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

necessary. The excess has gone into an interest-bearing account. It’s generous, Hannah. I would say if you combined it with the proceeds of the sale of the house in Florida, it would make quite a large dent in the inheritance taxes you owe on the apartment.”

As I hang up, my eyes are dancing and my cheeks are burning. I will tell Marla eventually, but for now, I want to keep it to myself.

The excess from this annuity and the discovery of the manuscript in the apartment have the possibility to change everything, and they’ve opened a new door: Marla and I now have the ability to liquidate and go our separate ways.

BY THE TIME I get to London and make my way to Dr. Campbell’s home, I’m feeling more centered. That is until I enter his living room and see that he has company.

My mother is standing there with a man Dr. Campbell introduces as Étienne Armand. I can hardly focus because I don’t understand how she found out about the meeting, but now at least I know where she’s been.

I’m not one bit surprised to find her in London.

“Mr. Armand is the president of the Andres Armand Foundation,” says Dr. Campbell.

Étienne stands. He’s a tall, handsome man with dark hair that’s dusted with gray. He has intense hazel eyes that seem laser focused.

He reaches out to shake my hand.

“It is very nice to meet you, Hannah. Your mother and I have been in touch the past few days, and I told her I would be here working with Dr. Campbell to authenticate my great-uncle’s manuscript. I thought you’d be arriving together, but that’s neither here nor there. Both Campbell and I agree this work seems genuine. We believe you have discovered a missing Andres Armand manuscript.”

Marla nods. “I was so happy to hear the news. And I was even happier when Dr. Campbell told me you were on your way to London, Hannah.”

She’s smiling, but her words are clipped. How does it feel to be on the other end of deception, Marla?

“I didn’t realize you were in town.” Big, toothy smile. “Otherwise I would’ve let you know, but here we are.”

Armand nods. “We must discuss how you came into possession of my great-uncle’s manuscript.”

Dr. Campbell leaves the room to put on some tea, and we settle into his living room, which is much tidier today than it was when we last visited.

We tell him the story of how we learned of Ivy’s apartment and how we found the manuscript under the bed.

“Mr. Armand,” I say. “There’s more. Further research Marla and I have conducted leads us to believe that we might be relatives.”

I tell him the details from Ivy’s diary and how they align with Gram’s birth date.

Marla asks him, “Would you be willing to take a DNA test to see if we’re related?”

AIDEN ARRIVED IN PARIS today, two days before the first tour kicks off.

He shows up at the office with a picnic basket, saying, “I thought we’d better do a test run. Don’t you think?”

“Of course. We want to make sure everything is on point.”

Standing there, giddy about the two of us sharing a picnic on the grounds of the Eiffel Tower—finally—I have to admit I hadn’t let myself believe that he would come through until right now.

I’d been bracing myself for him to back out or for something at the restaurant to take priority. I even had a backup plan. But here he is, two days early with picnic basket in hand.

My doubt has nothing to do with him and everything to do with my trust issues, which I’m beginning not to trust lately. If that makes sense.

Despite Marla’s total flake-out, I’m trying not to be such a pessimist. I knew better than to trust her. I’m trying to remove her from the equation and move on. To that end, some things go just as planned, and other things go wrong. That’s life, but it’s how you spring back that matters. Fall down seven times; get up eight.

So far, knock on wood, Aiden hasn’t let me fall, and I refuse to let Marla ruin him for me.

I want to believe in him.

We take a cab from the office to the Champ de Mars. As he spreads a picnic blanket on the grass, the Eiffel Tower looms in the distance like a sentinel standing guard.

“I ordered all the ingredients for the dinner. A friend at Le Cordon Bleu is letting me store it in the refrigerators at the school.”

“You’re talking about the actual Le Cordon Bleu cooking school? The famous one?”

Aiden laughs. “The one and only. I told you I have connections.” He unscrews the lid of a thermos and it makes a slight popping and fizzing sound.

“Is that champagne?” I ask.

He nods and pours it into two paper cups, hands one to me.

“Aiden, they don’t allow alcohol on the Champ de Mars,” I whisper.

He leans closer and puts a finger to my lips. “If you won’t tell, I won’t tell.”

He raises his cup to mine.

“Santé.”

We start with hot onion soup and foie gras on a crispy baguette. Then he unveils the rest of the meal: cassoulet, a mixed-greens salad, and a caramel-and-coffee-infused crème brûlée—the pièce de résistance.

“Aiden, that food deserves Michelin stars.”

“From your lips,” he says, glancing up at the heavens before his eyes find mine again.

“Where did you learn to cook like that?”

“My mother and grandmother taught me the basics. Then I went to culinary school in London. Plus, I learned that cooking is second only to being a rock star if you want to get the girl.”

“Then why aren’t you married?” I ask playfully.

For a split second, my mind flashes back to Gabriel and our ill-fated dinner.

Fall down seven times; get up eight.

“I’ve been waiting for the right woman.”

Ohh…

I could read so many things into that, but I won’t. My mind is scrambling to find small talk to steer us away from that loaded line.

But if it’s just a line, I have