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

Your future wife, the mother of your child,

Ivy

The most heartbreaking letter of them all is dated May 17.

My Dearest,

I have heard the most devastating news, but I refuse to believe it’s true. There is talk that you have not survived the war. If, by the grace of God, you are alive, I wanted you to know that I am leaving to go to the States until after our child is born. Please contact Major Tom Norton in Bristol, and he will know how to find me.

Please be safe, my love.

Forever yours,

Ivy

Marla is supposed to read the final letter, but she can’t because she’s crying. She hands it to me. I’m not much more composed, but I take a deep breath to steady myself before I begin.

June 1, 1940

My Dearest Andres,

I am in Florida now. I need you to know that I will never give up on you. In my heart I will always believe you are alive. I close my eyes and picture you sitting in your chair in the little apartment on square la Bruyère or leaning over your typewriter working. I know how hard it is for you to settle down to write, but once you do, your words are sheer brilliance.

My friend Tom agrees.

My love, I have news that I hope you will understand. You said yourself that times of war call for sacrifices from all, that fighting forces people to make choices they might not necessarily make in times of peace.

I have faced a hard choice.

Since I am pregnant and the situation in Bristol is tenuous, Tom tried to help me arrange passage to the States on a military ship. We soon learned that places aboard the ship were only for Americans or family of American servicemen.

Andres, I know you want what’s best for our child. It will be best for the baby to be born in peace and safety. Please find it in your heart to understand that that’s why I married Tom Norton.

He is a good soul and he knows I love you. He has agreed to release me from our arrangement once I hear that you are safe and ready to reunite with your family.

In the meantime, our square la Bruyère apartment will be waiting for you. Please go there and contact me when you can.

My love always,

Ivy

Marla and I are both sobbing by the time I reach the end of the letter.

Étienne leaves the room and returns with a box of tissues.

“Andres died on May fourteenth,” he says as we do our best to compose ourselves. “From what I can piece together, he was killed before he received Ivy’s letters. Our family in the South of France saved the correspondence. Either they didn’t try to locate Ivy or they didn’t bother because she’d married out of the family.”

“I think she was so devastated by Andres’s loss that she couldn’t bring herself to return to Paris or even sell the apartment because that would mean that she’d given up on him,” Marla says. “Her whole life she clung to the idea that he could still be waiting for her in that apartment.”

I’m moved by how moved my mother is by today’s revelations.

“I think it’s also worth mentioning that Tom must’ve been head over heels in love with Ivy to marry her and raise Gram as his own,” I say. “I wonder if Gram knew?”

We will never know, but we do know that Tom did right by her—by both of them.

Ivy and Andres’s story is tragic, but somehow, it feels as if our acknowledging their relationship has given them closure. Maybe that’s why Ivy left the documents in the trunk in Florida for us to find—so that Marla and I would happen upon them one day and embark on this crazy Parisian adventure of our own. Someday, when I have my own children and grandchildren, I hope I can leave them a key that will unlock half the possibility that Ivy’s Paris apartment has unlocked for us.

Epilogue

May 14, 2019—2:00 p.m

Antibes, France

I’ve always found cemeteries to be uncomfortable places. Not for the obvious reason—that they’re full of dead people—but because visiting someone’s grave seems morbid.

Doesn’t it reinforce the fact that they’re gone?

I haven’t visited many graves in my life. I haven’t had a chance to go back to Florida to visit Gram’s grave since the funeral. But on the occasions that Gram and I would go to Granny Ivy’s to leave flowers, I never felt close to her there—not nearly as close as I felt to her in the pages of her diaries, or in the Paris apartment.

But a trip to the cemetery is a sign of respect. I get that.

That’s why Aiden and I are meeting Marla and Étienne at Andres’s grave in Antibes on the anniversary of his death.

Aiden and I stop at a flower shop to buy a bunch of lilies. As we’re waiting for our Uber, Aiden says, “I need to talk to you.”

He looks so serious it scares me.

There was a time when I would’ve jumped to conclusions and anticipated the worst.

Not this time.

Instead, I take his hand. “What would you like to talk about, my love?”

“Remember the feast we made for your first Les Années Folles tour?” he asks. “How would you feel about making the dinner a regular feature? It really elevates your tour above the others, you know?”

“It’s a great idea in theory. But the logistics might be a little tricky. We both know those Chunnel tickets don’t come cheap. And I do two tours a week.”

“What if I told you I wouldn’t need a Chunnel ticket to make it work?”

I squint at him. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that Le Cordon Bleu offered me a job as an instructor. The pay is decent and it will give me a chance to quit Lemon and Lavender, move to Paris, and save for a restaurant of my own.”

“You’re moving to Paris? Stop it.”

He