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

your feelings. If it makes you feel better, I didn’t know any of this until I started researching it for the tour.”

“Hmm.” She’s flipping through a stack of vintage postcards. “Maybe it’s not so much what you say, Hannah, but how you say it.”

It’s a bitter pill, but I pause to swallow it.

Before I can respond, Marla holds up a small blue box that she’s picked up from one of the stalls.

“Look at this,” she says.

The picture on the front of the package looks like a daily desk calendar. The type you rip the pages off every day to reveal something new.

Marla takes the plastic tray out of the box and begins thumbing through and laughing to herself.

“What’s so funny?” I ask.

“It’s a French phrase-a-day calendar.” She flips another page. “I was thinking it might be a good way to learn to speak French. We could make a point of working the phrases into our daily conversation. You might even share a French phrase with your tour. Like this one: Le trajet en voiture ne prend que trente minutes. It means, ‘The trip by car only takes thirty minutes.’ ”

“How does telling them they could see everything by car in thirty minutes help my business when it’s a walking tour that will last two days?”

“Oh, Hannah, you’re missing the point.” She turns to the woman tending the bookstall and reads from the calendar, “Voulez-vous un peu plus de fromage?”

The woman frowns and looks at Marla like she’s said something vulgar. I’m not quite sure she hasn’t, because her accent is more Central Florida than French.

“What did you say to her?”

“Would you like more cheese?” She holds up the calendar and points, looking proud of herself. “That’s what it says right here.”

“Souhaitez-vous acheter le calendrier, madame?” asks the bookstall woman.

Marla’s head swivels toward me. “What did she say?”

“I think she asked you if you would like to purchase the calendar.”

Marla turns to the vendor and smiles. “Yes, please. I would love to buy it.”

After she completes the transaction, we walk along the quay. Marla is like a kid with a new toy, flipping through and trying out random phrases.

“Veuillez double cliquer pour accéder au menu. That means, ‘Please double-click to access the menu.’ ”

She laughs, clearly delighted. “Voilà une belle salade de tomates,” she says with a flourish. “Here is a beautiful tomato salad.”

I laugh at the absurdity. I can’t help it.

“Oh wait—look. Here’s one that really would be useful for you: N’oubliez pas de donner un pourboire au guide touristique.”

“I have no idea what you just said. Your accent is incredibly terrible.”

“I said, ‘Don’t forget to tip the tour guide.’ ”

“Okay, that one was good.”

She cocks her head to the side and holds her finger in the air like a know-it-all. Then she shoves the little calendar back into its box and tucks it away in her purse.

We walk along in silence for a few minutes.

“I’ll need to get a job since I’m moving here.”

“You might want to talk to Monsieur Levesque about that. I’m not sure what’s involved in getting a visa.”

“How did you do it?” she asks. “It seems like you’re not having to jump through any hoops to work here.”

“That’s the beauty of working for Emma. Her tour company is well established. She cut through the red tape so I could work in England, and she’ll do the same thing here in Paris.”

“Well, why couldn’t she pull some strings for me? Think about it, Hannah. Couldn’t you use an assistant? It will be hard for you to run a one-woman office, coordinating and running the tours. Who’s going to answer the phones? I could be your Violet.”

“We have the original Violet in the London home office for that. She can do a lot for me remotely.”

“Okay, but there will be lots of other things to do here. Why do you always think you have to do everything yourself? It’s okay to ask for help.”

As much as I hate to admit it, her words strike a nerve. She all but designed me not to ask for help. She was the one who made me believe that I couldn’t trust anyone. The one who made me afraid to rely on anyone but myself. And, okay, Gram. I could always rely on Gram.

Marla doesn’t seem to get that yet.

On the horizon, I see the Eiffel Tower stretching up like a beacon at the end of the long stretch of green Champ de Mars. Along the way we glimpse the gold dome of Napoleon’s tomb.

Now that Gram is gone, Marla is the only person I have. Marla and the ghost of Ivy.

What would it be like to work with Marla? Work and live with her?

I shudder. It’s a frightening prospect. However, she seems to be sincere about changing her ways.

Even this walk through Paris has a different vibe from when we got lost in Pigalle that first day.

I’m opening my mouth to concede just that when Marla’s phone rings.

“Who in the world is calling me?” she says as she pulls her cell out of her purse, squints at the number, and answers with a tentative, “Hello?”

Her face goes from suspect to wide-eyed.

“Oh my, well, hello indeed. I really didn’t expect to hear from you, but I’m glad you called.”

She makes eye contact with me, then turns and walks away a few feet, but I can still hear her. “Per chance can I call you later? I can’t really talk right now. I’m out in the middle of Paris with my daughter.”

She nods. “Yes, sure… Right… Uh-huh… Okay, I’ll call you then. Oh, at this number, right?”

She smiles. “Okay, wonderful… I am thrilled to hear from you.”

I think I hear her say something about London, but I can’t be sure because a woman walks by pushing a stroller with a crying baby.

The only other thing I hear Marla say is, “Bonjour, for now.”

I think she means to say adieu, but I’m too distracted by the way she smiles at the phone to correct her.

“Who was