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

rode off on his little tricycle and we were getting on our merry way when Pierre seemed to appear from out of nowhere.

He stood in front of me, blocking my way. I hadn’t seen him since that day at his studio when I walked out. And after all this time, he was spoiling for a fight.

He insisted I owed him money since I didn’t finish the job for which I was hired. He bellowed on about not being able to complete the painting series, insisting it was my fault that he’d missed the submission deadline.

I told him I didn’t owe him a centime. He had not paid me beyond the six paintings he had completed. It was his own fault that he missed the deadline. He could’ve used the completed paintings as reference.

As soon as I’d said my piece, he unleashed a string of vile words that made me pale. Andres puffed up and stepped between us, and Zelda grabbed my arm and led me into a nearby restaurant. As I walked away, I glanced over my shoulder in time to see Andres landing a punch on Pierre’s jaw, which sent him falling backward.

By the time Zelda and I returned, Andres and Pierre were nowhere in sight. Andres had asked Scott to see me home.

Now that I’m home, sleep eludes me. I can’t close my eyes until I hear from Andres that he’s safe and Pierre hasn’t pulled some dirty trick.

Nineteen

January 9, 2019—4:00 p.m.

Paris, France

We’ve been back in the apartment a couple of hours when Gabriel returns my call.

“I am sorry Louis Descartes disappointed you,” he says. “He could have worked harder on the case if you ask me. Then again, he does not study Armand exclusively. Did you retrieve the manuscript?”

“Yes. We took a cab to the Sorbonne and picked it up right after Brigette called. I figured it was better not to leave it lying about the office too long.”

As I’m explaining why I’m in Paris, not London, Marla walks in from the kitchen holding two glasses.

“Gabriel, I’ve put you on speaker. Marla is here.”

“Bonjour, Marla.” His voice sounds seductive.

My mother rolls her eyes at his greeting and hands me a glass of sparkling water before plunking down on the other end of the sofa.

“I’ve had a chance to do some research,” he continues. “That is why it took me a while to telephone you. I have located a retired professor from the University of Oxford. A Dr. George Campbell. He lives in London. He fancies himself an Armand expert. I spoke with him and he is willing to take a look at the book as soon as we can bring it to him. I am happy to accompany you.”

“Hannah is busy.” Marla’s tone is chilly. “She got promoted and is starting a brand-new book tour here in Paris. Since she doesn’t have time to bother with this, I can take it to London. I don’t need you to go with me, Gabriel.”

“We can talk about that later, Marla.” I shift so my body is angled away from her, hoping she’ll take the hint to be quiet. I guess I shouldn’t have put the call on speaker.

“But you’re so busy with work, Hannah. This is a way I can help.”

When neither Gabriel nor I answer right away, Marla says, “Are you saying you don’t think I’m capable?”

I glance at her. She’s sitting forward on the couch. The sun is streaming in through the window and highlighting the worry lines around her mouth and eyes. “We can talk about it after we’re off the phone. Gabriel doesn’t need to be part of this discussion.”

“I would prefer Gabriel wasn’t involved at all.”

It’s my turn to roll my eyes at her. I mouth, Stop.

She sits back with a harrumph.

“I will let the two of you talk it through,” Gabriel says. “I am happy to ask my assistant to secure an appointment for you with Dr. Campbell. When you decide what you’d like for me to do, please let me know.”

After I thank him and disconnect the call, Marla says, “Why don’t you trust me?”

“That’s not the problem.”

“Well, then what is the problem, Hannah?”

I sigh.

“Did you have to be so rude to Gabriel?”

“You know how I feel about him. I can’t believe you’re sticking up for him after what he did to you.”

“He didn’t do anything to me. He might have tried, but he didn’t succeed. So get over it and mind your manners.”

“That doesn’t mean I’ll let him accompany me to London.”

I don’t remember deciding she would be the one to go to London.

“And as I said,” Marla continues, “you’re busy with work. This is a way that I can help you.”

I didn’t mean to make a face, but I guess I did. Marla puts her hands on her hips. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“No, it’s something. Why don’t you trust me?”

“Have you heard the story about Ernest Hemingway’s first wife, Hadley, losing one of his manuscripts?” I ask.

Marla shakes her head. “No, but do tell, please. You have a book-related story for every occasion, don’t you?”

So what if I do?

“It was 1922 and Ernest and his first wife, Hadley, were still newlyweds. They hadn’t been living in Paris very long. She was taking the train to meet him in Switzerland and had put the typed pages of his work in a satchel. It was his early Nick Adams stories about life in Michigan. He’d been working on them for months.

“Apparently, Hadley found her place on the train, stowed her bags, then got up to buy some refreshments for the trip. When she returned, her bag was gone and so was all of her husband’s hard work.”

“Are you telling me this because you think I might pull a Hadley and lose the manuscript?”

Yes. But—

“What if we printed out copies of the manuscript from the photos you took with your phone?” Marla suggests. “I can take the copy to London for a first read. If the manuscript is as fragile