It’s fabulous news, but the timing could be better.
The tour kicks off in less than a week. I can’t spare the time away, but now, there’s new urgency in picking up the manuscript.
Until we figure out our next step, we need to get it into safekeeping.
“Hannah, everything will be fine,” says Tallulah. She has settled in well and has been picking up the slack after Marla pulled another disappearing act.
I hadn’t wanted to gossip about my mother, the forty-five-year-old groupie, but Tallu needed to know what was what since I hadn’t exactly fired Marla. I knew letting her go would open another massive can of worms, so for now I’m letting Marla come and go as she pleases.
When I was at the office, Marla took her suitcase and left. She was gone when I returned. My money is on her being holed up somewhere with Martin, but that’s okay. I know I can count on Tallu to hold down the fort while I go to London to pick up the manuscript. I’m telling the truth when I say the trip will take one day.
“Go on,” Tallulah says. “If I need anything, you’re a phone call away. Everything will be fine.”
I check the Eurostar listings. There’s a train leaving tomorrow at 5:45 a.m. It will put me in London around 8:30. There’s a return passage that leaves shortly after 1:00 p.m., arriving in Paris around 3:30 p.m.
It will be a whirlwind—and an expensive one at that—but I really don’t have a choice. Since it is such a quick trip, I justify not texting Marla to say I’m picking up the manuscript without her.
Now that it has been authenticated, the fewer people who know about it, the better. I do, however, let Monsieur Levesque know.
“This is big news,” he says on the phone. “When word gets out, it will create a stir. We need to be prepared.”
I wonder what he means by prepared, but he’s already moved on to something else before I can ask.
“This must be the day for good news,” he says. “I received an audit of the annuity that has covered the utilities and fees for the apartment all these years. It is the type we now call an inflation-indexed annuity. It was designed to pay out increasingly more over the years to cover the rate of inflation. I don’t know if they called it that back when it was originally established, but I do know it was originally purchased in the name of your great-grandmother Ivy. Over the years, it has provided more than was 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.
&nb
sp; 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 to wonder, why is he here?
I’m not going to ruin a good night by overthinking it.
“So, your Cordon Bleu friends are storing the food?”
He blinks.
“Yes, and I can also use one of the kitchens to cook. Your timing with this first tour was perfect because Cordon Bleu’s new term doesn’t start until the end of next week.”
“It’s really good of you to do this, Aiden.”
“I wanted to. For you.”
The Eiffel Tower is flashing its bright lasers and lights in the distance, but Aiden and I only have eyes for each other. For a moment, I think he might kiss me. I want to kiss him, but I don’t want to make things awkward right before tour time.
So I sit back, breaking the spell. “This seems like the perfect place for a picnic. You’re sure it works okay for transporting and serving the food?”
He glances around the park, still looking a little dazed but acting like nothing almost just happened. “Sure, I don’t see why not. I’ll figure out where to park and use a cart to wheel in the food. If something changes, I’ll let you know. But we should be able to find a space in this vicinity.”
January is considered the shoulder season for Paris tourists. It gets dark early and the weather is unpredictable. Sunset happens around 5:45, but we’ve been blessed with relatively mild temperatures in the midforties. Aiden will provide thermoses of hot coffee to keep everyone warm, and the upside to the earlyish sunset is the postdinner light show, compliments of la Tour Eiffel.
“Tallu can meet you here and help you. Emma will probably want to stay with me to see the whole tour. Plus, it will be good for her to get the full effect of walking up to the picnic like a guest.”
“Works for me,” he says. “We can’t reserve a space, but you can look for us around here. Will Marla be helping?”
“That remains to be seen. She might have other things to do.”
* * *
ON THE MORNING OF the tour launch, Tallulah, Emma, and I arrive at the office at 6:00 a.m., ahead of the 10:00 a.m. departure. Emma came in special for the inaugural run. I’m both giddy and nervous that she will be here watching my performance and helping me shepherd twenty people through Paris’s crazy years.
I’m here early to do one last check to make sure everything is in place. I was so grateful when Em and Tallulah volunteered to be here at the crack of dawn to help me. Marla stayed in London a few extra days, which is probably best for both of us because things have been tense since I caught her in the lie.
After I unlock the door and turn on the lights, I pick up messages. The first one is from a reporter.
At first I assume she wants to cover the new tour, and my heart soars. I couldn’t buy better advertising. Or, at least, it’s not in our budget right now.
However, my elation is short-lived.
“Hello, this is Desirae Montpellier from The Guardian. I’m trying to reach Hannah Bond. I’m following up on a tip I received that you might know something about a newly discovered Andres Armand manuscript. Please call me at your earliest convenience.”
“What the—?”
“What’s wrong?” Tallu asks. She and Emma gather round.
“A reporter has gotten wind of the Armand manuscript. Only a handful of people know about it, but they all know we’re not ready for the publicity frenzy it’s going to create.”
Would Marla do that when she, more than anyone, understands the consequences of announcing it without a plan? Especially on the opening day of the tour. Would she do it out of spite to throw us—me—into chaos?
She has done some pretty bad things in her life, but they’ve always come from a place of selfishness, not malice or spitefulness. Still, she knew today was the big day and she’s not here to help.
“Who would do something like this?” T asks.
I shrug. “I don’t know. I’m not sure what to do.”
“You shouldn’t do anything right now,” T says. “Not until you can talk to your attorney.”
She’s right—I’m not under any obligation to call the reporter back immediately… or at all.
“Is there any way you could parlay this into tour coverage?” Emma asks hopefully.
“I don’t know.” Of course, press like this has the potential to bring a lot of attention to the tour that could translate into bookings. But baiting Desirae Montpellier with the manuscript seems like a cheap publicity stunt. Most important, it feels like Ivy and Andres deserve better.
“Today we need to focus on the tour.”
Emma looks a little disappointed, but she nods.
She wouldn’t have tipped off Montpellier, would she? We’ve been friends for so long I can’t imagine that she would betray my confidence like that.
Someone did, and sadly, my money is on Marla.
Right now, I can’t let speculation distract me. I need to get my head in the game and start channeling Granny Ivy—
No, that doesn’t sound right. I need to channel Ivy Braithwaite in her Paris prime.
I bought a blonde bobbed wig with bangs for the occasion. I’m pairing it with Ivy’s black-and-gray dress that I found in her closet. Since it’s still cold outside, I’ll wear her red cloche hat and the long, camel-colored coat trimmed in faux fur.
I’m so busy running through my script and pulling together last-minute odds and ends that the reporter slips my mind. Until Marla waltzes through the door smiling like she’s right on time for a girls’ day out.
“Good morning, beauties,” she sings. “I hope you’re hungry. I got us breakfast from Angelina. Café au lait, hot chocolate, pain au chocolat, and plain croissants for the boring people. Oh! And I got each of us one of those precious little Mont-Blanc pastries. I couldn’t resist. I know it seems like a lot, but when you consider I was tempted to get four of everything on the menu, what I brought you is an exercise in restraint.”
She holds up a large handled bag and a beverage tray like she’s making an offering. I suppose she is.
“Come, my chickens,” she says. “It’s a big, big day. We must start with a good breakfast.”
As she prances to her desk and clears away the papers and folders littering the top, it takes every ounce of self-control for me not to yell at her to take her sugar-and-carb buffet and get out.
She’s an hour and a half late. Oh wait, my bad. She didn’t know the call time because she’s been pouting since we got back from London. She didn’t ask and I sure as hell didn’t offer the information.
I won’t be able to concentrate until I ask her the burning question. “A reporter from The Guardian called asking about a newly discovered Andres Armand manuscript. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
She frowns at me. “Hannah, what are you talking about? Of course I know about the manuscript, but I would be the last person to call the press. You know how I feel about people poking around our home, pilfering through Ivy’s and Andres’s belongings.”
Oh.
I never thought this link to our family would mean so much to my mother, but it does, and she’s hell-bent on protecting it. I’m inclined to believe her, but I had also let myself believe she was done with men before Martin Gaynor happened.
October 1939
Paris, France
Dear Diary,
Paris began mobilizing for war when Germany invaded Poland in September. Andres’s mood turned dark after he was rejected because of the deafness in his left ear when he tried to sign up to fight.
None of this makes sense to me because the fighting is so far away. It’s not even in Paris.
Andres is
like an angry bull ready to charge at the slightest provocation. I tried to soothe him by assuring him his condition only made me love him more, but that didn’t lighten his mood.
I feel so alone.
Many of our American friends have returned to the States. If you look at the ones who are left in Paris, you’d never know they had a care. They still dance and drink and carry on as if nothing is wrong. Andres thinks such frivolousness is inappropriate. I can’t reconcile the urgency that is plaguing him with their untarnished merriment.
I try to assure him that his not being able to fight is a good thing, a blessing that will keep him here with me, but he doesn’t see it that way. He gets angry with me, saying that real men live to defend their country from such evil. That’s why he has formed a new set of acquaintances. A group of serious men who meet once a week in his apartment and talk of danger.
They don’t realize it, but I listen to them from the kitchen and I can hear every word they say.
There is talk of resistance, talk of Andres helping the war effort in unofficial ways, such as delivering packages and conveying messages. Today he asked if I would be willing to open our homes to people of the Jewish faith who might need help. It scares me, but of course I’m willing to help.
I think of Madame Dreyfus, who owns the boulangerie, and how she gave me a job in my time of need. I hope she’s okay. I can’t understand how anyone would hurt as gentle and giving a woman as she.
I ask Andres if he knows when that time might come. He doesn’t know. Nobody does. I wish I could calm him. I fear he will pace the floor until he receives word either way.
I will say enough prayers for both of us, that the troops will not move any closer to my beloved Paris. Still, I will visit Madame Dreyfus tomorrow and make sure she and her family are well and safe. I will let her know she can count on us.
All this talk of war reminds me of the international exposition Paris sponsored in 1937 at the Champ de Mars and the esplanade of the Palais de Chaillot.
When we happened upon the pavilions of the Soviet Union, with its hammer and sickle, and of Germany, with its swastika, Andres yelled at the Germans that they were not welcome. For a fraught moment, I feared he and a German soldier would come to blows. It took much cajoling and pleading on my part to get Andres to walk away, but he finally did after I made an appeal for my own safety.
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