Lost in Paris Elizabeth Thompson (romantic story to read .TXT) 📖

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