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

place was more of a burden than just letting it rot.

Marla joins us in the hallway. “So sorry to keep you waiting.”

I’m embarrassed by her brusque tone and feel compelled to cover for her.

“Again, Monsieur Levesque, thank you for accommodating us.”

Maybe his associate Monsieur Cerny will be able to point us in the direction of a real estate agent, and preferably someone who speaks our language.

I feel so out of my league. I hope someone doesn’t spot a couple of unsuspecting American dopes and take us for a ride. Of course, we could always call Patrick Sterling for help.

Cha-ching, cha-ching. But investing in legal advice would mean protecting ourselves. Better safe than sorry.

My head is spinning and my stomach rumbles. I realize I’m starving. Marla and I never had the chance to eat lunch, and the five-mile walk made me work up an appetite.

“Monsieur Levesque, could you recommend a good restaurant for dinner?” I ask after we exit the building.

I wonder if I should invite him to join us.

“I do not know what type of food you prefer,” he says. “Sometimes Americans, they do not enjoy what is French.”

“Not all Americans subsist on fast food,” Marla snaps.

“It’s been a long, emotional day,” I say apologetically. “We both need a good dinner. You’re welcome to join us.”

“Thank you for the invitation, but I am expected at home. There is a bistro not too far from here, Café Breton. You might find it satisfactory. I recommend that you order the plat du jour.”

“And what on earth is a plat du jour?” Marla sounds suspicious, as if she’s caught him trying to trick us into ordering horse meat or something equally offensive.

“It means the specialty of the day, Marla,” I say.

Levesque nods. “Oui. It is the finest, freshest ingredients that the chef can locate at the market that morning. From those items he will build the dish. You cannot go wrong.”

Levesque tips his hat, bids us adieu, and slips off into the twilight.

The two of us stand there looking at each other; then we turn our faces to the building, staring at the row of windows on the second floor that now belongs to us.

A cold wind whips up some dried leaves that had been resting at our feet. Marla and I both pull our scarves tighter around our necks.

“I don’t understand why you had to hurry us out like that,” Marla quips. “You could’ve given me some time since it was our first glimpse of this place.”

“You’re welcome to go back up there,” I say. “We have the key. But frankly, I don’t know that it will do you any good to breathe in more dust.”

Just the thought of it makes my lungs heave. Personally, I need to digest everything that’s happened today before I make any more discoveries.

It was a lot.

“Let’s go,” I say. “Tomorrow is another day.”

“I know tomorrow is another day and the day after tomorrow will be yet another one, but I wanted this moment.”

I glance around to see who might be watching the start of a full-on Marla tantrum as we walk away in the direction of the bistro that Levesque suggested.

“You’re hungry and cranky,” I say. “Let’s get you something to eat. Then we’ll go back to the hotel, wash off this dust, and get a good night’s sleep.”

The first thing I plan to do when we get back to the hotel is crack open the diary. My gut tells me it might hold the answers to a few burning questions.

June 1927

Paris, France

Dear Diary,

I’ve made a new discovery. The best way to distract myself from not having a job is to get out of the apartment. Not only does it put space between Helen and me, but exploring also reminds me that opportunities could be around every corner. I certainly won’t find a new situation moping around the apartment, trying to ignore Helen’s judging glances.

Today, I set out with no particular destination in mind. Soon, I found myself lingering in the Jardin des Tuileries. With its rows of manicured lime and elm trees and grassy areas offset by gravel paths, the formal garden sits between the Louvre and the place de la Concorde. Since the Tuileries has become one of my favorite places in all of Paris, I’ve learned a little bit about its history. Did you know that it’s the oldest garden in the city? And long before it became a public park, the Tuileries was the site of Catherine de’ Medici’s royal palace, but the palais was destroyed during the Paris Commune, long after the queen consort’s death.

I sat on a bench in the midst of the beauty, squinted my eyes, and tried to imagine what it was like when the palais stood stalwart and proud. For a glorious moment, I escaped my poverty and pretended I was royalty—or at least a member of the court.

It was all in good fun.

Speaking of fun, I made a new friend today. As I sat there, the sweetest little brown dog ran up and plopped himself onto my feet. When I bent to scratch behind his ears, he looked up at me with the most soulful black eyes that seemed to say, Where’ve you been? I’ve been looking for you. But all too soon his owners, a girl and a boy, whistled for him from across the park. He licked my hand and scampered off to a joyous reunion. Someday when I’m settled, I should quite like to have a dog of my own.

By that time, I was so hungry my stomach was growling. I walked along the rue de Rivoli toward home, stopping along the way to admire Joan of Arc’s statue in place des Pyramides. After communing with her and Catherine de’ Medici, I felt as if I had been bolstered by two strong women.

Even so, by the time I reached Maxim’s on rue Royale, it was all I could do to keep from pressing my nose against the window of the fancy restaurant.