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

Your cousin,

Abigail Braithwaite

Twenty-Two

January 16, 2019—1:00 p.m.

London, England

Two days later, armed with a release supplied by Levesque for Dr. Campbell to sign before we turn over the original manuscript, we take the train to England. For someone who hadn’t spent much time in Paris before the apartment came into my life, I feel quite cosmopolitan traveling back and forth between Paris and London so often.

We meet Dr. Campbell at his flat in Stockwell. It’s the second floor of a brick row house. The place is clean but cluttered with an overflow of books and papers stacked on every flat surface. He has to clear off two chairs for us to sit down.

He’s a small, stooped man with silver hair and thick glasses that magnify kind brown eyes. He signs the paperwork without hesitation. When we turn over the box, his whole face lights up like we’ve handed him the Holy Grail.

“Ah, so this is the baby.”

He sits on the sofa, pulls on the cloth gloves I’ve provided, and opens the box like he’s unwrapping a Christmas gift.

He lifts the first page up to the light and squints at it. He makes some noises that I can’t quite decipher as good or bad.

“As you know, I’ve already read the story and the style is consistent with Armand’s work. Now I want to enlist the help of a handful of colleagues. I’d like to try to date the paper and see if we can figure out what kind of typewriter was used to ensure it all corresponds with the time period. It may take a while before we can give you an answer one way or the other, but I will keep you updated.”

As we’re leaving, Dr. Campbell says, “Say, have you thought of contacting the Andres Armand Foundation?”

Marla and I look at each other.

“Yes, we have considered it. But we don’t exactly know how they’re supposed to fit into the picture.”

“I have a contact there,” Dr. Campbell says. “One of Andres’s descendants by the name of Étienne Armand. I’ll touch base with him and see what he has to say.”

IN THE CAB, ON the way back to Cressida and Tallu’s flat, Marla and I are giddy at the possibility of authenticating the manuscript. But Dr. Campbell said it would take a while, so I redirect my thoughts to the more pressing tour. I’ve been thinking about something Emma said about me using the same formula for Les Années Folles that I used for the Jane Austen tours.

Sure, the structure worked for Austen, but I have a nagging feeling that I should think outside of the box for this one. I have so much original, personal material in Ivy’s diaries. It would be a shame if I didn’t use it. But there’s something else, too.

I text Aiden.

I’m in town tonight. Spur-of-the-moment trip or I would’ve let you know sooner. Are you free?

It takes him less than a minute to respond, but the seconds feel like an hour. When I see the text bubbles dancing, my heart jumps to my throat.

I’m working tonight, but come by the restaurant for dinner.

Meeting him at the restaurant is the best of both worlds. I get to see him, but there will be none of the awkwardness of being alone. I still don’t know what I’m looking for with this… friendship? Relationship?

Hannah: What time?

Aiden: If you can come later, I can spend more time with you. Might even be able to eat with you. 10 p.m.?

Hannah: It’s a date.

My heart is thudding with a combination of relief that I didn’t screw things up when he was in Paris and anticipation of seeing him again. I’m hoping he’s still game to do the tour dinner. After I thought about it, I realized it would be a unique way to celebrate the launch. The dinner might be a one-off, but it would make the inaugural tour special.

Just because he can’t be there to do the dinner at the end of every tour doesn’t mean I have to cut off the idea at the knees. Who knows? If it works this one time, maybe I can hire a local chef to make it a regular thing.

“Why do you look so dreamy?” Marla asks.

“Nothing.” I shove my phone into my open purse on my lap.

“Was that Aiden?” she asks.

I nod. “I’m going to see him tonight. I can’t remember if I told you, but he was in Paris last weekend when you went to London.”

“Really?” Her brows shoot up. “And?”

“There is no and,” I say, because I know exactly what she’s getting at, “except that he offered to create a meal for the first evening of the tour. He suggested calling it a ‘moveable feast.’ ”

“Oh, like that book,” Marla says.

“Yes, like Hemingway’s book.”

We ride in silence for a while.

“What are you doing tonight?” I ask her.

“I’m not sure. Cressida and Tallulah both have dates. I’ll probably call it an early night since we have a train to catch at the crack of dawn.”

“Sounds like a good idea. I won’t be out too late, even though I’m starting late.”

When I leave the flat at 9:30 to take a cab to Lemon and Lavender, Marla is snug in her flannel jammies, watching TV, and nursing a cup of herbal tea.

THE COMPACT RESTAURANT IS exactly as I’d imagined: Red-lacquered tables with mismatched chairs painted in a rainbow of bright colors. Matisse- and Cézanne-inspired art on the lavender walls. There’s a cozy fire in the French-country-style fireplace. The warmth reaches all the way back to the snug table for two in the far corner where Aiden and I enjoy our dinner.

“Here’s my thought,” he says when I ask him to tell me more about his dream moveable feast. “What if we serve it picnic style on the Champ de Mars under the lights of the Eiffel Tower?”

“That sounds promising.” I take a bite of the Grand Marnier soufflé he