, then lingers a little too long in her personal space. She doesn’t seem to mind.

“Hannah Bond and Marla Bond, may I introduce you to Anastasia Girard. She does not speak English, but I am sure that will not be a problem.”

Tall and beautiful, with large hazel eyes and a pouty mouth, Anastasia looks as if she would be as confident in front of the camera or on the cover of a magazine as she seems to be in real life.

I sense a vibe that she and Gabriel might have been involved once… or even now?

They’d make a beautiful couple. I’m mesmerized by their interaction. The subtle ebb and flow of flirtation, the way Anastasia angles her perfect chin down and gazes up at Gabriel through long, dark eyelashes. The way Gabriel’s gaze lingers on her face, caressing it without even touching it. The chemistry that pulses between them is breathtaking.

If they haven’t had a thing, they’re ripe for one.

“Anastasia