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

in silence. Then we stand reverently in front of the heavy wooden door before we open it.

“I think we should suit up out here before we go in,” Marla suggests.

“Good idea.”

We take the goggles and white masks out of the plastic wrappers, put them on, and help each other cover our hair with the bandannas. After we’re all suited up, we realize we resemble a couple of praying mantises. As we’re standing there laughing at each other, the door across the hall opens.

An older woman peers out, gasps, murmurs something in French, and slams the door with a loud bang.

“Uh-oh. Do you think she’s going to call the police?” I ask.

“Probably. I would if I saw us standing out in the hallway looking like this. Quick, open the door and let’s go inside.”

We don’t waste any time on the temperamental door, unlocking and throwing both of our bodies against it until it finally gives way.

Once we’re safe inside with the latch locked, we break out into another fit of laughter.

“No wonder she was startled,” Marla says. “Look at us. Wait.”

She flips on the foyer light. To my surprise, one bulb in the fixture blinks to life; the other two don’t respond. As I’m making a mental note to buy light bulbs, Marla pulls out her cell phone.

“This calls for a selfie.”

“No,” I protest. “I don’t want this on social media. I look awful.”

“I promise not to post it.” I don’t know whether to believe her, but she puts her arm around me and presses her cheek to mine.

Through the funk and odor of rotting time, I can smell her Chanel perfume. And oddly enough, it comforts me.

I realize I can’t remember the last time my mother and I took a photo together.

I suppose there’s irony in us looking like giant bug people, not like ourselves. So much is changing in our lives, I have to wonder how we will have changed once this weird Paris trip is over.

“I’ll text it to you,” Marla says.

“Mmm,” I say as I make my way through the gloomy dinge of the living room to the wall of windows. I tie back the rest of the curtains and start opening the shutters. Sunlight pours inside.

I turn around and survey the apartment. Powdery dust motes dance in the air, but I’m happy to see that thanks to the small amount of time we spent here yesterday, most of the cobwebs that had spanned the expanse of the living room are now mostly confined to the light fixtures, crevices of the furniture, and ornate frames on the paintings that hang on the wall.

My phone sounds a text as I open the second set of shutters.

“Promise me you won’t delete the picture,” Marla commands.

“I won’t, but that doesn’t mean I’ll frame it, either,” I say under my breath.

“I’ll frame a copy for you.” Marla heads toward the third set of windows, throws open the shutters, and sings at the top of her lungs about how she loves Paris in the spring, then waltzes into the bedroom.

It’s winter now, but I’m filled with a sudden longing for spring. We have a long way to go before we get there. I wonder where Marla and I will be in the new season. She has a history of quitting in the face of boredom or adversity, or when a shinier new thing comes along.

“Where do we start?” I call. Even though the worst of the cobwebs are down in the living room and bedroom, we still haven’t explored the bathroom and kitchen. The magnitude of the job feels more daunting today than it did yesterday.

In the shadows of twilight, the place had an ethereal, surreal look to it. It seemed more like a stage set or a life-sized diorama on one of my Austen tours. But in the unforgiving light of day, it feels real. It’s our privilege. Our problem.

When Marla doesn’t answer me, I walk into the bedroom.

She is standing in the same place she occupied yesterday, staring at the collection of gilt-framed paintings on the bedroom wall.

“Did you hear me?” I ask.

“What?” Her voice sounds detached. “Uh, no. Sorry, what did you say?”

I stand next to her and look at the paintings and try to understand what is transfixing her. They’re of Ivy, no doubt. Frankly, I find it uncomfortable to stare at my great-grandmother in the nude.

So Granny Ivy was young once and took off her clothes. I’m tempted to ask Marla if she got pregnant with me through immaculate conception. But she seems truly bothered by the art.

I let her have a moment.

Finally, she gestures at the wall and the portraits and says, “This is so strange to me. My grandmother… the grandmother I remember was so… different from this.”

She was stern and matronly.

“I only knew her as a young child knows a great-grandmother. She was always a little… frail. She sewed clothes for me and encouraged me to read books and she was passionate about writing letters. Do you remember that?”

“I do.” Marla turns to me and looks surprised, as if the memory just occurred to her. “She used to write letters urging leaders of foreign governments to free political prisoners and to enforce human rights.”

“I knew it was something important,” I say. “I remember the card table that was set up in her bedroom at Gram’s house. It was always piled high with envelopes grouped into some semblance of order that only she understood. I remember wanting to connect with her, trying to understand what she was doing. Since letters seemed to be so important to her and she was always writing to others, I decided that I was going to write her a letter. I sat at her table and borrowed some paper and took an envelope from one of her stacks. I guess I messed up the order of the mailing she was working on because I got in trouble. I was never allowed to go into her room again.”

“Yeah,” Marla muses. “That’s