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

very good thing) that if Andres wasn’t so concerned, I’d be inclined not to give this “phony war” much thought. But he is still cross because France won’t let him fight—they don’t want him because of the deafness in his left ear. Even so, he insists that if France goes to war, he will help on the home front. All he talks about as of late is resistance. I don’t ask him to explain the things I eavesdrop at the weekly meetings he holds at his apartment, because it sets him off. Normally, he is such a gentle, loving man. But I suppose waiting in limbo has many people on edge, including myself.

Is it terrible that I am happy Andres won’t have to fight in the traditional sense? I suppose I’m selfish and weak. Andres is my weakness, my world. I wish the two of us could exist in this little bubble that is our apartment. I call the place ours, even though it’s mine, because he is here almost every night. His apartment has become a meeting spot for the resistance. A place dedicated to secret planning and plotting. That’s fine. He stays here with me. I love having him here. Him with his novels and me with my sewing.

I hate to begin the new year—the new decade—on such an uncertain note. Maybe tomorrow I will have happier news to report. Even if Andres cannot see the good in humanity, I will hold enough hope in my heart for both of us.

“What are you reading?”

I jump at the sound of Marla’s voice. I’d been so engrossed in the diary I didn’t hear the shower stop or the bathroom door open.

She’s standing there in the hotel-issued bathrobe, blotting her red hair with a towel.

For a moment, I consider not telling her what I found, because I don’t want to share. I’m still trying to process it. Is the Andres Ivy mentions in the diary Andres Armand? She wrote, “Him with his novels…” Is that why she saved the newspaper clipping? She speaks of him so intimately. Obviously, even though they had their own apartments, they were living together.

“What?” Marla asks. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I found Ivy’s diary in the apartment and brought it back with me.”

Her eyes widen and she stops towel drying her hair.

“Was it okay to take stuff from the apartment?”

“Monsieur Levesque said it was fine. Why wouldn’t it be?”

She blinks at me. Offers a one-shoulder shrug.

“It’s our apartment now,” I say. “Lock, stock, and barrel. When did you become such a rule follower?”

She snorts.

“It feels weird taking things. Maybe I should’ve brought some of the paintings here.”

“It doesn’t mean we have to dismantle the place,” I say.

“Oh, I’m sorry; it’s okay for you to take the diary, but not for me to take the paintings.”

I roll my eyes. “Fine. Bring the paintings here. Where are you going to put them?”

She glances around the room. Nods at a large oil painting of the Eiffel Tower. “We could ask the hotel to remove that one and hang Ivy there.”

“That painting is probably bolted to the wall. They’re not going to remove it for us. Plus, we’re going to check out and move over to the apartment as soon as we can clean up the place.”

I feel like I’m negotiating with a child. I’m surprised she hasn’t looked to see if the Eiffel Tower painting is, in fact, affixed to the wall.

“How’s Ivy’s diary?” She lowers herself onto the edge of my bed. “Anything juicy?”

Against my better judgment, I open the book and show her the inside cover where Ivy had written her name.

“If by juicy you mean Ivy talking about the uncertainty of war in Paris, then yes.”

“Ivy was here during the war?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t gotten that far yet. She started the diary on January first. She was sporadic about writing, but she was definitely living in Paris just before the Germans invaded. She mentions an apartment. I guess it’s the one on square la Bruyère. She mentions a man named Andres.”

Marla’s left brow shoots up. “That’s exactly what I mean by juicy. I wonder if he’s the writer guy from the newspaper clipping?”

“Andres Armand? It could be the writer. She references his novels. Then again, the Andres she mentions might love to read and have a lot of books.”

Marla thumbs through the diary and squints at a page. “The diary is for the year 1940?”

I nod.

“Mom was born in December of 1940.”

We look at each other and I can virtually read Marla’s mind.

A sinking feeling pulls me down. “For Gram to be born in December, Granny Ivy had to conceive in March 1940, a few months after she wrote this entry.”

“But wait—was Ivy with Tom when she wrote this? When did she meet Tom?” Marla continues to thumb through the diary and I want to tell her to be careful not to damage it. It’s not the latest issue of Cosmopolitan magazine.

“A lot of pages are blank. Looks like her last entry was April 16, 1940. Did you see Great-Grandpa Tom’s name anywhere?”

“No.”

The story we know is Ivy met and married Tom in Bristol just before war broke out. He sent her to the United States to live with his family in Florida.

It never crossed my mind to ask her for specific dates or details. All we knew was that she was a war bride. After that, she lived in Florida for the rest of her life.

There was no reason to dig deeper. We had no reason to question the timeline.

“Why didn’t we ask for more details about her life when she was alive?” I say. “When she could’ve given us the answers?”

Marla tsks. “That’s assuming she would’ve shared this with us. I mean, if she was seeing Tom and this Andres at the same time… That’s sort of a bombshell, don’t you think? Especially back in those days.”

“It is. Do you remember Ivy and Tom ever celebrating or even talking about their