Lost in Paris

by Elizabeth Thompson

  Advance Praise for Lost in Paris

  “Lost in Paris is as delicious as a fresh, colorful macaron. With vivid descriptions, compelling characters, and a fascinating look into the past, Elizabeth Thompson has created a lovely story guaranteed to take readers on a journey they won’t forget.”

  —RaeAnne Thayne, New York Times bestselling author of The Sea Glass Cottage

  “In Elizabeth Thompson’s Lost in Paris, the magical French capital comes alive in two timelines a century apart. You’ll find yourself in both modern-day Paris and the 1920s Paris of Hemingway, Fitzgerald, and Picasso, as a powerful story of secrets across the generations unfolds. If you’re a Francophile like I am—or if you’re a fan of Midnight in Paris or Hemingway’s A Moveable Feast—you’ll eat this story up like a fresh baguette straight from a corner boulangerie. A tale of family, heritage, forgiveness, and finding the strength within, Lost in Paris sparkles and shines like the City of Light itself.”

  —Kristin Harmel, New York Times bestselling author of The Book of Lost Names

  “A luscious, layered story of inheritance, heartbreak, reinvention, and family. I adored this book.”

  —Kristan Higgins, New York Times bestselling author of Always the Last to Know

  “Lost in Paris has everything I love in a book: the magic of a romantic location, the intrigue of a family mystery, and the nostalgia of another era. An utterly charming read!”

  —Julia Kelly, internationally bestselling author of The Whispers of War

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  This book is dedicated to Michael for the trips to Paris, for the lunches and flowers you bring to my desk, for your encouragement and the champagne celebrations each step along the way, but mostly for your unconditional love. Also, to Jennifer for allowing us to show you Paris for the first time, and to my father, Jim, who made it possible for us to live in France (and drink champagne).

  August 1929

  Paris, France

  Dear Diary,

  In the twilight between sleep and wakefulness, the moment before my lashes fluttered open, I feared it was all a dream.

  That I would open my eyes and find myself back in the flat on rue Delambre.

  But now that I’m lying atop smooth cotton linens, sunlight streaming through the sheers that cover the tall casement windows, I’m sure it’s real.

  I’m in the apartment.

  Remnants of my birthday celebration litter the marble-topped nightstand: Leftover cake. The opened bottle of champagne. One empty flute, another half-full. The note on the pillow next to mine reads, Good morning, my love. You looked so beautiful sleeping I hated to wake you. I will see you this evening.

  I feel like a queen in this four-poster bed with the fluffy duvet covering my naked body.

  It is one of those rare instances in life when everything seems good and right and, dare I say, perfect.

  I want to live in this moment forever.

  For the first time since moving to Paris, I am finally in the position to write and tell my parents I am doing well.

  One

  December 31, 2018—3:00 p.m.

  Bath, England

  Clad in OBSTINATE, HEADSTRONG GIRL T-shirts, the “Fitzwillings” laugh and whisper, interrupting my spiel about Sally Lunn’s house. Again.

  Since I haven’t said anything particularly scandalous or funny, I pause, giving the six American women, who are part of a Cleveland-based book club, the opportunity to get it out of their collective system before I wrap up my talk.

  We’re down to the final two hours of my six-day Ultimate Jane Austen Tour.

  I get it.

  We’ve digested a whole lot of Jane.

  We’ve had our fill of cornices with dentils and symmetrical fenestration and Jane Austen slept here and ate that and promenaded there.

  I make a living leading people to worship at the altar of Austen, but frankly, today I’m over her, too.

  In approximately one hour and fifty-eight minutes, I will leave my charges to take to the waters at the Thermae Bath Spa. The moment the handoff is complete, I will be on vacation.

  For one glorious week, I will binge on take-out curry and back-to-back episodes of Love Island, while lounging in my jammies and feeling smugly superior to the idiots making fools of themselves on national television.

  But, I digress.

  The Fitzwillings, as they call themselves, are still yammering, and I’m trying not to lose my shit.

  I’m weighing my words because I really hate confrontation, when Jerry Sanders, a middle-aged high school English teacher from Wisconsin, says in his teacher voice, “Ladies, is there something you’d like to share with the rest of the group?”

  Jerry and the Fitzwillings have been sparring the entire trip. Never mind his bad habit of interjecting into my spiels factoids that are not always correct. He loves to call out everyone who even looks as if they’re contemplating talking over me.

  “No, we’re good, Jerry,” says Lucy Fitzwilling. “Thanks, though.”

  Jerry bares his teeth at her.

  It’s been happening all week. The Fitzwillings get excited about something and start talking. Jerry calls them out. They stop for a while. Then the cycle repeats.

  “As I was saying, Sally Lunn’s house is considered the oldest house in Bath, dating back to 1482. Although, Sally didn’t live here until the late 1600s. It’s a good example of medieval-style architecture. Notice the small stones on the façade and how the windows appear undersized when compared to the elegant building behind us?”

  As I pause to let everyone turn around and have a look, my smartwatch buzzes with a call. I glance at my wrist even though I can’t talk now.

  It’s my mother.

  Marla and I have a complicated relationship. Other than an awkward five-minute call on Christmas Day, which I initiated, it’s been several months since we’ve spoken—since I flew back to Orlando for my grandmother’s funeral at the end of summer.

  In addition to wishing her a merry Christmas, I called for an update on how things were proceeding with the sale of Gram’s house, which Marla and I jointly inherited and she offered to stage and list. As of last week, she was still sorting through Gram’s possessions and grumbling about the clutter she needed to eliminate before we could even think of putting the house on the market.

  I didn’t feel too bad for her, because as compensation for preparing the house, we agreed that she could keep any of the clutter she wanted or pocket the proceeds of anything she sells.

  She lives in Orlando. I live in London. That’s the only way it was going to work.

  The cold weaves its way through the fabric of my red wool coat. I tighten my scarf and shove my hands into my pockets. I’ll call her when I get back to London. Or tomorrow. Maybe.

  “Jane Austen frequented Sally Lunn’s bakery, which is still famous for its large brioche buns. I hope you’re hungry because we’ll sample them when we have our tea. In the meantime, you might be interested to know Jane mentioned Sally Lunn’s baked goods in a letter to her sister, Cassandra, in 1801. She said, ‘Though, to be sure, the keep of two will be more than of one, I will endeavor to make the difference less by disordering my stomach with Bath buns.’ ”

  Two of the Fitzwillings are whispering again. They’re eyeballing Jerry.

  I ta
lk louder.

  “Based on that quote, we can see that Jane was well acquainted with Sally Lunn’s buns.”

  A titter ripples through the group.

  “I am, of course, referring to brioche.” More laughter. “It’s been said that our Jane would often keep a stash of Sally’s bakes in her room to supplement the scanty meals served by her aunt Leigh-Perrot, whom Jane and Cassandra visited in Bath.”

  The ladies are laughing less subtly now, hardly containing their whispers, and Jerry’s gaze remains trained on them with sniper-like focus.

  It’s been a long week. The tour started in London and stretched up to Chatsworth House, famously the location of Darcy’s Pemberley in the 2005 Pride and Prejudice movie. We gave equal time to Lyme Park in Cheshire, the 1995 Pemberley. We’ve made all of the relevant stops along the way as we circled back through Bath on day six.

  The women are oblivious to Jerry’s irritation until he says, “Come on, out with it, ladies. Let us all in on the joke. Tell us what’s so funny.”

  They fall silent, but Jerry is having none of it.

  “Really,” he says. “We want to know what is so damn hilarious that you keep interrupting Hannah.”

  “Jerry, it’s fine,” I say. “I think we’ve all had enough architecture. Let’s go have tea. The reservations are listed under Heart to Heart Tours. I’m sure they won’t mind if we’re a little early.”

  I hope.

  I herd the group toward the restaurant in a desperate attempt to diffuse the situation.

  It works.

  We step inside and I give the information to the hostess, who, by the grace of God, has our tables ready.

  I let the others go first and that’s when I see him. He’s sitting at a table all alone, his head bowed over a folio as he writes.

  A navy peacoat and a tartan scarf are draped over the empty chair at the table. He’s wearing a black button-down, dark skinny jeans, and boots. His vibe is rock and roll or some other old-soul creative cool, but the intense way he furrows his brow as he writes makes me think of Mr. Darcy himself. I wonder if the Fitzwillings have noticed him.

  My watch buzzes another alert and it makes me jump. He must see the movement out of the corner of his eye because he looks up and catches me staring at him. There’s a flash of recognition on his face and he squints at me.

  He looks familiar… vaguely.

  Do I know you?

  If not, I want to know you.

  I scroll through the files in my head. Famous people? No. People I know in Bath? Uh-uh. Other business acquaintances not from Bath? Not that I can remember. Someone from university? No. Guys my roommates have dated or tried to fix me up with? Hardly. People from London? No. Nothing.

  It’s as if time has stopped around us and we’re the only ones in the room. Until I realize the hostess is talking to me.

  “Right this way, miss,” she says.

  I tear my gaze away from his and follow the hostess. In an attempt to center myself, I look at the text on my watch. It’s my mother again.

  DID YOU GET MY MESSAGE??? CALL ME NOW! VERY IMPORTANT!!!

  I’m not sure if her choice of all caps implies actual importance or impatience.

  Either way, I can’t talk to her right now. After we order, some of the Fitzwillings begin peppering me with questions.

  “Hannah, how did you get into this line of work?” Lucy asks. “It’s like a dream job. You must have such fun going to work every day.”

  I adore my boss, Emma, owner of Heart to Heart. She’s become more of a friend than a boss. I will never be able to repay her for hiring me as a seasonal employee and keeping me on because I desperately needed work. Not only that, she’s given me creative freedom to make the Austen tour what it is today.

  It’s not her fault that I feel… stuck. I’m twenty-seven years old. I can move on whenever I want.

  “No, seriously,” Lucy presses. “How did you, an American, land a cool job like this? I mean, it allows you to live here and work here, right?”

  I nod. “I guess I was lucky.”

  The Fitzwillings are distracted by other conversation. I look over at Brooding Darcy. His head is bowed over his folio again and he’s furiously scribbling away. I wonder if I’d imagined our exchange a moment ago.

  Then some of the Fitzwillings unleash a clap of laughter over something I missed and he raises his head only to catch me looking at him again.

  He levels me with that same unsmiling, unapologetic stare that takes my breath away.

  I know I’m not imagining that, but I look away.

  After the server delivers our food and beverages, Lucy says, “Hannah, we got interrupted. Tell me how you got the job?”

  I sip my tea. “I suppose I didn’t choose this career path as much as I needed a job while I was in college.”

  “You went to college here?” Gloria Fitzwilling asks.

  “Yes. I fell in love with the UK after doing a summer abroad here during my undergrad in the US. I returned to do my MA in literature at the University of Bristol, about fifteen miles from where we are right now. That’s when Heart to Heart hired me as a seasonal employee. I suppose it was a season that never ended because I’m still here.”

  Lucy sighs and dreamily pushes an oversized bite of bun into her mouth. It makes her look like a chipmunk.

  “I don’t blame you,” she says around the brioche. “I would so move here if I could. I’d meet a real-life Mr. Darcy and have beautiful Darcy children.”

  I slant another surreptitious glance at Brooding Darcy’s table, but it’s empty. Somehow he slipped away and I didn’t notice.

  Story of my life.

  “Oh my gawd—yes… yes… yes!” Polly Fitzwilling throws her head back and cries out orgasmically. “Darcy children means Darcy sex. Yes, please. I’d never get out of bed.”

  Jerry slams his hand on the table, making the china cups and saucers rattle. “Of all the inane, vapid nonsense.” His insult halts conversation at our end. A couple of the Fitzwillings grimace, another presses her lips together. Jerry’s wife, Frances, looks embarrassed. Lucy glares at him.

  I think the moment will pass, when Lucy says, “Why would you say something so rude, Jerry? We’re just having fun. Lighten up a little bit.”

  My face freezes into what I hope is my practiced, pleasant tour guide expression.

  Jerry’s face turns red. “You and your friends have been talking through the entire tour. It’s safe to say that I’m not the rude one, you stupid cow.”

  “Okay, no—Nope!” I demand. “We’re not going to do this.”

  “Yes we are.” Jerry’s chair scrapes the wooden floorboards as he stands and hulks over the table. “I’m sick of their incessant ridiculous babble.”

  This is a first. I’ve never had to referee a fight between my charges.

  Frances puts a hand on her husband’s arm and mutters, “Jerry, please. Sit down.”

  He bellows, “Shut up, Frances.”

  The restaurant falls silent. People turn around and stare.

  “That’s enough.” My voice is low but firm. “Let’s be respectful of others or they’ll ask us to leave.”

  “I’ll make this easy on everyone,” he says. “Frances and I will leave.”

  “Jerry, please sit down,” Frances begs. “We haven’t finished our tea.”

  “We’re not having tea, Frances. We’re leaving. Now.”

  Watching Jerry take Frances by the arm and quick-walk her out of the dining room triggers a memory I’ve tried hard to forget.

  It was a hot summer night in Orlando. I was thirteen. It was the last time Marla whisked me away from Gram’s house, where I lived. Marla promised that this time she would make things work. This time, we’d make a life together.

  Of course, making it work entailed constantly walking on eggshells around her boyfriend, Ed, because I never knew what would make him fly into a rage. It was usually directed at my mother. But not always.

  I stand to walk after Jer
ry and Frances and try to blink away the memory, but not before the mental soundtrack plays: The sharp crack of fist connecting with bone. Emergency sirens. My mother screaming at me as they wheeled her into the ambulance: This is all your fault, Hannah. This is all on you.

  As cold sweat breaks out on the back of my neck, a vague sense of nausea washes over me. It’s been a long time since I thought about that night.

  Today’s ill-timed phone call from Marla coupled with Jerry’s anger allowed the memory to seep through the cracks of the wall I’ve built between my childhood and my current life.

  Outside, I call after Jerry and his wife. He whirls around to face me. “You need to learn how to keep your tour under control, Ms. Bond.”

  This is not a classroom setting where people have to shut up and listen. The women have the right to enjoy the tour in their own way—even if it means giggling and whispering about a fictional character—but pointing that out now won’t help.

  “Jerry, come back inside. Let Frances finish her tea—”

  “Frances doesn’t want tea, but I want to talk to your supervisor.”

  He’s thrusting his cell phone at me, jabbing it into my shoulder. I sidestep, trying to avoid the next blow, but my heel catches an uneven piece of cobblestone and I feel myself going down. As adrenaline begins pinpricking my skin from the inside out, a pair of strong hands grabs my torso and rights me before I hit the ground.

  “Hey, buddy, take it easy, there.” The deep male voice is steeped in a Scottish accent. The words are as strong as the hands that saved me. “There’s no reason to shove a lady.”

  I know it’s Brooding Darcy before I turn and see him. He’s taller than I realized, and sturdy. Judging by the way he’s scowling down at Jerry, he’s not playing around.

  Clearly Jerry realizes it, too, because he takes a couple of steps back.

  “This is none of your business,” Jerry says, but his tone isn’t quite as nasty as it was a moment ago.

  “It becomes my business when I see a man making an arse of himself roughing up a woman on the street. Do we need to call the police to settle it?”