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

the dust under control. Ugh, there are probably hundreds of spiders in here. This is the point where I would usually shudder and run, but my feet are planted as my gaze sweeps over the room, taking in the wonder.

“Monsieur Levesque, may I take these with me?” I hold up the gloves.

“But of course. Everything in the apartment belongs to you and Madame. Take whatever you like.”

Realizing suddenly that I’ve lost track of an uncharacteristically quiet Marla, I guess she’s probably in the bedroom.

“We will only be a couple more minutes,” I call to Levesque.

“Please take all the time you need.”

I feel bad. I should tell him he’s free to go, but I don’t want him to leave. My French is elementary at best and given that no one has entered this place in decades, if the neighbors call the police or come out to question us, I’d feel better having him here to help explain our case.

“Let me get my mother and we’ll go,” I offer.

“As you like.” He returns his attention to his phone.

I’m moving silently, reverently, through the dust-covered living room when Marla shrieks from beyond the open door.

“Oh my God! Hannah! Come here. Quickly!”

THE PAINTINGS ARE GORGEOUS. There are six of them displayed museum style across one of the bedroom walls. Marla has wiped away the dust on one to reveal a study of a nude woman lying on a bed. She is covered somewhat by bedsheets and looks as if she’s staring into the eyes of a lover.

Gazing at the painting, I feel as if I’ve walked in on an intimate exchange. A lover’s promise. Or perhaps the sweet nothings whispered after a night of pleasure.

The painting is quite lovely, if a little risqué. Marla’s gaze is fixed on it. Her expression is horrified. I don’t understand her stunned reaction. With her history, she’s no blushing virgin.

As if reading my mind, she whispers, “Hannah, don’t you recognize her?”

I glance at my mother, hoping for a hint.

“Why are you whispering?” I ask.

“It’s Granny Ivy,” Marla hisses, her voice still hushed. She nods at the painting.

I take a closer look and suddenly everything kaleidoscopes into perspective. Pictures of my great-grandmother as a young woman come to mind and I see that, yes, indeed, the beautiful woman on the bed does resemble Ivy. With her strawberry-blonde hair, she sort of looks like me, too. Like a mix of Marla and me—each of our very best features combined to create one beautiful face.

I turn to my gobsmacked mother. “Obviously you’re not the only one in the family who had a wild streak in her younger years.”

“I guess not. At least I came by it honestly, but it’s just…” She shakes her head, at a loss for words.

“Why are you so shocked by this?” I ask.

I’m wondering why I’m not surprised by it. Maybe because it’s the first clue as to why Ivy never mentioned much about her life in Paris. Was she a painter’s model?

I find the possibility utterly thrilling.

As I begin to study the rest of the paintings on the wall, trying to see through the foggy layers of dust, something at the base of the bedside table catches my eye. The cobwebs are thick in that cranny, and I glance around for something to use as a swab.

“Is everything okay, mesdames?” Monsieur Levesque’s voice startles me. He’s standing in the bedroom’s threshold, covering his nose and mouth with his hand.

“The woman in the painting,” I say. “She’s a relative.”

Marla scowls and moves in front of the portrait as if she is protecting Ivy’s dignity. Her choppy movements have stirred up a cloud that sends Levesque into a coughing fit.

He leaves the room.

I find a grimy newspaper on the bureau and use it to fight my way through the webs to what looks like a small, leather-bound book.

When I hold it in my hands, I see it’s a diary, and I decide to take it with me.

“Marla, come on; we really should go. We need to check into the hotel and we’ve taken up enough of Monsieur Levesque’s time.”

“I’m not ready to go.” Her voice is petulant.

“Well, then you can stay here by yourself because I’m leaving. We can come back tomorrow and start cleaning.”

Holding the gloves and the little book close, I leave Marla rooted to her spot and join Monsieur Levesque in the hallway.

“I hope all this dust hasn’t given you an asthma attack,” I say.

He smiles. “Everything is fine. Though I should make you aware that I must travel out of town tomorrow. I shall turn you over to the capable hands of my partner, Gabriel Cerny. Here is his card. If you’d like, his assistant will arrange for a cleaning service to meet you at the apartment in the morning. You will be able to better assess the place once it is clean.”

“Merci,” I say. “That would be very helpful.”

He nods and watches as I pull some tissue from my purse, wrap up the dusty gloves and diary, and tuck them into the outer pocket of my suitcase for safe keeping.

“Also, I realized we must check on the annuity that has been covering the taxes all these years. The amount may have been different than what is needed to cover the cost of the fees.”

My stomach dips. Great, just what we need. More expenses. Something tells me that if there are property taxes due, the government might not be as lenient about when we pay them as they are about the inheritance taxes.

I fear that we might need to start thinking about putting the place on the market. Because there’s no way even with the proceeds of the sale of Gram’s house that we’ll have enough money to pay for added expenses.

It seems a shame to sell the apartment. If Granny Ivy had kept it, there must’ve been a reason. It must’ve meant something to her.

Then again, if she wanted so badly to keep it a secret, maybe the prospect of selling the