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

“No one.” She slides the phone back into her purse. “It was a wrong number.”

“I heard you say you were thrilled to hear from them. I’m fairly certain you wouldn’t be thrilled to hear from a wrong number or a telemarketer. Unless that’s your new way of making friends.”

“Hannah, maybe it’s none of your business. Did you ever consider that? I don’t have to tell you everything, you know.”

“You do need to be straight with me if we’re thinking about living and working together. Are you reconnecting with Don?”

“Don?” She looks genuinely taken aback. “You have nothing to worry about with him. I blocked his number. He doesn’t know where I am so there’s no way he can get in touch with me. That’s how serious I am about starting over.”

“I don’t want to get in your business, but I have a right to know what’s going on. You gave me your word that living in our apartment would mark a big change for you. If there’s a new man, I deserve to know about it.”

We’re at a standoff. Literally. She’s standing there with the river lapping behind her, crossing her arms and staring me down like it’s a contest to see who will blink first.

Then my phone rings.

I almost don’t answer it. Aiden called me today when we were on the train returning to Paris. He left a message saying it was nice to see me and he was sorry we didn’t get to talk more. He told me to call him. I still haven’t decided if I want to. The Jemma situation muddies the water. Plus, even if there is no him and Jemma, there is Paris and me.

It appears to be a French number.

“Hello?”

“Allo, may I speak to Hannah Bond, s’il vous plaît?” It’s a woman speaking heavily accented English.

“This is she.”

“Mademoiselle Bond, this is Brigette from Professeur Louis Descartes’s office at the Sorbonne. He asked me to call you and tell you that his finding is inconclusive. The work is not one of Andres Armand’s previously published books. It could be something unpublished, but Professeur Descartes cannot be one hundred percent certain. He said that he’s done all he can do, and you are free to retrieve the papers at your earliest convenience.”

I’m stunned, and Brigette hangs up before I can ask, Now what?

“What’s wrong, Hannah?” Marla asks. “Is it bad news?”

“It was Professeur Descartes’s assistant calling to say that they can’t be sure the manuscript is the work of Andres Armand. So, they’re done. We can pick it up. I think he just blew us off.”

“Well, what are we supposed to do now?” Marla asks.

“That’s what I’d like to know.”

“As much as I hate to involve the filthy salopard,” says Marla, “maybe we should call Gabriel and ask if he knows anyone else who can help us.”

“How did you learn to cuss in French?”

“He’s a bastard. That’s why I looked up the word. Gabriel Cerny, inspiring women to cuss, one slimy move at a time.”

She looks pleased with herself. It’s not lost on me that Marla has used this opportunity to redirect the spotlight away from her phone call. But she’s right on one account: Gabriel is probably our best bet for figuring out our next move.

Surely someone out there can tell us for sure whether or not this is authentic Armand. I place the call to Gabriel and leave a voicemail explaining the situation.

In the meantime, I need to keep reading Ivy’s diaries and look for someone to translate the manuscript for me.

I know the identity of the author must be hidden somewhere in those pages.

November 1927

Paris, France

Dear Diary,

I wonder how Andres gets any writing done.

When I ask, he says creativity works in mysterious ways. Words don’t flow like water from a faucet. He can’t turn it on and off at will. He insists that to write something truly great, a writer needs to give the idea time to marinate before it develops full flavor.

He is very lucky that he has a trust fund to support his marinating. Nevertheless, he is always so generous, surprising me with flowers and candy.

Lately, he has been urging me to quit my job at the boulangerie and move in with him. As much as I’d love to, I can’t take him up on the offer. What if something happened? It took me long enough to find this position. As meager as it is, it allows me to support myself.

Tonight illustrated exactly how fast life can change course.

At the beginning of the night, everything was fine. We ran into Scott and Zelda at Harry’s Bar. We were a loud bunch, having fun and singing at the tops of our lungs and talking over each other and the music, everyone trying to make a point, like birds cawing all at once.

When we left, Zelda swiped a bottle of champagne from the bar. We passed it around as we made our way to Dingo Bar.

Zelda was whining about being hungry, demanding that she needed something to eat before she passed out in the middle of the street, which would’ve been a feat because we were on the walkway.

To distract her, as we passed a young boy who was loading leftover baguettes from a boulangerie into the basket of his tricycle, Scott hopped on the small bike and took off down the walk.

We all doubled over with laughter as he peddled furiously, his long legs bent at such a ridiculous angle that he looked like a circus clown careening down the fancy walk, barely avoiding hitting several pedestrians in the process.

When the boy caught up to him and tried to pull him off the trike, Scott toppled over. The next thing we knew, he was on the pavement and the boy was pummeling him with his tiny fists and yelling words that were much too vulgar for a garçon.

Scott was fine, of course. The only danger he was in was of busting a gut from laughing so hard.

The boy