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

Marla commandeers a saleswoman, Yvette. They tag-team me, pointing out options and extolling the virtues of expensive panties for self-empowerment.

“Think of it this way,” says Yvette in perfect English. “If you wear your good undergarments every day, even to the market, you have a sweet secret that is your own. It belongs to you. If you choose to share that secret with another person, all the better.”

Yvette is a different breed of woman than me. She probably has an entire wardrobe of sexy.

“Plus,” Marla chimes in, “that way you’re always prepared.”

“Okay, okay. You’ve convinced me.” I point to a feminine violet-blue bra and matching panties. Yvette finds my size and I go into the fitting room, relieved when she doesn’t trail in after me.

I’m seduced. I love the set, with its delicate sparkles and intricate embroidery. It makes me feel feminine and, yes, sexy.

Marla wins this round.

When Yvette finishes wrapping my purchase, Marla asks, “Which way to the Grand Marnier Palace?”

Yvette cocks her head to the side. Her glossy brown hair falls over her slight shoulder and her blue eyes look puzzled. “Excusez-moi? Urr—I beg your pardon. I do not understand.”

“The Grand Marnier Palace,” Marla enunciates. “It’s a big, fancy building. It’s supposed to be right around here somewhere. This store is huge, so I don’t want to exit the wrong door. We could be walking in circles for days just to get a drink.”

The woman shrugs. “I am sorry. I do not know of such a place.”

Exasperated, Marla holds out her phone. “See, it says right here—”

“Ah, le Palais Garnier,” says Yvette.

“Isn’t that what I said, the uh… Pa-lay… Grand Marnier?” Her brow knits as she tries to imitate Yvette’s French pronunciation of palace.

Yvette suppresses a smile and looks at me knowingly before giving us directions. We thank her, and as we turn to leave, Marla asks, “They serve drinks at this hour, right?”

“Madame, le Palais Garnier is an opera house,” Yvette says sweetly. “If you drop by the box office, I am sure they will be happy to tell you what they offer and when you can visit.”

“An opera house?” Marla’s hand flies to her mouth and a small laugh escapes. “I thought it was like Grand Marnier’s headquarters or something. You know, the Palace of Grand Marnier. My bad.” Her cheeks turn pink. “It used to be my favorite drink. I wanted to take Hannah there for a cocktail before her date. Oh, coffee for me, of course.”

She shrugs, and it’s kind of endearing to see her thrown off her game.

I get it. This underwear shopping trip was her way of passing the baton to me. Though she and I have always marched to different drums, she’s still my mother, and she still has a few things she wants to teach me.

July 1927

Paris, France

Dear Diary,

Against my better judgment, I returned to Pierre’s studio the next day.

Instantly, I wondered if I’d made the right decision because instead of showing proper contrition for his inappropriate actions, Pierre’s disposition was sullen and irritable. He acted as if I were the one who had wronged him, saying because we hadn’t worked a full day yesterday he was behind and didn’t have time for distracting chitchat. That was fine with me because I really didn’t want to talk to him, either.

The studio was cold and he refused to light a fire or give me a break to stretch my legs, which were falling asleep because they were curled under me.

He kept saying, Cinq minutes de plus. Five more minutes.

After an hour had passed, I stood on wobbly legs and pulled on my robe.

He made a guttural growling noise and tossed away his brush. Grudgingly, he agreed to light a fire so we could get back to work. He claimed he needed to finish this study of me before the end of the day so he could get back on track to meet his deadline.

I don’t think he realized I had him over a barrel. If I walked out, he wouldn’t be able to finish the series he was preparing for the exhibit.

Of course, if I left, I would be without a job and he wouldn’t introduce me to his person he’d promised could open doors. Although, now that I’d had time to think about it, I wondered if he really knew such a person.

Once the fire was roaring, he rapped his brush on the easel and yelled, “Back to work! Vite!”

I told him he needed to check his tone. Because he was acting so foul, I lingered over my sketchbook and finished drawing the dress I’d been holding in my mind all morning.

He started banging around the studio, and I finally laid down my pencil. I told him that his ill temper was uncalled for, and I believed this arrangement would not work after all. Perhaps we should call it quits.

After that, he was all business, and I felt emboldened to ask about this evening’s meeting.

He told me he would take me to a salon where there were many influential people.

I wasn’t sure what he meant by influential people, or, for that matter, what he meant by a salon.

He told me it was a place where painters and writers and creative minds gathered. It was at the home of an American woman named Gertrude Stein. She opened her home for people to call on Saturday evenings. He said she was always interested in meeting new people and sharing ideas. Pierre said I might meet someone there who would look at my sketches.

Okay. While it wasn’t the key to the locked door that he had offered yesterday, it was something.

Because I don’t trust Pierre, I will have Helen accompany me tonight when we meet him at his studio before we walk to Ms. Stein’s home. Wish us luck.

Thirteen

January 3, 2019—7:00 p.m.

Paris, France

I take a cab to the sixteenth arrondissement address that Gabriel wrote down. Even though he offered to send a car, I felt