Lost in Paris

by Elizabeth Thompson

  The grand casement windows allow the perfect amount of light to stream in and showcase the sculptures. We linger in front of The Kiss, a breathtaking marble sculpture of a nude couple locked in a passionate embrace.

  I clasp my hands behind my back to keep from reaching out and touching the smooth milky surface. I want to trace the areas where their bodies are joined, forever held together by the stone from which Rodin tried to set them free.

  “Have I succeeded in teaching you how to have fun yet?” Gabriel asks.

  A frisson of awareness skitters through my body.

  “I’m having a wonderful time,” I say. “Of course, Rodin’s work is tremendous, but it’s such a treat to see the inside of the house. I could almost imagine what life was like when Abraham Peyrenc de Moras lived here with his wife.”

  Gabriel tells me the house was long considered the most spectacular in the neighborhood because it was freestanding—it didn’t share walls with other homes, as is the case with so many homes in Paris. It was also unusual because it had one of the most beautiful gardens in the city, which remains today in all its seven-acre splendor.

  “Isn’t looking at an ancient manoir too much like work for you?” Gabriel asks.

  “I never met a big house I didn’t love. This is no more work for me than it must be for you to escort a client to the Musée Rodin. Did you find it less enjoyable with me in tow?”

  I turn and face him.

  “Oh, that’s right. Today, you are a client.” His gaze smolders. “However, since Emile Levesque was your original point of contact, when he returns, I will send you back to his capable hands. Voila! You will no longer be my client and that will leave my hands free to serve you in other ways.”

  I laugh at his forwardness, giving him the benefit of the doubt that something must’ve gotten lost in translation.

  “What exactly are you thinking of doing with those capable hands?”

  He raises his left brow knowingly. His gaze falls to the V neckline of my dress and lingers. I’m suddenly feeling quite out of my depth.

  “What I meant is I have served you in a professional capacity. When Levesque returns, I will be at your service as a… friend.” Gabriel looks at his watch. “In fact, Levesque is probably back in town by now. I guess that means I am no longer on duty.”

  I waver at the new tenor of our conversation. If I let it, it could drift into very personal territory.

  I’m not sure I want that.

  But I’m not sure that I don’t.

  Gabriel is so attractive on so many different levels—physically, emotionally, intellectually. It’s like the trifecta of sexy.

  My mouth goes dry, and I wish I could paw through my purse for a piece of gum.

  This guy is French and older, which translates to experienced. What in the world does he want with someone like me?

  Okay, never mind. I know what he wants, but I’m not sure if I’m up for the emotional roller coaster of a hookup right now.

  Aiden pops into my mind and I feel weirdly guilty. We haven’t even been on a date, beyond the blind date that really wasn’t a blind date.

  He should not figure into this… whatever this is with Gabriel. A no-strings-attached chance to have fun? A short-lived Paris fling with my attorney with benefits?

  The start of something bigger?

  It’s been such a long time since the last time… since Charlie… and I know how that ended.

  Maybe I’m overthinking something good.

  God, here I go. I need to stop. I need to go with the flow.

  “But you’re a named partner. Doesn’t that still make me your client in the grand scheme of things?”

  He reaches out and sweeps a lock of my hair off my cheek, tucks it behind my ear. I can smell his earthiness and the phantom scent of nicotine on his fingers, even though he has never smoked in front of me. My cheek tingles where he touched it.

  “It means you are Levesque’s client and you are my friend. No? Are you not my friend, Hannah? Because I think we could be very good friends.”

  His voice is low and sexy, and I melt a little more inside. I can’t make my brain come up with a witty reply to keep this banter going.

  That’s my curse. Queen of the comeback, I am not. Give me a few hours and I can craft the perfect thing to say, but sadly a late comeback is a dead comeback.

  “Would you allow me to cook dinner for you tonight, Hannah? One friend cooking for the other?”

  I can’t abandon Marla tonight. It was one thing to leave her at the apartment bossing around the cleaning crew, but it’s quite another to desert her on our second night in Paris when we should be strategizing our next moves.

  “Look, I had a nice time with you today,” he says. “I have enjoyed talking to you. You are as interesting as you are beautiful and I want the conversation to continue. That is all. Please know my intentions are pure. Think about it.”

  He doesn’t bring it up again as we stroll around the gardens. Nor does he mention it on the ride back to the apartment.

  When I get out of the car, he follows me. He pulls a pen and a leather-bound notepad from the breast pocket of his coat, writes something, and hands me the paper. “I would be happy to send a car for you tonight, but I don’t want to pressure you. This is my address. I would love to cook for you. I will prepare a meal for two and hope for the best. If you do not show, I will understand.” He shrugs. “I will have leftovers for tomorrow night. And another sad night of eating all alone.”

  “Somehow I doubt that,” I say, glancing at the paper, on which he has scrawled an address and the time—7:00 p.m. His handwriting is neat and bold. It matches his personality perfectly.

  “It is true. I love to cook, but I hate to cook for myself because I hate to eat alone.”

  “No pressure, huh?” I smile.

  He shakes his head. “Absolutely no pressure. I am simply telling you the truth. I will not push you, but it bears repeating that I have had such a lovely time with you today, Hannah, and I do hope to see you tonight.”

  He leans in, and for a split second, I think he’s going to kiss me on the lips, but he whispers a soft kiss on my cheek.

  Without another word, he gets into his car and leaves.

  It is late afternoon as I let myself into the lobby of the apartment building. I’m in another world as I press the call button for the elevator and take the short ride up to the next floor.

  But I land firmly back to earth when I walk into the clean apartment. It looks like a different place dust- and cobweb-free—like the difference between Kansas and Oz. I’m speechless as I take in everything as if for the first time. The shoes are still sitting by the door, only now I can see the worn leather and fraying laces clearly. Rather than the ashy gray of before, they’re a deep, rich cognac brown.

  The jacket hanging on the coat tree is a vibrant cobalt blue. The umbrella is magnificent yellow. Everything has been cleaned and returned to its original place, and I’m sure I have Marla to thank for that.

  As if on cue, she appears in the living room. “Well, what do you think? She cleans up pretty good, doesn’t she?” Marla is standing with her hands on her hips, gazing around the room and looking pleased with herself.

  As she should.

  “It’s unbelievable,” I say. “How long have they been gone?”

  “They left about a half hour ago. A van came and whisked them away.”

  “That’s efficient. I’m glad we didn’t try to clean this place ourselves. We would’ve barely made a dent.”

  “It was a nice gift from Gabriel,” Marla says. “Speaking of… How was your afternoon? I’m surprised to see you back so soon.”

  I glance at my watch. “We were out for more than four hours.”

  She tsks. “And you had the whole night ahead of you.”

  Her insinuation of failure irks me.

  “He wants to cook for me tonight.” The words fly out of my mouth before I can stop them.

  Her eyes grow wide.


  “He’s cooking? At his place?”

  I wait for her to invite herself.

  “Well, that’s more like it.” Her brow arches and the corners of her mouth curl upward. “You know what that means, right? I hope you brought your sexy underwear.”

  “Marla, really? Stop it. Just don’t.”

  I have exactly one pair of sexy undies. They’re in London in the way back of my dresser, where they’ve remained since the day I purchased them. I don’t even remember why I got them. I think they still have the tags.

  “You didn’t bring your sexy panties, did you?” she says.

  “We came here to work.”

  “It’s Paris, Hannah. How could you not bring good underwear?”

  She says this the way some parents might admonish their daughters for getting a bad grade or denting the car.

  “I’m sorry to be such a mortal disappointment to you, Mother.”

  She makes a weary face to show how deeply I’ve wounded her. “You can’t wear granny panties on a date in Paris with a Frenchman. I guess we’ll have to buy you something new on the way back to the hotel.”

  After missing all those years of back-to-school shopping, my mother is making it up to me by taking me shopping for sexy underwear. Cool.

  “Gabriel is not going to see my underwear tonight. That is, if I even go.”

  “Hannah, you have to go.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  Marla clears her throat. “What I mean is a night out is exactly what you need. Gabriel is a good-looking man. He seems interested in you. You’re in Paris. Why not live a little? Since I’ve vowed to become a new woman in Paris, it’s only fair that you work on yourself, too.”

  * * *

  AS WE CLOSE UP the apartment and get ready to go back to the hotel, Marla holds out her phone. “Look, it’s only a thirteen-minute walk from here to the Galeries Lafayette department store.”

  “Is this the GPS you used yesterday at the train station?”

  Marla gives me the stink eye.

  All kidding aside, I really don’t want to buy new underwear. Gabriel tempts me in the most primal way. My cotton granny panties will be my chastity belt. For extra protection, I won’t shave my legs, either.

  “Now we know where to go if we need to go shopping,” I deflect. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Hannah, you need to go shopping. You need new underwear.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Hannah, I’m going to be blunt with you because I don’t want you to embarrass yourself. Frenchmen aren’t like the English boys you’ve been dating. Frenchmen expect a certain level of… sophistication.”

  English boys?

  First, I contemplate asking her how she knows so much about Frenchmen and sophistication. But I really don’t want to know. Then I consider telling her there hasn’t been an English boy since Charlie, but she doesn’t know about him and I don’t want to explain.

  Instead, I say nothing and think more about my options for tonight.

  I just met Gabriel. He’s our lawyer, and just because he’s sexy as hell and I’m thinking of letting him cook for me doesn’t mean I want him for dessert.

  But what if I do?

  It’s been a very long, dry season.

  I can’t believe I’ve let Marla get into my head, but I think about what she said about loosening up, and I have to admit she’s not wrong.

  We take the short walk to the Galeries Lafayette. The department store occupies an entire city block. It’s a stunning sight both inside and out. Four floors are organized around an enormous Neo Byzantine–style dome made of ethereal stained glass. The overall feel is art deco. Gold leaf arches and railings shimmer in the natural light flooding in through the dome, making the merchandise in the great hall glisten and sparkle like diamonds.

  I’m gaping, turning in a slow circle, taking it all in like a tourist.

  We make our way to the lingerie department on the fourth floor. It’s huge and seems to have everything from workout clothing and sleepwear to stockings, garters, slips, panties, and bras in every conceivable level of opacity and sensuality.

  Marla commandeers a saleswoman, Yvette. They tag-team me, pointing out options and extolling the virtues of expensive panties for self-empowerment.

  “Think of it this way,” says Yvette in perfect English. “If you wear your good undergarments every day, even to the market, you have a sweet secret that is your own. It belongs to you. If you choose to share that secret with another person, all the better.”

  Yvette is a different breed of woman than me. She probably has an entire wardrobe of sexy.

  “Plus,” Marla chimes in, “that way you’re always prepared.”

  “Okay, okay. You’ve convinced me.” I point to a feminine violet-blue bra and matching panties. Yvette finds my size and I go into the fitting room, relieved when she doesn’t trail in after me.

  I’m seduced. I love the set, with its delicate sparkles and intricate embroidery. It makes me feel feminine and, yes, sexy.

  Marla wins this round.

  When Yvette finishes wrapping my purchase, Marla asks, “Which way to the Grand Marnier Palace?”

  Yvette cocks her head to the side. Her glossy brown hair falls over her slight shoulder and her blue eyes look puzzled. “Excusez-moi? Urr—I beg your pardon. I do not understand.”

  “The Grand Marnier Palace,” Marla enunciates. “It’s a big, fancy building. It’s supposed to be right around here somewhere. This store is huge, so I don’t want to exit the wrong door. We could be walking in circles for days just to get a drink.”

  The woman shrugs. “I am sorry. I do not know of such a place.”

  Exasperated, Marla holds out her phone. “See, it says right here—”

  “Ah, le Palais Garnier,” says Yvette.

  “Isn’t that what I said, the uh… Pa-lay… Grand Marnier?” Her brow knits as she tries to imitate Yvette’s French pronunciation of palace.

  Yvette suppresses a smile and looks at me knowingly before giving us directions. We thank her, and as we turn to leave, Marla asks, “They serve drinks at this hour, right?”

  “Madame, le Palais Garnier is an opera house,” Yvette says sweetly. “If you drop by the box office, I am sure they will be happy to tell you what they offer and when you can visit.”

  “An opera house?” Marla’s hand flies to her mouth and a small laugh escapes. “I thought it was like Grand Marnier’s headquarters or something. You know, the Palace of Grand Marnier. My bad.” Her cheeks turn pink. “It used to be my favorite drink. I wanted to take Hannah there for a cocktail before her date. Oh, coffee for me, of course.”

  She shrugs, and it’s kind of endearing to see her thrown off her game.

  I get it. This underwear shopping trip was her way of passing the baton to me. Though she and I have always marched to different drums, she’s still my mother, and she still has a few things she wants to teach me.

  July 1927

  Paris, France

  Dear Diary,

  Against my better judgment, I returned to Pierre’s studio the next day.

  Instantly, I wondered if I’d made the right decision because instead of showing proper contrition for his inappropriate actions, Pierre’s disposition was sullen and irritable. He acted as if I were the one who had wronged him, saying because we hadn’t worked a full day yesterday he was behind and didn’t have time for distracting chitchat. That was fine with me because I really didn’t want to talk to him, either.

  The studio was cold and he refused to light a fire or give me a break to stretch my legs, which were falling asleep because they were curled under me.

  He kept saying, Cinq minutes de plus. Five more minutes.

  After an hour had passed, I stood on wobbly legs and pulled on my robe.

  He made a guttural growling noise and tossed away his brush. Grudgingly, he agreed to light a fire so we could get back to work. He claimed he needed to finish this
study of me before the end of the day so he could get back on track to meet his deadline.

  I don’t think he realized I had him over a barrel. If I walked out, he wouldn’t be able to finish the series he was preparing for the exhibit.

  Of course, if I left, I would be without a job and he wouldn’t introduce me to his person he’d promised could open doors. Although, now that I’d had time to think about it, I wondered if he really knew such a person.

  Once the fire was roaring, he rapped his brush on the easel and yelled, “Back to work! Vite!”

  I told him he needed to check his tone. Because he was acting so foul, I lingered over my sketchbook and finished drawing the dress I’d been holding in my mind all morning.

  He started banging around the studio, and I finally laid down my pencil. I told him that his ill temper was uncalled for, and I believed this arrangement would not work after all. Perhaps we should call it quits.

  After that, he was all business, and I felt emboldened to ask about this evening’s meeting.

  He told me he would take me to a salon where there were many influential people.

  I wasn’t sure what he meant by influential people, or, for that matter, what he meant by a salon.

  He told me it was a place where painters and writers and creative minds gathered. It was at the home of an American woman named Gertrude Stein. She opened her home for people to call on Saturday evenings. He said she was always interested in meeting new people and sharing ideas. Pierre said I might meet someone there who would look at my sketches.

  Okay. While it wasn’t the key to the locked door that he had offered yesterday, it was something.

  Because I don’t trust Pierre, I will have Helen accompany me tonight when we meet him at his studio before we walk to Ms. Stein’s home. Wish us luck.

  Thirteen

  January 3, 2019—7:00 p.m.

  Paris, France

  I take a cab to the sixteenth arrondissement address that Gabriel wrote down. Even though he offered to send a car, I felt more in control of the situation providing my own transportation. Dressed in a black sweater dress and knee-high boots, I arrive shortly after 7:00 p.m. and linger out front for a moment, taking in the splendor. His home is gorgeous. It’s a nineteenth-century apartment building, carved out of the locally sourced light-gray limestone that gives Paris buildings their distinctive look.