Lost in Paris

by Elizabeth Thompson

  I’m not an expert on Parisian real estate, but even I know that this is the expensive neighborhood.

  After the doorman allows me in, he instructs me to take the elevator up to the third floor. When Gabriel answers the door, he greets me with a quick kiss on the lips.

  “I’m so happy you’re here.”

  His eyes sparkle as he helps me out of my coat. He hangs it in the foyer closet, and his gaze slowly meanders the length of my body.

  “You look stunning,” he says as he takes my purse and places it on the shelf above my coat.

  Since I’d already worn my one nice outfit to the museum today, I borrowed a stretchy little black dress from Marla. Gabriel seems to appreciate the way it clings to all the places that make me self-conscious.

  I hope he can’t tell I’m holding my breath and doing my best to suck in my stomach. The only thing worse than my granny panties would’ve been Spanx. Do they even sell such a thing in Paris?

  Finally, he closes the closet door, puts his hand on the small of my back, and ushers me into the living room. I’m hyperaware of his touch and the smell of his aftershave. It’s crisp and clean with hints of tobacco. It makes me want to lean in and breathe deeper.

  I’m glad I ended up shaving my legs.

  When I step into the living room, I notice that his home lives up to the neighborhood’s reputation.

  From what I can see, it’s about three times the size of Ivy’s ninth arrondissement apartment, and it has all the charming, old-world Parisian fixtures one would imagine—the kind that make a home look both old and brand-new at the same time.

  The paint is fresh and bright white, and the Murano glass chandelier in the foyer sparkles as if it was recently cleaned. Who knows? Maybe the cleaning crew stopped by Gabriel’s place after they left square la Bruyère.

  Then I’m struck by the aroma perfuming the air.

  My stomach growls. “Something smells delicious.”

  He smiles at the compliment and looks downright boyish in his black Henley and blue jeans. I like this more casual side of him.

  “I hope you’re hungry. I have prepared a feast for us.”

  Which means he was pretty confident I would show up tonight.

  I’m glad I did.

  I’m glad I didn’t miss the chance to see this place. To see the floor-to-ceiling casement windows from the inside. I notice that they’re covered by shutters and flowing white sheers, so I can’t see outside where I once stood, but it’s dark out there anyway and it’s warm and inviting in here. A grand piano sits in front of the windows in one corner. Across the room there’s a fire in the fireplace, which is one of those modern gas-and-glass models built into the marble surround. It gives the room a contemporary touch that reminds you that, yes, these walls have seen the ages, but the current custodian enjoys all the latest conveniences. And has very good taste, as evidenced by the large white couch-and–chaise lounge combo with a fur throw draped casually over the back—perfect for lounging or cuddling.

  “Sit down, please,” Gabriel says. “How do you say… make yourself at home?”

  “Make yourself at home!”

  I know it was a corny thing to say, but when I get nervous, my inner nerd springs to life. I’m relieved he chuckles as he leaves the room.

  Rather than sitting, I take the opportunity to take in the room with its high ceilings, crowned with expensive-looking medallions and sculpted molding. Its details are similarly French to the ones in Ivy’s apartment, but here they’re elevated to the next level. It’s all white on white—white ceiling, white fixtures, white walls, white shutters and drapes, white furniture—except for the Murano glass chandelier and the deep-red Persian rugs that top the parquet floors.

  I notice no trace of cigarettes or ashtrays, which probably means he doesn’t smoke in the house.

  Points for him.

  He’s still smiling when he returns with champagne in a silver bucket and two crystal flutes. He sets everything on the coffee table, which is carved out of marble and laid with a scape of large hardback coffee-table books, a massive fresh floral arrangement in a gleaming silver dish, and a grouping of towering silver candlesticks in graduated sizes. The place looks straight from the pages of Architectural Digest.

  “I hope you like bubbles,” he says as he coaxes the cork from the bottle with a controlled pffft and a nearly inaudible pop.

  He pours two glasses and hands me one, then touches his glass to mine.

  “To you. I am so very glad we’re doing this.”

  “I am, too.”

  The way Gabriel looks at me reminds me I’m wearing the lacy violet-blue thong and matching bra under my dress. I’m not sure how much longer I’ll want to keep my silky little secret to myself.

  He gestures to the sofa. “Please make yourself at home and enjoy the fire while I go in and check on dinner.”

  “Can I help you with anything?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “Everything is done. It’s simple food. Coq au vin and pomme de terre. It needs to cook a few minutes more.”

  I feel odd sitting alone in the cavernous room.

  I take my champagne over to the built-in bookshelves that line the walls on either side of the fireplace. They are crammed full of books—and not the generic leather-bound variety for show that designers often use to accessorize fancy places like this.

  Some shelves house large art and photography books. Several volumes detailing the history of France occupy another shelf. They’re situated among small sculptures and colorfully painted bowls and sterling silver chalices. There’s a framed black-and-white photo of a much younger Gabriel with four other people. I pick it up for a closer look at the older man and woman, who could be his mother and father. And a boy and a girl who could be his brother and sister. Yes, I can see the resemblance. The dark wavy hair, the deep-set, dark eyes, the same strong features. This has to be his family.

  I hear footsteps behind me and turn, photo in one hand, champagne flute in the other, a smile at the ready as I start to ask Gabriel about the people in the picture.

  Only, it’s not Gabriel standing behind me.

  A small, thin, well-dressed woman with short dark hair who looks like she could have just stepped out of the salon is regarding me with a quizzical expression. Her arms are crossed and in the crook of one hangs a crocodile Birkin bag. I’m no fashion expert, but even I know about this bag, and I’m 99 percent sure it’s real.

  She says something to me in rapid French that I don’t understand.

  “I’m sorry, my French is not very strong. Parlez-vous anglais, s’il vous plaît?”

  She raises her chin and actually looks down her aquiline nose at me. “Ah, I see. You are American.”

  Her English is perfect.

  “Yes, I am.” I return the photo to the shelf.

  “And you are?” she asks.

  It takes me a moment to realize she’s asking my name. “I am Hannah Bond.” Foolishly, I set my champagne flute on the coffee table, close the distance between us, and offer my hand in greeting.

  She regards my outstretched fingers for a moment before uncrossing her arms and giving my hand a perfunctory squeeze and recrossing her arms.

  “I did not realize my husband was entertaining a dinner guest this evening.”

  Her husband?

  “The chicken should be ready in fifteen minutes,” Gabriel calls from the kitchen. “I’ve opened a bottle of burgundy for us to enjoy with the meal. Do you like red wine?”

  He enters the room with a goblet in hand. “Here’s a sip to try. If you don’t care for it, I’ll open—” He stops short as soon as he sees the woman.

  His wife?

  “Veronique,” he says. “I was not expecting you home tonight.”

  “Yes. I see.” Her expression is neutral as she looks back and forth between Gabriel and me, her head still held high.

  Veronique is his wife. Nice. It’s slowly sinking in. Only it doesn’t make any sense.

&nbs
p; Nothing inappropriate has happened. Except for my new underwear and the peck on the lips, which was pretty chaste by French standards.

  I don’t know whether to stay or go. I wish one of them would say something to give me an indication of what I should do. If I leave too hastily, it implies that hanky-panky was on tonight’s menu. But if I stay—well, the situation feels more and more awkward as each second ticks by.

  “So, Hannah is your flavor of the moment?” Her voice is lilting and amused.

  “Excuse me?” I ask, willing to give her the benefit of the doubt. Maybe her English isn’t as perfect as I first thought. “I am Gabriel’s client.”

  “I know, honey, they all are.”

  Honey?

  “Let me guess,” she continues. “He has prepared coq au vin for you and given you a sob story about how he loves to cook but hates to eat alone?”

  She must read the astonishment on my face because she barks out a laugh.

  “Do not feel bad. You are not the first. His law practice is like a garden that keeps producing fresh crops of… how shall I say… dinner guests.” She gives my body a once-over and shakes her head.

  Then she waves her hand as if she can make me disappear. Her large diamond ring glints in the light. Gabriel is frozen in place. The glass of wine he was bringing me to taste is suspended as if he’s offering a toast.

  Veronique sets her bag on the sofa, walks to a bar cart with a decanter and crystal glasses, and pours herself a drink of amber liquid.

  “I should go,” I say to Gabriel while her back is turned.

  He nods and at least has the decency to look sorry. I grab the wine from his hand, knock it back, and return the empty glass.

  As soon as I disappear into the foyer to retrieve my purse and coat from the closet, Veronique lights into him in rapid-fire French.

  I don’t need Google Translate to understand exactly what she’s saying.

  July 1927

  Paris, France

  Dear Diary,

  Helen had other plans and could not accompany me to meet Pierre tonight. I strongly considered staying in for the evening, because I worried that arriving alone would give him the wrong idea. Alas, as the clock ticked closer to seven, all I could think was how I do not fancy being a painter’s model forever. If I am to find a more advantageous situation, I must explore every opportunity. Pierre had promised an introduction, and I would be foolish not to take it.

  I’m so happy I went, despite the evening getting off to an unfortunate start.

  More about that in a moment.

  We were the first guests to arrive at Miss Stein’s home. I quickly realized the heavyset man in the armchair by the fireplace was not a man at all, but a woman with terrible fashion sense and an unfortunate haircut that was more Julius Caesar than Eton crop.

  She greeted Pierre by name. Her American accent clued me in that she was our host.

  Pierre had the nerve to introduce me as his model. He did not mention that I was an aspiring fashion designer. After the introduction, I became invisible. I wondered if he had misled me, because it was curious that someone as inelegant as Miss Stein would have an interest in, much less connections to, the fashion world.

  The longer Pierre prattled on about the form and symbolism in his current paintings, the more irritated I became with him. To quell my mood, I glanced about the tidy room, taking in the paintings and drawings displayed on the walls, some stacked two or three high. I am by no means a connoisseur, but the massive collection looked impressive.

  Aside from the art, the home was not fancy. Yet everything—the books, the statuary, the flowers in vases—seemed to have a purpose.

  Maybe that’s why I felt so out of place.

  Especially when Miss Stein began talking to Pierre about me as if I weren’t there, telling him I was quite comely and that she was eager to call at his studio to view the paintings and perhaps add one to her collection.

  When I agreed to model for Pierre, I hadn’t considered that a rendering of my naked body might hang in someone’s home in full view—in a place like this.

  I tried to find my voice and explain that I was more than a model, but Miss Stein interrupted me to introduce her partner, Alice Toklas, the tiny, wiry woman sitting on the small chair across the hearth from her. I didn’t understand what she meant by partner. Did they invest in art together? Or perhaps another business venture? I meant to ask Pierre on the way home, but he ended up leaving without me. Can you believe that?

  Before that happened, others arrived. At the first break in conversation, I gathered all my courage and addressed Miss Stein. “Pierre tells me you are acquainted with leaders in the fashion world?”

  She squinted at me as if she didn’t understand and asked Alice to fetch me some tea and make me comfortable. I thought she was inviting me to join the circle of men that was forming around her, but soon I realized I was not to converse with her and the men; I was to join Alice at the ladies’ table.

  Foolishly, I tried to snare Pierre’s gaze, but he was deep in an animated conversation with another man. The next thing I knew, Pierre had stalked out of the room, looking angry. The man he’d been talking to went after him looking just as disgruntled.

  The lone curio that did not have a place in this room, I decided it was time for me to leave.

  In the foyer, I glanced around for Pierre, but he was not there. Then suddenly, the front door swung open. The man Pierre had been arguing with nearly knocked me down in his haste.

  He excused himself. I asked him if he knew where Pierre had gone.

  He asked if I was a friend of Pierre’s. I was so irritated I said not anymore.

  He laughed a laugh that reached all the way to his gold-flecked brown eyes and said that anyone who disliked the man was a friend of his. He took my hand and introduced himself as Andres Armand.

  That’s when I realized he was quite possibly the most handsome man I’d ever met.

  He offered to escort me home because he said it wasn’t safe for a young woman to walk alone after dark. When I asked him why should I trust him, he told me he hoped I would give him a chance to prove himself worthy.

  I have never believed in love at first sight. Until now.

  I wanted to trust Monsieur Armand. Maybe it was his handsome face or the fine way he dressed. Though, Jack the Ripper was rumored to have been an aristocrat.

  Even so, I allowed him to walk me home. My heart broke when he bid me adieu without asking to call on me again. He knows where I live, but I fear I might never see him again… unless I venture back to Miss Stein’s salon, which appeals to me about as much as posing naked for Pierre Jean.

  To see the charming Andres Armand again, though, I might risk it.

  Fourteen

  January 3, 2019—8:45 p.m.

  Paris, France

  Why are you home so early?” Marla asks as I let myself into the hotel room. She looks from the TV to the clock on the nightstand between the full-sized beds.

  “Gabriel is married.”

  I figure there’s no sense pretending.

  “What?” My mother’s mouth falls open and she pushes to a sitting position. She looks truly horrified.

  I nod. “His wife, Veronique, came home before we even had a chance to sit down for dinner.”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  I sit down on my bed, remove my boots, then lean against the headboard and hug my knees to my chest. “Obviously he wasn’t expecting her. The worst part is that I’m not his first ‘dinner guest,’ as she called me. Not that being the first would make it any better. Marla, what kind of a man invites another woman to the home he shares with his wife while she’s away? It was so awkward. I feel so dirty.”

  “Did something happen?” Marla sits up. “He didn’t—”

  “No. Nothing happened. But if she hadn’t come home so early, who knows where things might have ended up?”

  Marla stands and starts pacing. “I’m furious. I’m going to call that law off
ice tomorrow and report him.”

  “Marla, he’s a named partner. Really, it’s fine. Nothing happened. He invited me over for dinner. I went of my own volition and then I left. He didn’t touch me. End of story.”

  “Well, then, we are changing law firms first thing tomorrow.”

  “Marla, no. That would be too messy. He mentioned that Monsieur Levesque is back in town and will be our point person. I’ll bet we’ll never hear from Gabriel Cerny again.”

  * * *

  THE NEXT DAY, MARLA and I check out of the hotel and move into the apartment. The plan is to spend the rest of our time here going through the contents of Ivy’s place—looking in every drawer, searching every nook and cranny for more information about her secret life.

  Maybe it should be enough that we inherited the apartment, but one thing Marla and I agree on is that we want to know more about Ivy’s life in Paris. It’s the first time my mother and I have had a common goal.

  Today, with my new direction, I won’t dwell on the fact that I lost an entire day of my weeklong vacation—valuable time—playing with a married man rather than spending it at the apartment getting the lay of the land and taking inventory.

  I don’t like that I’m behind, but it gives me a renewed sense of purpose. Today, I dig in with vigor.

  We find photo albums stashed on shelves and clothing hanging in the closet: two pairs of men’s pants and three shirts, a few dresses, a red cloche hat, and a long, camel-colored coat with faux fur edging the sleeves and collar.

  The garments are dusty, but they’re in remarkably good shape. They look like back room thrift store pickings. I remove them one by one to examine them. The piece that tugs at my heart is a stunning black drop-waist dress trimmed in soft gray silk with the most delicate beaded flowers embroidered around the hem, neckline, and cuffs.

  It was Ivy through and through.