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

and I are still piecing things together, but I suppose it’s not every day that you discover an apartment in Paris that’s been in your family for generations that you never knew about.”

He smiles and follows me into the living room.

When we stop in the middle of the room, he looks around and whistles.

“Wow. This is amazing. And it’s all yours?”

“Well, mine and Marla’s. I have photos of what the place looked like when we first arrived, before we had it cleaned. Would you like to see?”

“Absolutely.”

“Have a seat.”

As he settles himself onto the sofa, I go to the desk and pull out the large manila envelope that holds copies of the before-and-after photos.

The difference is astounding.

“Is it all right if I sit here? I feel like I’m in a museum. Like I shouldn’t touch anything.”

“I know; I still feel that way and we’ve been here awhile. Here we go. Before and after.”

I hand him the photos. Even though the shot of the apartment before it was cleaned is a color photograph, it almost looks black-and-white on account of the ash and dust. It looks like something out of a movie set—Sleeping Beauty or a film about an abandoned and long-forgotten house.

Only this is real life.

“I guess you don’t really need the photos that were taken after the cleaning crew worked its magic since you’re sitting right here. Why don’t you let me give you a tour?”

I show him through the rooms—the kitchen, bathroom, bedroom, and the living room and foyer, which he’s already seen. It doesn’t take us very long, but he listens reverently as I point out the apartment’s finer features. I note that the only change Marla and I have made is swapping out the old mattress for two air mattresses, which we then replaced with twin beds after we returned from London.

“It’s challenging sharing a bedroom with my mother, but this is how it will be until we figure things out.”

“That’s a lot of togetherness.”

I exaggerate a nod.

“Speaking of, where is Marla?”

I tell him about the manuscript and Marla insisting on heading up that mission.

“Wow. I’d say you do have a couple of things going on in your life. Are you going to announce the find to the public? It could bring a lot of attention to your new tour.”

“I suppose we will when we have some concrete answers. But right now, there’s too much happening to factor in the curious public. By the way, what kind of business brings you to Paris?” I ask, worried I’ve been rambling.

“Food business, of course. And the dinner we’re going to have tonight.”

“It’s the food capital of the world.” Wait, is it? I should stick with subjects I know. “How did things turn out with Jemma?”

He seems puzzled by the non sequitur.

“The night I was in town. After the dinner you cooked and we all went out dancing.”

“Oh.” He shrugs noncommittally. “I’m guessing she was spectacularly hungover the next day.”

“You haven’t spoken to her since?”

“No. Why? Is everything okay?”

“I’m guessing it is. I just thought…”

I feel ridiculous having brought it up.

He laughs. “What is it?”

“She seemed a little… how do I say it?”

“I don’t know, Hannah. Maybe you should just say it?”

“Interested in you.”

“Interested in me?”

“Never mind. Would you like something to drink?”

“You can’t say ‘never mind’ when clearly something is on your mind.”

“Okay. The way she acted made me wonder if you two are seeing each other. Or if she was interested in seeing you. It’s fine if you are. I don’t want to get in the middle of things. She and Cressida are good friends. Do you know what I mean?”

“Not really. I’m a wee bit confused. Why would you think Jemma and I are dating when I thought I made it clear that I’m interested in you?”

“You are?”

“I am. Is that okay with you?”

I nod.

“I’m glad, because it’s good to see you, Hannah.”

My head is spinning. It feels like a lot. When I thought Jemma was in the picture—that I’d lost him to her—I resigned myself to not having a chance. But now…

“Of course, we can take things slowly,” he says.

“Slow would be good.”

My mind flashes back to Charlie telling me he wasn’t sure he’d ever be ready to marry. I’ve spent the last few years convincing myself that relationships and me, we weren’t meant to be.

You give your heart to someone. You lose yourself in them body and soul. Then one day three years later, you wake up to an empty bed and realize their foot was only ever halfway in the door. It can do a number on you. You start to believe that nothing in life is permanent, that you can’t take anyone or anything at face value.

As if I needed a reminder.

Other than Gram, no one in my life has actually been who they seemed.

My mother had better things to do than raise me, and now here she is trying to make up for lost time.

My father was never in the picture.

Charlie was a bust.

And even Granny Ivy had a secret life.

“You’re not married, are you?” I blurt out.

He laughs quizzically and it’s a sound that touches me to the core of my soul. “Nope.”

“Just checking.”

“Let’s get out of here,” he says. “I think you’re going to like this dinner.”

“Sounds fun,” I say. “If we have time afterward, I’ll give you a supersecret sneak preview of the brand-new Années Folles tour.”

“Années Folles?”

“ ‘The crazy years.’ It’s what the interwar period in Paris was called, and it’s the name I’m giving my new tour. Are you up for a little bit of crazy, Aiden?”

February 1929

Paris, France

Dear Diary,

Today is my birthday! Never have I seen such a romantic gesture as the effort Andres made.

No, it’s not a proposal. He still doesn’t believe in marriage. Monogamy, yes. He vows I am the only woman for him and he doesn’t need a certificate forcing him to be true.

One would think we’d reached an impasse, but listen to this…

This evening, he rented a horse and carriage and